by P. J. Tracy
She laid her shoulder bag on the counter and sank onto a stool. "Okay. I get that you're weirded out by this place, but what you have to understand is that this is normal. I spent most of my life in a little town not much bigger than this, and you know the first time I locked a door? When the FBI put me in that Minneapolis apartment nine months ago, right after I got out of the hospital."
Annie scowled at her. "These are businesses. You don't walk away from a business on a Saturday afternoon and leave the door unlocked, no matter where you live. That's just plain crazy."
Sharon sighed. "I'm telling you, that's the way it is in a place like this. What customers are they going to miss? Their neighbors? They'd probably help themselves and leave the money on the counter. And neighbors don't steal from neighbors out here. Grace, what are you looking for?"
She'd been wandering around the cafe, eyes sweeping the floor, the empty booths, and finally the front window. "Hmm?"
"You see something out there?"
"Outside? No. But I'm going to take a walk, check out the house we passed on the way in. Be right back."
Grace started to walk around the side of the cafe toward the frame house behind it, then stopped, blue eyes riveted to the small metal box bolted into the concrete block. A fat sheath of PVC snaked down from the bottom into the ground. She walked a little closer to read the name of the local telephone company imprinted on the box, just to make sure, then felt a shot of adrenaline fire at her heart. The PVC sheath, and the cluster of wires within, had been sliced through.
Grace froze in position, moving only her eyes, and felt her hearing sharpen, trying to pull sounds out of this eerily silent place.
Kids,she told herself.Kids with a pocketknife and a serious streaky of ill-guided mischief.
After a few moments she moved slowly, cautiously, circling the gas station until she found its phone box and severed cord sprouting ragged wire ends. Her mind was moving at light speed, compensating for the restraint she forced on her body.
She found the outside phone box on the house, another clean cut, and then moved warily to the front door, opened it, looked into the shadows, and listened. It wasn't necessary to search the place. She knew instantly that there was no one inside.
She closed the door to the house quietly, then stood there on the stoop for a moment, looking, listening, longing for a breeze to ruffle the silence that threatened to smother her.
She didn't care what Sharon said about normalcy and small towns and unlocked doors on a Saturday afternoon. She couldn't think of any of that now. She was too busy listening to the voice in her head that said they weren't supposed to be there.
SHERIFF MICHAEL HALLORAN was sitting in his office on the second floor of the Kingsford County Government Center, his chair turned toward the big window that looked out over Helmut Krueger's dairy farm.
He'd never heard anyone describe Bonar Carlson as brilliant, but the man saw more than most and paid attention to details that the rest of the world glossed over. That was part of what made him such a good cop. Halloran was now seeing what Bonar had noticed a long time ago, and it made him feel a little inferior, like he'd been walking around with his eyes shut for most of the summer.
Helmut Krueger's pasture wasn't nearly as lush and green as it should have been; it had that autumn cast that happens when grass starts to dry from the roots up and the yellow shows through. And if that wasn't enough to confirm Bonar's predictions of drought, all you had to do was look at the herd of Holsteins. They were crowded into a black-and-white jumble today, butts out like football players in a huddle, tails beating ineffectually at the plague of biting flies that could take a hundred pounds off a heifer in a matter of days.
Bugs of one sort or another were a constant bother during any Wisconsin summer, but when drought threatened, the mosquito population went way down while the deerflies, horseflies, and stable flies reproduced in epidemic numbers to torment the daylights out of farm animals.
The signs had all been there in front of him, and Halloran hadn't seen them. It made him question his own powers of observation, made him wonder what he was doing in a job where success often rested on seeing what other people didn't.
Like this case. This was his second homicide case in as many years, after a decade of thinking that breaking up a bar fight was going to be the pinnacle of his law enforcement career. No way did that kind of background prepare you for making sense of three bodies that looked like war casualties dumped in a rural swimming hole.
He looked down at the case file cover sheet on his desk, the blank lines taunting him with all he didn't know.
Bonar gave the doorjamb a cursory rap on his way in, heading straight for the chair opposite Halloran's desk. When he sat down, the cheap vinyl wheezed like a defective whoopee cushion. "I've got a thumbprint on my birth certificate," he said without preamble. "You do, too."
"I do?"
"You were born at Kingsford General, right?"
"Right."
"Then you were printed."
Halloran lifted a pen. "Should I be taking notes?"
"Most hospitals print newborns right in the delivery room. Feet, hands, thumb, something, so they don't send the wrong baby home
with the mother. So what I want to know is, how hard would it be to print a full set off every kid when they were born and put them in some kind of a database?"
"Gee, Bonar, you've got the makings of a despot."
"Do you know how many bodies go unidentified every year? How many families sit around waiting for someone to come home, and all the time they're in the ground somewhere under a John Doe marker?"
Halloran sighed. "I'll take a wild guess here. Nothing came up on the prints, right?"
"Not in AFIS, or anywhere else they let us look. And I don't mind telling you I was pretty surprised that not one of the three had an arrest record. It seems obvious that they were running in a pretty rough crowd, and not one of them did time? That almost defies logic."
