From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “It’s all on me whatever happens,” I said.

  “I appreciate the martyr routine,” Shipman said. “But you know, McKenzie, there’s a very real possibility that this has nothing to do with you.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  “Whoever tagged your car—let’s assume it was Anderson for now—has to know the difference between a black Ford Mustang GT and a silver Lexus GS.”

  “The killer might not have been the one who tagged my car, just the person who thought he was following the GPS signal.”

  “Even so, his accomplice would have told him what to look for, don’t you think? I mean, c’mon.”

  “I don’t know, Jeannie. I appreciate that you’re trying to make me feel better about this, though.”

  “Is that what I’m doing? I need you to come down to the Griffin Building with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And it’s Detective Shipman to you.”

  That’s the girl I know and love.

  * * *

  The James S. Griffin Building, headquarters of the St. Paul Police Department, was located northeast of downtown. It was part of the Ramsey County–St. Paul Criminal Justice Campus that included the Ramsey County Law Enforcement Center and the Adult Detention Center, which made things very convenient for the cops. If they didn’t like the answers I gave them, they could easily slap on the cuffs and escort me across the parking lot.

  They didn’t like the answers. Not because they were wrong or deceitful but because they sounded ridiculous.

  Deputy Chief Roger Hodapp, who was Bobby’s immediate supervisor, tapped a pen on the table in the conference room where I was being questioned.

  “Let me get this straight, McKenzie,” he said. “You’re suggesting that the murder of Mr. Fogelberg was a case of mistaken identity. You’re suggesting that you were the actual target because a man who’s been dead for twenty-two years announced through a psychic medium that he would pay $654,321 that he stole from an armored truck to whoever killed you—”

  “As far as I know, the offer was made only to his son—”

  “And that a person or persons unknown tagged your car in order to follow you, but, being a man who loves practical jokes, you put the GPS transmitter on Fogelberg’s car instead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hodapp looked at Bobby. “Do you know why I love my job so much?” he asked. “It’s because I get to delegate.”

  “Considering my relationship with McKenzie—”

  “Hell, we all have a relationship with McKenzie.” Hodapp turned back to me. “I was the sergeant you called when you pulled the pin to take the price on Teachwell, remember?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Back when we were both working out of Central.”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you also remember what I told you?”

  “You told me that you always knew I was a dumb ass.”

  “Nothing has changed.” Hodapp glanced back at Bobby. “’Kay?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “You know, when we called this meeting, I thought we were going to discuss Ruth Nowak.”

  “I’m working the case.”

  “Personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Send me an eBrief.”

  “I will.”

  Hodapp patted Bobby’s arm, stood, and headed for the door. He paused when he reached it.

  “Despite everything, I’ve always liked you, McKenzie,” he said. “In your own clumsy way you’ve been useful to us in the past.”

  Clumsy?

  “You’ve been smart about what you’ve given the media, too,” Hodapp added.

  Which was nothing if you could possibly help it.

  “Stay smart.”

  “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Chief,” I said.

  The deputy chief walked out of the conference room. Shipman closed the door behind him and resumed her seat.

  “That went well,” I said.

  “You think?” Bobby said.

  “I don’t have a personal relationship with McKenzie,” Shipman said. “I’d be happy to take lead.”

  Bobby knew the animosity that existed between us, though, and proved it by looking up at the ceiling and rolling his eyes.

  Shipman’s partner decided to keep it professional.

  “We examined the GPS transmitter attached to the rear axle of Fogelberg’s Lexus,” Gafford said. “Pretty standard. You can get one just like it for fifty bucks from Amazon or Best Buy. We were able to use traffic cams to track the car after the hit—it was a red, five-year-old Toyota Avalon, by the way. It was reported stolen Monday night. A woman left it running in the parking lot of a Holiday Stationstore in Vadnais Heights because it was cold Monday night, all of twenty-eight degrees, while she went inside to buy a lottery ticket. When she came out, it was gone.”

