Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  Murphy ran outside. “Stop it!” She crouched down next to Erik; he was up on one elbow. “Stay down,” she said, pressing his chest down with both her hands.

  He pushed her hands off him. “Bullshit.” He stood up and went after Jack again. Took another right swing and nailed Jack in the left eye before Jack could block him. Jack stumbled backward but didn’t go down. Their brawl was working its way to the end of the dock. Murphy stayed with them, fearful one of them would end up in the dark water. Tripod was barking next door. She was sure a neighbor was going to call the cops. Her own address would end up on a police report about a domestic call. Both men went down, rolling around close to the edge. Jack delivered another blow to Erik’s face, hitting his nose.

  A voice boomed out of the night air: “What the fuck is going on here?” Duncan was walking down the dock, straight for Jack and Erik. He could see the two men fighting, their tangled figures illuminated by the streetlights that dotted the shoreline and by the deck lights on the boats.

  Murphy had no idea what he was doing there, but she was happy to see him. Another set of hands to break up the fight. “Duncan,” she blurted. “They’re going to kill each other.”

  “Not on my watch,” Duncan said. Jack was on top of Erik and had his right arm pulled back to deliver another punch. Duncan bent over and grabbed Jack’s right wrist. Erik’s nose was bleeding. “Get off him, Jack. You’ve made your point.” Jack tried to pull his arm out of Duncan’s grip but Duncan was too strong, and that surprised Murphy. “No,” Duncan said.

  Jack looked down at Erik with contempt. “Fine,” he said. Duncan let go of his wrist. Jack rolled off Erik and stood up. Duncan put his right hand on Jack’s shoulder and started walking him off the dock and toward shore.

  Erik crawled to his feet and wiped blood from his upper lip with the back of his right hand. Murphy was standing at Erik’s side, but couldn’t stop looking at Jack as Duncan led him away. A gust of wind made her shiver and wrap her arms around herself. “Let’s go back inside,” she said, and pulled Erik by the elbow toward the boat. “Get some ice on that nose.”

  Duncan and Jack stopped next to Jack’s Beemer in the parking lot. Duncan folded his arms over his chest. “How drunk are you?”

  Jack shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stared at the ground. “Not drunk enough.” He looked up at Duncan and smiled grimly. “A couple of shots after work.”

  “Doesn’t take much when you’re already wound up,” Duncan said.

  Jack leaned his back against the side of his car and stared across the river at the lights twinkling downtown. A view he and his wife had enjoyed while in her bed on the boat. It angered him that Erik had made love to her in the same bed. Taken in that same view of downtown. “I can’t believe she slept with that jerk.”

  “You can fix it,” said Duncan. “But fists ain’t the way to do it.”

  “Too late to fix it. I already told her I wanted out. I don’t even know why I came back.”

  Duncan realized he was wrong, that Jack had left her and not the other way around. It made him feel even worse about what he’d said to her. He stumbled to find words for Jack while wrestling with his own guilt. “You came back because you still want her.”

  “Maybe if that scumbag hadn’t been here we could have talked it through. But seeing him with her pisses me off all over again.”

  “Cool off. Give it a few days and give her a call. Apologize. They love it when you apologize.”

  Jack sputtered. “Apologize? For what? I’m not the one who fucked around. I don’t care if it was one time. Might as well be a hundred.”

  So Murphy had slipped once—probably in a weak moment when that asshole Mason was ready to leap on it—and now her husband was hanging her for it. Duncan thought Jack should give her another chance; he would if he was married to her. “Just think about it. Sleep on it.”

  “Sorry you got roped into this. It isn’t your problem.” Jack touched his left eye; he’d have a shiner. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve got to talk to her about a case. Put a steak on that eye when you get home.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Want me to follow you home?”

  Jack shook his head. “I’m sober.” He dug his keys out of his jacket pocket. Started talking as much to himself as to Duncan. “She hasn’t been the same since the summer. Since that maniac banged her up and then killed himself in front of her. It’s like that scar on her forehead is more than skin deep.”

