by Matt Goldman
Kozy poured more water into his mouth. I said, “You told me the other night no one else knew you were sleeping with Haley. But obviously, Haas did.”
“Yeah, well. I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”
Flynn said, “You ever sleep with Linnea Engstrom?”
“Fuck no.”
“She drove down to the Cities all those weekends with Haley. Were they in the same game?”
“I don’t know, but I never slept with her or heard about anyone who did other than Luca.”
Stensrud said, “So, Kozy, how did you end up in that Highlander?”
“I have a burner. Used it to communicate with Haley. But last night I used it to call Raynard. Told him I was hiding out ’cause the cops were after me ’cause of Haley. He told me to hold tight. Then today he calls me back and offers me a way out. Says I can take his car to Hurley, Wisconsin. He’s got a cabin there and it’s stocked. I’m getting stir-crazy hiding here so I accept the offer. He picks me up. Asks me to drive north ’bout a mile shy of the Canadian border. I think that’s kind of weird, but hey, he’s giving me wheels to get out of town. So I drop him where he wants then head east.”
Stensrud said, “When did he call and offer you the Highlander?”
“Hell, not much more than a couple hours ago.”
I said, “Did he have a backpack with him?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“You didn’t ask why he wanted to be dropped near the border?”
“No. Like I said. He gave me my ticket out of town. Or so it seemed that way at the time. ’Cause look where I’m fuckin’ sittin’ right now.”
Waller looked at me and said, “So Raynard Haas’s son is sleeping with Haley Housh, and Raynard knows she’s pay to play. Fucking father of the year.”
I said, “Anything else you want to tell us, Kozy? Now’s your chance.”
“Yeah. You think the press will find out about me and Haley?”
Waller said, “Were there other hookers?”
“No. Never. Plenty of women wanted to sleep with me. In every town I played in. And plenty of women did.” He looked off, as if he were deep in thought. The fluorescents overhead reflected off his scars. “But there was something about that Haley. Maybe ’cause she was so young. Maybe ’cause she acted like she liked it so much. Whatever I dreamed up, seemed like she was already thinking it. Kind of took the fire out of me, in a good way. Helped me relax. I’ve been fighting my whole life, on and off the ice. But for that hour or so, I didn’t have to fight for nothing. I’m going to miss her.”
Flynn said, “Jesus Christ.”
I said, “Any idea how Haley wound up in that cave?”
Kozy shook his head. “I was with her until 11:00. She left my room at The Wabasha. That’s the last I saw or heard from her.”
The five of us looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something else. Anything else. Stensrud hosted this gathering and figured he had to step up. He pointed to the big fish-eye lens over the TV. “See that camera, Kozy? It just recorded everything you said.”
“You fuckin—”
“Take it easy. No one’s ever going to see it. Unless you run. I don’t care if you’re here or in the Cities. But don’t leave the state. And answer your phone. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“As soon as we have Haas, and this is all settled, I’ll delete it. You have my word.”
“Guess that’ll have to do. I don’t have much of a fuckin’ choice.” Kozy stood up and headed for the door.
“And leave us the keys to the Highlander. We need it for evidence.”
Kozy tossed the Highlander key onto the table then left. We waited until we saw him walk through the parking lot to wherever he was going.
Waller said, “I got a double murder on my board, and my killer’s in the wilds of Canada. Might as well have written it in permanent marker.”
Flynn said, “Jesus Christ.”
“I’ll make a few calls,” said Stensrud, “but Canada has a lot of square miles and not a lot of people. I’m sure Haas’s friends got plenty of places to hide him.”
Raynard Haas wasn’t in Warroad. He wasn’t in St. Paul. He wasn’t in Woodbury. He was in none of my all-of-a-sudden-friends’ jurisdictions. But I wasn’t so sure he was in Canada, either. Was there any value to sharing that information with my new friends? None than I could see.