  “Lucky her,” Shipman said.

  Wait, Monday night? my inner voice asked.

  “Anyway, we tracked the Avalon to Railroad Island in the Payne-Phalen neighborhood before we ran out of cameras,” the partner said. “I sent a unit over there, and they found the car parked near the intersection of Beaumont Street East and Burr Street North, less than a mile from where we’re sitting right now. The car was impounded; forensics is going over it. Also, we’re doing a canvass of the neighborhood, asking concerned citizens if they’ve seen anything. I have nothing to report yet.”

  “Where did the Toyota come from?” Bobby asked.

  “We don’t know,” Gafford said. “We followed the traffic cams backward. The system picked it up five minutes before the shooting where Riverside Avenue meets I-94 in Minneapolis.”

  “What about Fogelberg’s car?”

  “The system picked it up at the same location.”

  About two miles from the building where Frank lived—used to live.

  “Mason, I want you to take lead on the investigation,” Bobby said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Spoilsport,” Shipman said.

  “Talk to the psychics,” Bobby said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Talk to the psychics and see if you can confirm McKenzie’s story.”

  “What about the PI and Ryan Hayes?”

  “I agree with Jean, you’d think Anderson would know the difference between a black Mustang and a silver Lexus, but see if he has an alibi for the time of the shooting. Hayes, too. And people, I think I can speak for the deputy chief—we don’t want to see any leaks. This is the kind of story the media just loves, psychic frickin’ mediums involved in a murder investigation. So keep it to yourselves. I mean it.”

  “I have a thought,” I said.

  “McKenzie,” Bobby said, “are you still here? Get out.”

  “Bobby—”

  “You are no longer a police officer. You are not a part of this investigation. If you involve yourself, I will have your ass for hindering.”

  “Statute 609.5, subdivision 1.” Shipman was smiling when she said it. “Ninety days or a thousand-dollar fine or both.”

  “That’s a narrow-minded attitude,” I said.

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” Bobby added.

  “All right,” I said. “Have it your way.”

  I left the conference table and moved toward the door.

  Gafford stopped me. “Mr. McKenzie,” he said, “what thought?”

  “You said the Toyota was stolen Monday night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The psychic medium told—” I nearly said “Bobby Dunston’s wife, Shelby,” but caught myself in time. “The psychic medium who announced that Leland Hayes wanted me dead didn’t do her reading until Tuesday night.”

  * * *

  Jeannie Shipman had driven me to the Griffin Building in her vehicle, so I had to call a Lyft to take me home. The driver was concerned about our soft winter. I told him, “When we get ten feet of snow and the temperature drops to twenty degrees below zero with a minus sixty-
seven wind chill, I want you to remember this conversation.”

  It was pushing 7:00 P.M. when I arrived at my building. I went directly to the security desk. Smith and Jones were desperate for information about Fogelberg, and I gave them as much as I had.

  “Do me a favor,” I said. “Check the footage on your security cameras starting a couple of hours before Fogelberg left the building. See if you can catch a glimpse of a red Toyota Avalon.”

  I was hoping that the car followed Fogelberg directly from the building, which would mean the GPS transmitter wasn’t necessarily involved, which would mean I wasn’t necessarily involved. I so desperately wanted to shed any responsibility for Fogelberg’s death. It just made me feel so low.

  “What if we find it?” Jones asked.

  “Inform Commander Robert Dunston of the St. Paul Police Department with my compliments.”

  * * *

  I returned to the condominium and nearly tripped on my hockey equipment. I questioned whether or not I should play tonight. Somehow it seemed disrespectful to Fogelberg; the idea that I was responsible for putting him in harm’s way weighed heavily on me. I wondered if Bobby would play and decided that he would if he could. With me it was all about the game and the camaraderie and the hanging out. For him it was a brief respite from the world he lived in.

  I sat at my desk, started my computer, and read my emails. They didn’t tell me anything that I didn’t already know.

