“Let me see some sweat,” he demanded, and I showed him plenty. My T-shirt clung to my body like the skin of a banana. Apparently Tommy approved of the effort because following the exercises, he announced that I could start walking without crutches if I took it easy. But not too easy.
“You want to avoid a limp,” he told me. “You want to walk through the pain. The tendency is to take short steps with your strong leg and long steps with your weak leg. The tendency is to take the weight off your weak leg as soon as possible. Don’t do it. Don’t shift your shoulders and pelvis to one side as you walk. Maintain an honest step. If the pain is too much, then get back on your crutches.”
I told him I would.
“You won’t have speed or power, so don’t look for any,” Tommy warned. “Walk normally. Concentrate on using your hurt leg. Don’t be afraid of it.”
I told him I wouldn’t.
I walked out of the St. Paul Ramsey Medical Center into bright sunlight, carrying my crutches. The snow had long since melted, gone from even the shadowed areas, gone for at least seven months, knock on wood. And baseball season had begun. The Minnesota Twins were playing their home opener that evening against the White Sox, although not as many fans seemed to care as did before the strike—including me. Lately I’ve been thinking of baseball season as the weeks between Memorial Day and Labor Day, when the St. Paul Saints play minor league ball at Midway Stadium. Still, there was something about opening day that filled me with optimism.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Life was good.
Putting the crutches in my back seat, I slid behind the wheel of my Dodge Colt and for a moment regretted buying an automatic. I felt like “peeling out,” as we used to say when I was a kid: popping the clutch and leaving about a ten-foot strip of rubber behind me. Only you just can’t do that with an automatic. Pity.
TO MY GREAT disappointment, the toilet paper draped over the branches of my willow tree and lilac bushes had not disappeared. So, bad leg and all, I was out in the yard trying to clean it up. I first used a lawn rake to pull down from the tree and bushes what I could reach, then a snow rake for what I couldn’t. But the snow rake, designed to remove heavy snow from roofs, was much too long and top heavy; it was difficult to maneuver. I ended up pulling down more tree branches than Charmin, which caused me to curse the contraption. Yeah, I know—it’s a poor workman who blames his tools.
In the ninety minutes I was out there, my mood had shifted from supreme optimism to outrage. With every stroke of the rake on my tree, I found a new target for my wrath, shifting from the sonuvabitch who had vandalized my home to the house itself to Irene Gustafson to my parents and eventually to the president of the United States for not being tougher on crime. Even my fourth grade teacher took a few of licks. And my mood wasn’t helped much by the fact that, after all my hard work, the willow tree still looked like it had been topped with whipped cream. There was nothing I could do about it except wait until the toilet paper degraded.
While I was raking, a car carrying a young couple pulled into my driveway. The man got out and the woman stayed inside. The man said, “I read the ad in the Pioneer Press, but I don’t see any signs. Is this house for sale?”
Well, was it or wasn’t it? I had been thinking about selling since the day I arrived home from the hospital. I had been thinking about the property taxes and the maintenance and the size. It was so much larger than I needed; there were rooms I hadn’t stepped into in weeks. And I’d been thinking about my vulnerability. So was it for sale?
Standing there, a rake in my hands, a throbbing pain in my leg, I surprised myself by telling the young man, “No, it’s not.”
The answer actually made me feel better.
I WENT TO bed early. But the facts I had gathered that day were making a helluva racket in my head; I couldn’t sleep. I ended up in my kitchen at two A.M. drinking milk and munching Old Dutch potato chips. The telephone rang. It didn’t startle me at all. I knew who it was before I picked up the receiver.
“Had enough?” a muffled voice asked.
“More than enough,” I told it. “Exactly what do you want?”
“You know what we want.”
I jumped on the “we” like a fumble on the goal line.
“No, I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.
The voice chuckled. “All right,” it said. “Have it your own way.”
“No, wait!” I yelled, but it hung up.
I checked the caller ID: PAY PHONE. The number was UNAVAILABLE.
EIGHTEEN
“SURE ABOUT THE time?” Steve asked while he stared at his screen, his long, elegant fingers working the keyboard.
“Yes.”
“Here you go,” he announced triumphantly. “The call originated at two-oh-two A.M. from a pay phone on East Lake Street and Forty-eighth in Minneapolis.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“That’s just across the Lake Street Bridge, on the Minneapolis side of the river.”
“Yeah?”
“Less than a half mile from Levering Field’s house.”
“I don’t get it,” Steve admitted.
“I think Amanda’s playing games,” I told him, before adding, “I need a favor.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Actually, it’s Sara’s help I need.”
WE WALKED ARM in arm down the street, a pleasant-looking couple taking a stroll through the neighborhood. I told Sara to talk, to switch her smile on and off, to pretend we were husband and wife enjoying a pleasant conversation. And she did a good job of it. But I ignored my own advice. I was too wired to do anything but watch the street, my head perfectly still, my eyes darting quickly from one side to the other. When we reached the Dullys’ cobblestones we turned in. This time I did not bother with the front door, instead maneuvering Sara quickly around the house to the back. When we reached the back door, I pulled a police scanner from the tennis bag I carried, switched it on, and handed it to Sara.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Listen carefully to the calls,” I told her in way of explanation. “If you hear the name of this street, you tell me.”