  “It is.” Duncan suspected Jack didn’t know the whole story and he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “She’s been through a lot. Probably still going through it. She needs you to help her.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Jack said in a low voice. “I wish she’d quit that horseshit job. Who in the hell is nuts enough to like police work, especially homicide?” Jack stopped himself. Mumbled to Duncan, “Sorry. No offense.”

  “None taken. We’re all a little crazy up there, but especially my corner of the asylum.” He slapped Jack on the back. “Go home. No bar stops. Straight home.”

  Jack opened the driver’s side of his car, slid inside, put his hand on the door. “Thanks.” He slammed it shut.

  Duncan watched him pull away and walked back toward the dock. He felt pity for Jack and disdain for Erik. He didn’t want to think about what he felt for Murphy; it would complicate everything. Besides, he figured all she felt for him was dislike. Duncan padded down the dock. Saw a key on the boards in front of Murphy’s boat. Figured it was hers. He picked it up and shoved it in his jacket pocket. The door was still wide open. Duncan walked through it and shut it behind him. He opened his mouth to announce his presence and heard voices upstairs. Heated talk between Murphy and Erik. He turned to leave but changed his mind. Erik could still be revved up from the fight and he wanted to make sure Murphy was okay. Duncan stood in the galley and waited for someone to come down.

  Murphy: “And what was that crap with the key?” Erik: “What do you mean?”

  Murphy: “Waving it in his face like that. You could see he was already losing it.”

  Duncan slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the key. Studied it. Guessed it was the key they were talking about. He put it on the kitchen counter. Leaned his back against the counter and kept listening.

  Erik: “You’re taking Jack’s side in this. He’s the one who barged in.”

  Murphy: “You and Jack are both assholes. Duncan is the only hero in all this. He kept you idiots from rolling right into the fucking river.”

  Erik: “Duncan again. Maybe you should dump me and invite him to move in.”

  Duncan smiled to himself. Murphy didn’t hate him; she liked him.

  Murphy: “Shut up about Yo-Yo. Here. Lie back until the bleeding stops. Keep the ice on it.” The smoke alarm in the kitchen went off.

  Erik: “Something’s burning.”

  Murphy: “Shit. The roast.”

  Duncan looked at the stove. Smoke was seeping out of the oven. He saw the mitt on the counter. He slipped it over his right hand, went over to the oven, opened it. Smoke rolled out. He coughed and pulled the rack toward him. Murphy materialized at his back.

  “How’s it look?” she asked. She picked up one of the tire photos and started waving smoke away from the ceiling-mounted alarm. It stopped buzzing.

  “It looks like you should order a pizza.” Duncan stood up and ran his eyes around the galley. “Got another mitt?” She set the picture back down on the table. Went to the counter, opened a drawer, pulled another mitt out and handed it to him. He slipped it over his left hand, bent over and picked up the pan. He set it on top of the stove, shut the oven door and turned on the vent over the range. He pulled off the mitts and threw them on the counter. “Sausage and pepperoni?”

  She stepped closer to him and asked in a whisper, “Jack okay to drive home?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Good. What did he say?”

 
“Not much.”

  She paused and then it occurred to her that he might have heard something he shouldn’t have. “When did you walk in?”

  “In time to keep your boat from catching fire.” He picked the key up off the counter and handed it to her. “Found this outside. Assume it belongs to you or one of your boxing buddies.”

  She snatched it from him. “It’s mine.” She shoved it in the pocket of her sweatpants. She picked up the oven mitts and slipped them on. She took the thermometer out of the black roast and set it in the sink. Picked up the pan. She nodded toward the door. “Open it, would you? I want the stink outside.” He opened the door. She carried the pan outside, bent down and set it on the dock to the right of her door. Stood up and pulled off the mitts. “Tripod can have at it when it cools off.” She stepped back inside and he shut the door behind her.

  “Tripod?” he asked.