39
I drove to the corner service station and asked if they could cover the space where my rear passenger window used to be. They had plastic sheeting and tape and said no problem. I left the car with them then walked to The Patch Motel. I sat in my room on my soft bed and thought in the stillness of a small town on a Sunday. The answer was close.
A framed color photograph of a wolf standing in a snowstorm hung on the wall. The wolf stared at the camera. Snowflakes fell except for those resting on its coat. The amped-up intensity of color and the yellow oak frame made the photograph feel cheap. If the photographer had left the washed-out hues of a snowy day, and the frame had been simple and black, the picture might have been beautiful. But it’s hard to leave things simple. For artists. For designers. For people living their lives.
Raynard Haas designed simple homes. Straight lines. Flat roofs. No molding. Muntin-free windows. Not many people in Minnesota wanted homes like that. There were a few around the lakes in Minneapolis, a few more out on Lake Minnetonka. Modern masterpieces studded the prairie near colleges like Carleton and St. Olaf. The few people who did want homes like that often built them large and filled the space with quality materials. Expensive homes.
Architects don’t make a fortune unless they become builders, as well. But Raynard Haas should have made enough money. He was the little man with the shaved head and stubbly face and funny clothes and blue-framed glasses. When you hired Raynard Haas to design your home, you got not only the dwelling, but you also got the artist. And most people like to be in the presence of a real artist.
So why was he pedaling W-18 with Roger Engstrom? Maybe Haas took too big of a hit during the Great Recession and couldn’t recover. Maybe he was just afraid of revisiting the poverty of his childhood. But I guessed it had more to do with being needed. Raynard Haas was a luxury item, the subjective desire of fickle taste. He could toil for months on a home only to see his design scrapped for something cheaper to build, more traditional, or worse, arbitrarily different.
When Raynard Haas was a boy, it must have felt pretty good to provide meat for his family. Maybe if he’d been a locksmith or cobbler or baker, he would have felt more useful. But he wasn’t. He designed homes for the few, isolated by his refined taste.
None of the why mattered, of course. Other than it led me to believe Raynard Haas wasn’t in Canada. He knew we’d learn of his connection to Roger Engstrom and their business. He knew we’d be on the lookout for Ben’s Highlander. He knew we’d find Kozy, and Kozy would tell us he’d dropped Raynard near the Canadian border right near where Ellegaard and I had last seen Raynard. He’d left a trail of crumbs to the land of maple syrup and round bacon. It was a trick Raynard had used over and over—lead the eye to where you want it to go. Just like he had with that bouquet of arrows in my hospital room.
It would make perfect sense if Raynard had fled to Canada. Unless you thought he was the type to hold on dearly to what gave him meaning. Even if it doomed him. Like Steve Jobs trying to cure his cancer by drinking fruit juice instead of undergoing surgery.
When I called Ellegaard he was halfway home. I filled him in on what he’d missed, starting with the NorthTech break-in and finishing with the sour expressions of Waller, Flynn, and Stensrud as they realized Raynard Haas had escaped to Canada.
He didn’t respond. I said, “E, you still there?”
“Yeah. And Raynard Haas isn’t in Canada.”
“That a boy, partner. I’ll be on the road in half an hour.”
“I’m going to check out a possible location,” said Ellegaard.
“Does it have gold and platinum albums hanging on the wall?”
“You know it does,” I said. “Wait for me, will you?”
“I’ll get the address from Bemidji Police. Tell them what’s going on and drive by. See if there’s any sign of Haas.”
“Use the thermals from the road.”
“That’s my plan. I’ll take a look and give you a call.”
I texted Char. We packed up, met in the lobby, picked up the Volvo, then drove to urgent care for Jameson. On Jameson’s suggestion, Anne and Mel had decided to medevac Linnea down to Abbot Hospital in Minneapolis because Linnea hadn’t regained consciousness.
I asked Jameson if he wanted to drive back to the Cities with us. He insisted on staying with his new patient, though I wasn’t sure if it was for medical reasons or for the quick flight back home. He changed my shoulder dressing and said to call him when I got back to the coat factory. He’d swing back to redress my wound later that night.