I took two pair of surgical gloves from the bag and gave Sara one pair, telling her to put them on while I pulled on the other. Then I bent to my task, slipping the pick into the keyhole of the door lock, the tension wire directly beneath it.
“What are you doing?” Sara asked, rather stupidly I thought.
“Ssshhhhh!” I hushed her, trying to feel the vibration of the pins in my fingers, listening for a distinctive click. It was a long time in coming. I know burglars who can pick a lock in seven seconds. Even locks with high-security pin tumblers. It took me about two minutes. But I got it done.
I opened the door and pushed Sara inside, closing the door behind us.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Ssshhhhh!” I told her again, standing just inside the door, waiting, listening. Maybe I expected the air to be filled with sirens, to hear a dozen K-9 units surrounding the house, the German shepherds straining against their leashes, barking their heads off. But I heard nothing. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my sports jacket. I must have been out of my mind returning to that house.
“How did you learn to pick a lock?” Sara asked me.
“Practice,” I told her. “I bought about fifty locks and kept working on them until I got it right.”
I led her to the den and the Dullys’ personal computer, gesturing at it with a flourish. “Your turn,” I told her.
Sara smiled and went to the machine, sitting in Peter Dully’s chair.
“How long?” I asked.
“Ssshhhhh!” she told me.
The Dullys had attempted to wipe the Willow Tree files from their system. But employing the delete function on a computer does not actually eliminate the files from the computer’s memory. All it does is delete the names of the documents from the index of files. As any
hacker will tell you, the files remain in the hard drive—or on floppies, hard disks, optical disks, and magnetic tape—unless they are written over by new data. Until then, the documents can be easily retrieved by anyone with the proper expertise and software programs. Like Sara, say.
I watched as she set to work, humming to herself. The only words she spoke were these: “DOS is pretty lazy when it comes to erasing a file.”
I left the room.
I paced, staying far back from the Dullys’ massive windows, my Nikes squeaking on the polished cedar floors. My leg throbbed with pain. But I remembered Tommy Sands’s advice and walked it off. The various coaches I’d had over the years would have been proud of me.
The only sound in the house came from the police scanner I carried, and it was mostly silent. You don’t get many calls that time of the morning. I regarded the Dullys’ furnishings, but touched nothing. I considered going upstairs but couldn’t think of a reason why I should beyond a prurient curiosity and vetoed the idea. I continued pacing, glancing at my watch every thirty seconds or so. We had been in the house far too long.
“Hurry up, Sara!” I called.
“Do I tell you how to pick locks?” she replied.
I discovered I was thirsty. It probably had something to do with the sweat that poured down my back and drenched my shirt under my arms. I found myself looking in the Dullys’ refrigerator. Milk, OJ, and Diet 7Up. I almost took a can of pop, caught myself, and shut the refrigerator door.
“What are you doing?” I asked myself loudly. “Are you nuts?”
Almost in reply, I heard Sara shout, “Taylor, Taylor! Look at this!”
Tommy hadn’t said anything about running, so I did, surprised that I could. I circled the Dullys’ desk, looking at their computer screen over Sara’s shoulder. She had called up a list often names and corresponding dollar amounts:
Brian Burke
$2,000,000
Carl Defiebre
$1,000,000
David Doll
$500,000
Levering Field
$750,000
Peter Grotting
$500,000
Phillip Jaeger
$500,000
Tim Lemke
$1,000,000
Katherine Moralas
$500,00
Carson Saterbak
$1,000,000
Kennedy Slavik
$1,000,000
$8,750,000
“My God!” I said, reading the names.
“Some of the richest people in the Cities,” Sara said softly.
“Brian Burke …”
“Owns about eight banks,” Sara noted.
“Katherine Moralas …”
“Operates all those fast-food Mexican joints.”
“Dave Doll …”
“Former United States senator and ambassador to Germany.” Sara added, “This Slavik guy? He’s a friend of my dad’s. He owns a company that manufactures medical devices.”
“I once did a consulting job for Phillip Jaeger,” I volunteered. “He wanted to test a security system set up to protect his computer software company.”
And then there was Carson Saterbak’s name. And Levering Field’s.
I pulled from my pocket the copy of the list of names I had stolen from the Dullys’ earlier. The initials matched. So did the dollar amounts.
“Print this out,” I told Sara, indicating the list on the screen. “Then bury it.”
She did as I asked.
“Why?” she wondered. “Why would people like this get involved in something like Willow Tree?”
“I’m surprised to hear you ask a question like that. You of all people.”
“Huh?”
“They did it for the money, Sara. They did it for the dough.”