  She tossed the mitts on the counter. “Three-legged dog. He was barking while the boys were punching the shit out of each other.” She turned, took a breath and leaned against the counter. Stopped moving for the first time since he got there. Noticed he looked more pulled together in casual clothes than he usually did in his office wear. Black leather jacket over a black turtleneck and black jeans. She wondered what he thought of her sloppy clothes. She brushed her bangs to make sure her scar was covered.

  Erik came down the stairs holding a washcloth stuffed with ice to his nose. “Duncan.”

  Duncan saluted him. “Erik.”

  Erik tossed the cloth and ice into the sink. Touched under his nose and checked his fingers. No more blood. “How’d you happen to show up in time to referee?”

  “My good luck. Actually I’ve got some stuff to talk to Murphy about. Stuff about the case.”

  Murphy picked up a jean jacket that was hanging from the back of a kitchen chair and handed it to Erik. “Before you launch into it, let me see Erik to the door.”

  Duncan looked at Erik and saw his mouth harden. Erik took the jacket from her and slipped it on. Duncan stifled a smirk; she was throwing her lover out. Erik stepped into his running shoes parked by the front door. She pulled the door open for him. As he was walking out, Erik bent toward her to kiss her and she leaned away from him. Duncan turned his back to them, pleased she was mad at Erik. Duncan pulled his cell phone out of his right jacket pocket, turned it on and used the voice dial. “Pizza.” He heard the door shut. He turned around and Murphy walked toward him.

  “That’s sad,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You have the pizza joint on voice dial.”

  He laughed and then said into the phone, “Yeah. For delivery. A large sausage and pepperoni. Houseboat parked at the St. Paul Yacht Club.” He paused. “I don’t know. I’ll meet you on the dock. How long?” He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “I’m sorry.”

  “For?”

  “The deal in my office.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “So this isn’t about the case.”

  “It’s more about my groveling.”

  “You made up for it tonight. If you hadn’t showed up, I’d have two wet fools sitting at my table right now.”

  “And a charred kitchen. Don’t forget that.”

  “And a charred kitchen.”

  “Not bad for a Yo-Yo.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d heard her call him that. Then she realized he’d listened to more upstairs than he let on. She didn’t know if she should be embarrassed or angry. She wrote off both emotions. She pulled out a chair. Sat down. “Tell you what. You can pay for the pizza.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. Pulled the chair out and sat down next to her.

  He eyed the photos on the kitchen table. “Your photos of Sweetie’s truck tires?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turned out pretty good.”

  “Castro’s digital.”

  He picked up the photo of the tread mark found in the park.

  “Winter e-mailed it to Erik,” she said.

  He held the tread mark photo in his right hand. His eyes ran over the photos she’d taken. He pushed them around with his fingers and, from the bottom of the mess, picked up one from the table. Held it next to the one from the park. “I’d say we have a winner.”

  She stood up and went behind him. “Really? Erik and I couldn’t see it.” She looked over his shoulder at the two photos as he held them next to each other. Rested her right hand on his right shoulder and leaned over. “Son of a bitch. You’re right. That is a match.” She realized how close they were. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her right breast was pressed into his back. The only thing separating them was her tee shirt and his thin turtleneck. She suddenly straightened and took her hand off his shoulder.

  He turned his head and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. She went to the refrigerator.

  Behind her back, he was grinning.

  She pulled open the refrigerator. “How about a beer?”

  “Sure. The tread marks and tires should match even better after a couple of beers.” He reached across the table and collected all the photos. Stacked them into a pile. “Wish we had a copy of the cast itself. We could take it to the reunion and compare it to the genuine article.”

  She pulled out a six-pack of St. Pauli Girl and shut the door. “Let’s just worry about getting those fingerprints off of him tomorrow night. Getting some information out of him. Bring up those boys who died in high school. See what that does.” She plucked a magnetized bottle opener off the refrigerator.

  “You never told me why Sweetie did those boys.”