  After a few minutes, I began to pace, moving in a circle from the office area to the living room area to the dining area to the kitchen area. I told the computer to play random songs from my playlist, and it started with “River of Tears” by Madeleine Peyroux. I made it switch to “Cotton Tail” by Ella Fitzgerald and then to “Gypsy Woman” by Muddy Waters and finally “Laughing at Life” by Susannah McCorkle before I shut it down entirely. Music suddenly held no appeal for me.

  “Assume you were the intended target,” I said aloud. “Who has reason to kill you?”

  That’s a long list, my inner voice reminded me.

  “Recently. Who has reason to kill you recently?”

  I created a file in my head.

  Ryan Hayes.

  Karl Anderson.

  Hannah.

  Hannah’s mom.

  Kayla Janas.

  “Why?”

  For the money, why else?

  Except, I told myself, if Hannah and Kayla wanted Leland’s $654,321, would they have warned me about it?

  Seems unlikely.

  Okay—Ryan, Anderson, and Hannah’s mom.

  Hannah’s mom; that also seems like a reach.

  She’s in cahoots with Anderson.

  We don’t know that.

  She waited twenty minutes after he arrived before she came out of her house to speak with him. Outside in the cold, not inside where it was warm. Why?

  She didn’t want Hannah to know about it. Probably Hannah was taking a shower or a nap or something.

  Again, why?

  Esti hired Anderson to keep Hannah safe at her readings.

  Without telling her?

  It’s possible.

  Why did Anderson follow you?

  He doesn’t know that you’re a good guy. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just another asshole.

  If he tagged my Mustang, would he admit it to the police?

  Would you?

  PIs need to follow certain rules or risk being brought up before the Private Detective Services Board and having their ticket pulled. One of the rules—cooperate with the police.

  Yeah, speaking from personal experience we know how much people love to obey the rules.

  “I should talk to him,” I said aloud.

  Yeah, but will he talk to you?

  If he’s clean …

  That leaves Ryan Hayes.

  Assuming Hannah and Kayla didn’t tell anyone else about Leland’s offer.

  They said they didn’t.

  “This is crazy.” I shouted at the empty room. “This is one hundred percent Looney Tunes. I don’t believe any of it. Dead men do not talk from the grave. They certainly don’t arrange assassinations.”

  Hannah Braaten and Kayla Janas believe differently.

  Do they? Do they really? They’re entertainers, after all. Actors. They make their living convincing the audience to believe what it already wants to believe. That doesn’t mean they believe it themselves. Does the actress Gal Gadot actually think she’s Wonder Woman? I mean, I believe it. But does she? I bet she doesn’t.

  Ryan Hayes believes.

  Does he? Or does he simply want to believe?

  Isn’t that the same thing?

  “Dammit.”

  Besides, it doesn’t matter if the psychic mediums are telling the truth or if all this is part of some sort of elaborate scam. Frank Fogelberg is dead, and that’s as real as it gets.

  “Were the bullets meant for me?”

  Which brings us back to where we started.

  I lay down on the sofa in front of the unlit fireplace and contemplated what I should do next that wouldn’t get me in big trouble with Bobby and his homicide detectives. Nothing came to mind, so I considered what I could do next that would only get me into a little trouble with Bobby and his homicide detectives.

  That’s when the phone rang. The caller ID claimed it was a phone number in St. Paul. I swiped right.

  “This is McKenzie,” I said.

  “Mr. McKenzie, this is Kayla. Kayla Janas. May I—I was just speaking to a couple of detectives from the St. Paul Police Department about—about a shooting and they asked about you and what I told you and Ryan Hayes and—Mr. McKenzie, is this on me, what happened?”

  “Of course not.”

  “May I speak to you? I mean, may I see you? Can you meet me somewhere? There’s a café near where I live…”

  I gave it a couple of beats and answered, “Sure.”