Char pummeled me with questions on the drive south. I told her what I knew and what I guessed to be true. She said, “What I don’t get is how Roger Engstrom and Raynard Haas even knew each other much less got into the W-18 business together?”
“No idea. But Warroad’s a tiny town and Haas visited Marvin a ton for business. Somehow they met. Maybe Roger was interested in Haas designing a building for NorthTech. Or a home for Anne. Maybe Roger tried to get Haas to invest in NorthTech. Haas saw the desperation on Roger’s face and invited him into the drug business. Who knows? But when we catch Haas, we’ll ask him. I’m sure he’d love to tell the story.”
“Boring. I thought you’d have it all figured out by now.” She smiled.
“At least I’m more fun than hanging out with dead people.”
“Meh.”
Ellegaard called an hour later. He said, “I went straight to Bemidji Police and filled them in. Most of their officers are busy patrolling the Spring Ice-Out Festival. They gave me a kid who can’t be much more than twenty. I told them to keep the kid and called Robert Stanley. He’s meeting me there in fifteen.”
“Perfect. He’ll get the part-time detective work he wanted. But just a drive and look, Ellie. Nothing more.”
“Oh, now you’re Mr. Conservative?” I could hear the smile on his face.
“If I don’t look after you, who will?”
“I appreciate it, Shap. Even though your policy of looking out for me is a tad inconsistent.”
“Well, I can’t care about you all the time, Ellie. That’d be exhausting. Text me the address. We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Will do.”
Char said, “Who’s Robert Stanley?”
“A retired Minneapolis cop. His daughter, Leah, works for us. She’s headed to law school in the fall. Robert fishes every day and will only step foot in the Cities for newborn babies, funerals, and graduations.”
“I thought the old Minneapolis cops hate you and Ellegaard for not returning after the layoff.”
“Most of ’em do. But Robert Stanley never blamed us for getting laid off.”
The sun dropped in the west, painting the sky pink. The temp hovered around thirty-six degrees. I smelled rotting leaves and new green life. Maybe the blizzard would come in April. Maybe in May. I wouldn’t take the giant toothbrush out of my car until June.
Ellegaard called back twenty minutes later. “Graham Itasca’s summer house is on an unnamed lake about twelve miles southwest of Bemidji. It’s not a big lake. House is on the north side. I’m on the south side. I parked half a mile away and walked in. As far as I can tell, Itasca’s house is the only structure around. I wouldn’t be surprised if he owns the lake, too.”
I said, “Keep a safe distance.”
“I will. Stanley should be here any minute. Left a message for him to walk in. I dropped a pin on my phone where I parked. I’ll text it to you.”
“Any side of occupancy?”
“A few lights are on. Not seeing any sign of a person in there with regular binocs or the thermals. When Stanley gets here, we’ll work our way around to get closer. Pretty sure if anyone’s in that house they won’t be able to see us.”
“Unless they have thermals.”
“Yeah, well. I suppose there’s always that chance. I’ll stay out of archery range, just in case.”
We pulled in behind Ellegaard’s Navigator and a 1990-something Ford something, which I assumed belonged to Robert Stanley. Char and I dimmed the screens on our phones. I gave Char my Kevlar, pocketed my Ruger, grabbed two extra ten-round mags, then we set out on foot.
It was a perfect Minnesota night. Thirty-four degrees. No wind. No bugs. No snow nor mud. No clouds. A sliver of moon. A star-filled sky city dwellers forget exists. Ellegaard wasn’t kidding about the lake. It was small, more of a pond by Minnesota standards. Maybe a hundred yards in diameter. Still frozen. But even at night you could see the gray water below had worked its way into the soft, dying ice.
Itasca’s house was massive. At least ten thousand square feet. The entire south side was black with windows other than an occasional rectangle of yellow light. If someone was in there, they’d be looking right at us. But with no moon or snow, the night hid us well.