  “They beat the shit out of him for asking me to homecoming.” She set the opener and beer down on the table. Was going to take a chair across from Duncan and told herself that was stupid and paranoid. She sat down next to him. “Now I’m thinking he killed a lot more people in between those four in high school and those two in Moose Lake. They were the tip of a big fucking iceberg.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I made some calls today. He was a suspect in at least one other hit-and-run. In Wisconsin. I’ve got a buddy in Public Safety ready to help me plow through old Minnesota cases.”

  Duncan sat for a few seconds, digesting what she’d said. He shook his head. “Scary.”

  “Scary. Good description of Sweet. Of both Trips.”

  “The scary Trips,” Duncan muttered. He pulled a bottle out of the pack. “St. Pauli Girl. Good choice.”

  “I’d offer you wine but I’m out and the liquor delivery guy probably got lost. Your pizza guy will get lost, too. They can never find this place. I don’t get it. The Mississippi is such a big landmark. It’s not like I tell them to take a right at the big rock or something.”

  “Liquor delivery? You call me pathetic.”

  “Shut up. I’ve been busy.”

  She tried to hand him the opener. “Don’t need it,” he said. He grabbed a second bottle out of the pack, tipped it upside down and used the cap to pry the top off the first bottle. He set the second bottle down and saw her staring. “What?”

  “That’s how my brothers open a beer bottle in a pinch.”

  He took a sip of beer. “Is that how you see me? A brother?”

  “I don’t know how I see you, Duncan. We really don’t know each other.”

  “We’re not in the office. How about using my first name?”

  “Axel.”

  “I like hearing you say it.” He took another sip and set the bottle down. “Well, Paris. What are you going to wear?”

  She popped the cap off her bottle, dropped the opener on the table. “I’ve got my marching orders. I’m to wear something hot for a change. Isn’t that how you put it?”

  “How long do I have to live that down?” he asked. “I said I was sorry.”

  “You guys.” She took a sip. “You think that’s all it takes.”

  “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  �
�Cover my back tomorrow night.”

  “I think we’re going to make a good team.” He held up his beer in tribute.

  “We’ll see,” she said, and clicked her bottle against his.

  He put the bottle to his mouth, took a drink. Stifled a burp. Put the bottle on the table. “Can you dance worth a shit?”

  “Hell yeah.” She took a bump off her beer. “Can you shoot worth a shit?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “Then we’ll make a great team.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ONE HUNDRED AND eighty-two polybagged dress shirts. The entire knife collection packed away in an old steamer trunk. Stereo and CDs. Metal chest filled with car repair tools. Elvis Presley clock. “Elvis Presley Boulevard” street sign. E.P. hat. Box of Graceland cigarette lighters. Graceland snow globe. Bunny Pederson’s peach purse. Keri Ingmar’s purse and clothes. Two frozen bodies encased in cowboy bedsheets. Bloody towels.

  On his way to the reunion Saturday night, Trip took a mental inventory of what he’d packed into the back of his truck late Friday and early Saturday while his neighbors slept. The last he’d loaded, and the worst, had been the bodies. He’d again donned the hooded parka and gloves so he wouldn’t have to feel their hard skin when he fished them out of the freezer. His father wasn’t frozen solid like Keri; he still had some bend. He’d dropped his old man in the middle of the sheet with the bloody towels from the cleanup. Gathered up the corners diagonally and tied them. A neat package. Dragged the bundle down the front steps and lifted it onto the gate without much trouble. Pushed it tight against the other stuff. Getting Keri out had been a bitch. Couldn’t lift her out of the freezer for anything. Couldn’t get a good enough grip. He’d been terrified something would snap off. A finger or an entire arm. He’d finally pushed the freezer over on its side and pulled her out. Rolled her onto the sheet like a boulder. Strangely, the coins had stayed stuck to her eyes. She’d looked frosty. A hunk of meat with freezer burn. He’d thrown her clothes and purse on top of her. Remembered the bridesmaid’s purse in the garbage. Dug it out, tossed it on top of her. Gathered up the corners of the sheet and tied them and then twined nylon rope around the works. Used the rope like a handle to pull her down the steps. Lifting her onto the gate had nearly killed him. Wedged her next to his old man. Two bundles wrapped in cowboys.