  TEN

  I had never been to the French Meadow Bakery and Café on Grand Avenue in St. Paul. I figured it to be little more than a grandiose coffeehouse catering mostly to the students that attended Macalester College just a couple of blocks up the road. Yet it served full breakfast, lunch, and dinner menus, gourmet desserts, and, more importantly, beer, wine, and cocktails in fairly elegant surroundings. It was also tastefully decorated for Christmas, and I felt a little embarrassed that I was wearing a sweatshirt beneath my brown leather jacket and a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer on my hip.

  Kayla was sitting at a small table not far from the door. She was dressed in the same kind of clothes she’d worn the first time I met her, tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a sweater, only this time the sweater was red. Again I was impressed by how young she appeared.

  She smiled when I stepped across the threshold as if she were glad to see me. I couldn’t imagine why. As I approached she glanced to her right. I followed her eyes while pretending not to, because I didn’t want the man sitting at the corner of the bar and watching us to know that I had made him.

  “Ms. Janas,” I said.

  “Kayla, please.”

  I draped my jacket across the back of a chair and sat across from her.

  “The reason you’re named Rushmore—your parents took a vacation to the Badlands of South Dakota,” Kayla said. “You were conceived in a motor lodge very near the Mount Rushmore monument.”

  Okay, not exactly a secret. Still …

  “It could have been worse,” I said. “It could have been Deadwood.”

  A waiter materialized next to the table and asked if I would like something from the bar. Kayla had jolted me with her pronouncement, and making choices suddenly seemed difficult for me. Fortunately, there was a table tent in the center of the table advertising something called a Jamaican Moscow Mule. I pointed at it and said, “I’ll have one of those.”

  The waiter disappeared.

  “You seem to know a lot about me,” I said.

  “Only what people tell me,” Kayla said.

  “What peop
le?”

  “The ones looking out for you.”

  “There are people looking out for me?”

  “Quite a few, actually. McKenzie, the man who was killed, the one that the St. Paul police asked me about—am I responsible for what happened to him?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “If I hadn’t told Ryan Hayes what his father wanted…”

  “We don’t know for sure that Ryan is involved. This could all be one big coincidence.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  No, my inner voice said.

  “Things happen all the time that seem connected but aren’t,” I said aloud. “That’s why we have a word for it.”

  “I try to do the right thing, only I’m not always sure what the right thing is, what I should do.”

  “You mean like the rest of us?”

  “It’s different with me, though, because of my—I call it a gift now, but I haven’t always,” Kayla said. “Growing up … I started talking to dead people when I was four. My parents—my family thought I had imaginary friends and that I would grow out of it, only they weren’t imaginary, they were my grandfather, who died when I was three, and my uncle, who died before I was born. They’d give me messages that I would deliver to my family. I told my mom about a savings account that had somehow gone unnoticed when my uncle’s estate was settled. My uncle, my mom’s brother, wanted her to buy something nice for herself for her birthday with the money. My family checked, and sure enough, there was a savings account in my uncle’s name at the bank. Instead of thanking me, though, they took me to see a therapist to help me deal with my issues. They took me to see a minister, for God’s sake.

  “Did I tell you that I’m from a small town in the northwest corner of Minnesota? Did I tell you that the members of my family are all Christian fundamentalists? That they refuse to accept that I can talk to the spirits of the dead but are more than happy to believe that I’m possessed by the devil? It didn’t take long before I learned to hide my gift, to fight against it. I did not want to go to hell, McKenzie.

  “Only sometimes the voices would get so loud and the messages were so compelling that I had to deliver them, even if it was just to make the voices stop. Once, when I was in high school, I gave a classmate a message from her mother, who died two weeks earlier from cancer. I was overheard and brought to the principal’s office. I was suspended from school for a week for telling lies. My parents forced me to spend the entire week living on bread and water in my bedroom. Well, not bread and water, but … On the other hand, my classmate was very grateful to me. What I told her helped her a lot. We’re still good friends; we talk all the time. You don’t want to hear any of this.”