I DROPPED SARA at her loft, then drove to Monica Adler’s law offices. She wasn’t happy to see me and at first refused to speak with me alone. She was rooted in the center of her reception area, looking down at where I was sitting. A second lawyer and a legal secretary stood passively next to the receptionist’s desk.
“What is it you want here?” she demanded to know.
“Are you afraid of me?” I asked calmly.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Why?” I asked. “Is it because you tried to have me killed and think I’ve come looking for revenge?”
I caught the expressions on the faces of the lawyer, legal secretary, and receptionist over Monica’s shoulder. They exchanged glances, looking at each other like they had just walked in on the middle of a movie.
“I told the police—” Monica started.
“Yes,” I interrupted her. “I know what you told the police. They believe you, and who am I to argue? Don’t worry, I’m not bitter. I’ve come here for an entirely different reason.”
Monica took great comfort in my remarks. She even invited me into her office, closing the door behind us. But that didn’t mean we were friends.
“It is inappropriate for us to speak while litigation is pending unless you are being advised by an attorney,” she told me, then waited for my reply.
“Sound advice,” I agreed. “But that’s not why I’m here, either.”
“Well, then …”
“I would like to speak with Amanda Field. I was hoping you could arrange it.”
“You must be joking. After everything you’ve done?”
“I’ve done nothing to her,” I protested.
“Oh, really?”
“I don’t expect either of you to believe me,” I admitted. “But I think I’m close to learning who killed her husband and who shot me and who tried to shoot her yesterday. I’m asking for just a few minutes of her time. That’s all.”
“Not alone,” Monica insisted.
“She can have the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with her for all I care.”
Monica studied me for a moment, chewing on a thumbnail. I offered an additional incentive.
“If I’m right, it’ll help prove you had nothing to do with what happened at Rice Park.”
“Give me a moment,” she said.
I waited in the reception area while Monica placed a telephone call. Minutes passed. Monica emerged from her office, a spring coat draped over her arm, a purse in her hand.
“Amanda will give you ten minutes, and I’m going, too.”
“Agreed,” I said, and we headed for the door.
“Don’t push her, Taylor,” Monica warned. “She’s very close to the edge. You can’t imagine, what with her husband being murdered and someone shooting at her.”
“Yes, I can.”
“And now trouble with her daughter.”
I flashed on Emily’s boyfriend, the kid with the ancient Cadillac. Was he the source of the trouble? I asked.
Monica shook her head. “He’s only part of it,” she said. “To protect himself financially, Levering put all his assets in Emily Elizabeth’s name. Now that he’s dead, Amanda is being forced to sue her own daughter for half of his estate.”
“What was it Tolstoy wrote in Anna Karenina, about unhappy families being unhappy each in its own way?”
“You read all those damn Russians, don’t you?”
AMANDA FIELD SAT me in a chair near the entrance to her home. She stood next to the telephone table, the one with the .38 Smith & Wesson in the drawer. Monica Adler was leaning against the wall between us. We did not waste time on pleasantries.
“Tell me about your relationship with Carson Saterbak,” I told Amanda.
She glanced at Monica, then back at me. “What is this?”
“You went to the same high school at the same time, Irondale in New Brighton. Carson and Levering were cocaptains of the football team.”
“That’s right,” Amanda admitted. “Years ago.”
“You were good friends?”
“Very.”
“How long did the friendship last?”
“It’s never ended,” Amanda told me, then added, “Congratulations,
Taylor. You discovered the name of the man I had drinks with in the hotel in Bloomington. I knew you could do it.”
“Mrs. Field, I’m not accusing—”
“The hell you’re not.”
I gave it a few beats before starting again. “Were Levering and Carson good friends?”
The question seemed to catch Amanda off guard. She stumbled over her answer. “They-they were … but that changed.”
“When did it change?”
“When Levering and I were married.”
“Why?” I asked. “Was Carson jealous?”
“No, it was the other way around. Levering was jealous. Carson and I remained good friends. We had lunch together, spoke on the phone. I confided in Carson. Told him things I never told Levering.”
“That upset Levering?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Why didn’t you give up your friendship?” I asked.
She shook her head like she wasn’t sure herself.
“Were you and Carson having an affair?”
“Absolutely not!” Amanda shouted. “We were friends. That’s all.”
“Is that what you told Levering?”
“Many times.”
“Did he believe you?”
Amanda didn’t answer.
A few moments of dead air passed before I asked, “How long were Levering and Carson business partners?”
“Business partners?” Amanda repeated, genuinely surprised by the suggestion. “Never.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not a chance.” She was adamant now. “Carson might have been willing to work with Levering. But Levering work with Carson? No way.”
“Are you sure?” I repeated.
“Yes. Why?”
“I was under the impression that Levering was steering investors to one of Carson’s start-ups.”
Amanda shook her head. “He would have starved first,” she insisted.
I THANKED AMANDA for her time and told her I was truly sorry for her troubles. I don’t think she believed me. Monica Adler escorted me out the door and walked me to my car. Something was on her mind. When we reached the Dodge Colt, she told me what it was.
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