Halloran started making folds in the case cover sheet. "Maybe they were just nice young men who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"You're going to have to do some fast talking to convince me that an execution with an automatic rifle was just some kind of unfortunate turn of events." Bonar pulled a flattened Snickers bar out of his pants pocket, ripped it open, and took a huge bite. "Any luck with Missing Persons?"
"Nothing on our sheets. I've got Haggerty posting the photos on the nationwides, for all the good it will do."
Bonar dabbed a fleck of chocolate from his lip with his little finger. "These boys are pretty fresh. Maybe no one's missing them yet."
"Could be. The autopsies might give us a place to start, but that's going to take a while. Doc says the state boys at Wausau are backed up with that multiple on Highway 29."
Bonar sighed and got up to throw his Snickers wrapper in the garbage can. "You want to tell me how we're supposed to solve a triple homicide without knowing who the victims are?"
Halloran went back to folding the paper on his desk. "How many automatic rifles you figure we've got in this neck of the woods, Bonar?"
"Probably one or two more than Fort Bragg."
"And who uses them?"
Bonar thought about that for a minute. "Well, we busted Karl Wildenauer for blasting ducks with one last November."
"Besides Karl."
"Green Bay took a couple of AK-47s in that cocaine bust last week."
Halloran scribbled on a notepad. "Okay. Drug dealers."
Bonar made a face. "Kingsford County may have a few teenagers trying to grow pot in their folks' corn patch every now and again, but I doubt they've got firing squads on retainer. The real serious bad boys usually do their dealing in the cities."
"So maybe it's city business. Maybe this was a body dump, pure and simple. Wouldn't be the first time. How about if we send the morgue shots to some of the narc divisions around the state, maybe even Chicago, see if anybody recognizes them."
&nb
sp; "That's an excellent thought."
"Thank you. Now tell me who else uses automatic rifles, just in general."
Bonar rolled his eyes to the ceiling and started rattling them off: "Military, organized crime, militia crackpots, collectors-and we have a fair number of all of those in the Dairy State."
"That's about the same list I came up with, and I'm thinking that if our three victims were involved in any one of those, Milwaukee might be able to help us out with an ID."
"The FBI?"
"And maybe the ATF-I'd be willing to bet they both have lists nobody else gets to see."
"I take it you feel like spending the rest of the weekend jumping through flaming hoops."
"Not particularly. I was hoping we could grease the wheel a little. What about that buddy of yours you used to play poker with? Doesn't his son work for the Feds?"
Bonar clucked his tongue. "Not anymore. Poor kid had some nervous troubles a while back and had to resign. I think he's managing a Dairy Queen in Fond du Lac now."
"Sorry to hear that."
"It's not all bad. We can probably get free ice cream whenever we're in the neighborhood."
"Terrific. In the meantime, let's fax off the morgue shots and prints to the Milwaukee SAC anyhow, cover all our bases."
"Sure, we can go the horse-and-buggy route if you want. Or you could just call Sharon in Minneapolis and tell her to run it through."
Halloran pretended he hadn't heard that and started shuffling through papers on his desk. "What's the SAC's name again? Burt somebody?"
"Eckman."
"That's right. You want to put together a package while I jot him a note?"
Bonar cocked his head curiously. "You've got a direct line to the FBI, and you're not going to use it because ... ?"
Halloran continued sifting through papers urgently until he found a blank fax cover, then began filling it in with a surgeon's concentration. He ignored Bonar for as long as he could, until he was hovering over Halloran's desk like a sadistic Goodyear Blimp.
"Call her, Mike. Purely business."
Halloran laid down his pen very carefully. "Do not try to come up on that kind of crap sideways, Bonar. Sharon and I don't talk anymore, and you know it."
"Yeah, I know it, and it's a damn shame, if you ask me."
"I didn't."
"You're going to have to talk to her sometime. Technically, she's still a Kingsford County Deputy."
"Only until Monday."
"Huh?"
"That's when her leave expires. If she's not at roll call Monday morning, she's out."
That put Bonar right back down in his chair, staring at his old friend across the desk. "Jesus, does she know that?"
Halloran nodded shortly. "Official notification went out a month ago. Certified. She got it."
"You sent her a letter telling her she was out?Aletter!"
"Thirty days' notice in writing. That's the law."
"A phone call might have been nice."
Halloran laid down his pen and looked Bonar in the eyes. "This is the way it is. I've got a department to run; I've got a hole in the roster I've been working around for months, ever since Sharon took her so-called 'temporary leave,' and I've got a phone that rings anytime a deputy of mine takes the trouble to dial the number. Sharon stopped returning my calls months ago, and I got tired of talking to her machine. Now. Do you want to keep riding me about Sharon, or do you want to hear my other idea on how to ID our three sinkers?"
Bonar leaned back and folded his arms across what he could still find of his chest. "I'd really like to keep riding you about Sharon, but if it'll make you happy, I'll listen to your idea first."
IT WAS THE THIRD YEAR the Minneapolis Police Department had sponsored a Fun Fair for the Youth in Crisis Program, and this one promised to be the most successful yet. It was nearly four o'clock already, but the park was still jammed with parents and kids, and most of the cops who weren't on duty were either volunteering at one of the booths or enjoying the festivities with their own children in tow.