Ellegaard and Robert Stanley stood on the south end of the lake. Char and I found them crouching behind a copse near a massive pair of binoculars fixed atop a tripod. After introducing Char, Robert Stanley said, “This time’s no charge. Next time I’m on the payroll.”
Both former police officers carried scoped rifles, courtesy of Robert Stanley’s personal collection.
I said, “Either of those rifles have thermal scopes?”
Stanley said, “Ellegaard’s does.”
“What do you hunt with that?”
“Assholes.”
Ellegaard said, “The lights switch from time to time. Off in one room. On in another. Probably on timers. Some of the rooms are under construction. We’ve seen ladders and unpainted Sheetrock and work lights. But no sign of a person.”
Char said, “So he’s not in there.”
“Or he is. Come here,” said Stanley. He led us to the binoculars. “Have a look.”
I looked through the binocs and saw the control panel of an alarm system. Stanley said, “Steady red light. The alarm system is armed.”
I looked at him. “So?”
“It’s on Home Mode. You don’t set it on Home unless you’re inside. When it’s on Away Mode, it gives you time to get out of the house and time to get in and put your stuff down and enter the security code. But when it’s on Home, there’s no time. If something triggers the alarm, it goes off. End of story.”
I looked again at the alarm pad. I could see it but couldn’t read the buttons. “I assume you’re familiar with this model alarm pad.”
“Hell yeah I am. You know how many calls I responded to because homeowners set the god damn alarm wrong then forgot their password when the alarm company called. Those damn things give people nothing but a false sense of security. If a pro wants in, they’re going to get in. The only people who can’t get past ’em are the people who god damn own ’em.”
Char said, “Does that mean someone has to be inside?”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” said Ellegaard. “You can’t accidentally set it on Home Mode when you leave. It’s impossible. You can only set it on Home Mode when you’re home.”
“But you haven’t seen anyone.”
“Not yet,” said Ellegaard. “If Haas or anyone else is in there, they’re in a room not facing us. We need to make our way around the house, see if we can pick up something with the thermals.”
“And if we see someone?”
“We call Bemidji PD. Sighting an intruder in Graham Itasca’s house should be enough to convince them to abandon the Ice-Out festival.”
I looked through Stanley’s binoculars again. “I got a better idea. Let’s shoot out a window to trigger the alarm and let the
cops come flush him out.”
“If that’s your attitude,” said Stanley, “what in the hell are we doing here in the first place?”
“Raynard Haas nearly killed me. He succeeded in killing his ex-wife and Roger Engstrom. He wanted to kill Linnea, too. He just figured he got lucky when he found her near death. No reason to tie himself to that murder. He figured he could kill her by just leaving her there. I don’t know about you, but I feel obligated to find him. If Raynard’s in that house, we did find him. But we don’t need to risk our lives bringing him in. The police can do that.”
Robert Stanley stared at me like I was a dog taking a shit on his lawn.
“Listen. The question I keep asking is why. Why did Raynard kill Roger Engstrom and the mother of his son and intend to kill Linnea? Why did he try to stop me from finding her? It wasn’t because of the money Linnea took. He could always get more money. The only reason is because they knew about his W-18 business.”
Stanley said, “What are you making a speech about, Shapiro?”
“Haas has had opportunities to run but he hasn’t done it. He loves his life. He loves his status. He’s come a long way from poaching deer for dinner. He has killed and will kill to preserve his place in the world. So yeah, I think the cops should handle this. You know, after they’re done policing the Ice-Out Festival.”
The night lay still, unmoved by my sermon. Two rooms in the house traded light and dark. The new lit-up room gave us a glimpse of scaffolding and bare studs but nothing alive.
Ellegaard said, “Raynard Haas has lost his place in the world, regardless. He killed two people. He can’t go back to being who he was. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Haas isn’t thinking clearly. Another big reason to let the police handle this. St. Paul PD is probably issuing a statewide APB right now. That will get the police here in minutes.”