Detective Leo Magozzi had just finished his volunteer stint selling hot dogs in the food tent, and now it was time for some real fun. He bought three tickets for the dunk tank from a new hire out of Fraud, politely laughed at his lame"drunk tank" crack, then got in line under the bright August sun with about twenty other people, including Chief Malcherson. Tall, light-haired, and icy-eyed, the man looked far too Nordic to carry off summer wear. It was the first time Magozzi had ever seen the painfully genteel man in anything other than a very expensive suit, and it was a little unsettling. Even the Chief himself seemed slightly at odds in his alien skin of lightweight shirt and slacks, his hand straying every now and then to his tieless collar, as if searching for a missing body part.
"Afternoon, sir. I'm glad you could make it today," Magozzi greeted him.
Malcherson gave him just a hint of a droll smile. "I'm happy to be here, Detective. Although I must admit I'm feeling slightly guilty about standing in this line, planning to willfully contribute to the discomfort of one of our own."
"You're in good company, sir."
"I see that. And itis for a good cause."
"That's exactly right, sir, and if it makes you feel any better, I know for a fact that Detective Rolseth is delighted for the opportunity to make such a substantial contribution."
That, of course, was bullshit, and everybody, including Chief Malcherson, knew it. Gino Rolseth, Magozzi's partner and best friend, was mad as hell to be the main attraction today, but he really hadn't had much say in the matter. Earlier in the week, an anonymous donor had offered to match this year's Fun Fair proceeds, but only under the condition that Gino take the perch above the dunk tank.
Gino had immediately thrown a world-class fit, refusing flat-out, but once word got out in Homicide, everybody was quick to remind him that his refusal would be tantamount to ripping food from the mouths of needy children in danger of turning to the streets, et cetera, et cetera.
Nobody knew who was behind it-they all had their theories- but one thing was certain: It would be the only case Gino would be working until he figured it out.
Magozzi and Malcherson both cringed a little when they heard a loud salvo of hoots and hollers coming from the front of the line. A few minutes later, skinny little carrot-haired Detective Johnny McLaren was practically jigging toward them, a bright blue snow-cone smile plastered on his sun-pinkened face.
"Man, was that great! You should have seen the expression on his face when the ball connected and he went down. Glad I'm on vacation next week, is all I have to say." He turned toward Malcherson. "Come on, Chief, you've gotta know who's behind this. You took the call, right?"
Chief Malcherson's expression was stone. "I truly have no idea, Detective. I was hardly in a position to press the matter of identity, given this very generous individual's adamant wish to remain unnamed."
McLaren smirked a little and rocked back and forth on his feet, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. "Okay, sure, Chief. The whole gift horse thing. Well, good luck, guys. I'm going to go buy myself another ticket."
"I CANNOT frigging believe that you, of all people, my own partner for Christ's sake, actually participated in this travesty." Gino was sitting morosely at a sunny picnic table with Magozzi, slurping the sticky remains of a snow cone out of its limp paper holder. He'd exchanged his soaked swimming trunks and T-shirt for jeans and a vintage bowling shirt that had seen better days, probably sometime during the Korean War.
Magozzi did his best to look contrite. "The Chief and I were actually having second thoughts there for a while, but when we saw your own daughter dunk you, that pretty much nailed it for us."
"Yeah, but I've got an avenue of remuneration for that little traitor-Helen's going to be fifty before I let her get her learner's permit. Damnit, I knew I should never have let her go out for Softball."
"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. Hell, I had no idea I co
uld still throw like that."
Gino glared at him. "Yeah, right, and neither did the Chief, who I just found out was an all-star frigging pitcher at the U of M. I'll tell you what-you find out who the comedian is who set me up and maybe I'll think about forgiving you."
"The Chief doesn't even know who it is."
Gino scowled and scrubbed at his blond brush of wet hair. "Yeah, right. You know what I think? I think this whole thing was a departmental conspiracy, and ten bucks says McLaren was the mastermind, the little Irish rat. I bet there isn't any anonymous donor, and you guys are all busting a gut right now."
"Nope. I saw the wire-transfer number on Malcherson's desk the other day. Looked legit to me."
"No kidding? Did you check it out?"
"Hey, I'd step in the line of fire any day for you, buddy, but I'm not willing to lose my job over this." Magozzi paused for a meaningful moment and then grinned. "I did give it to Grace, though."
Gino's scowl melted faster than his snow cone had. "You are officially off my shit list, buddy."
"Glad to hear it."
"Okay, so spill it-justice awaits."
"I don't know anything yet. Grace didn't have time to check it out before she left for Green Bay."
"Damn, I forgot about that. When's she coming back?"
"In a couple days."
"Oh, man, I can't wait that long." Gino brooded over his predicament for a few moments, then looked at Magozzi triumphantly. "Hey, what about Harley and Roadrunner? They can run the number just as easily as Grace can, and I bet they're bored out of their skulls without two high-maintenance women in their hair. We can take them out for beer and burgers later for their trouble."