He climbed the staircase that led from the asphalt parking lot to the elevated dock and the door next to it. He unlocked the door. I couldn’t tell if he was using a key or picks. I guessed a key because his body language didn’t reveal a change in his demeanor from normal to nervous. Nor did he look around cautiously the way a thief might.
He entered the building, closing the door behind him.
Now what? my inner voice asked.
I figured I had two options.
One—move up on the scene and confront the driver when he left the building. I would have liked that idea better if I had thought to bring a gun.
Two—wait until the driver left the parking lot and follow him; try to get a good look at his license plate and take it from there.
I was debating the pros and cons when a third option presented itself: a black-and-white Ford Crown Victoria complete with light bar, push bumper, and the words POLICE CITY OF SAINT PAUL painted on the doors. It pulled in to the lot and approached the Audi, stopping only a few feet behind its rear bumper. An officer emerged from the patrol car. He did not turn off his engine. He did not extinguish his lights. Instead, he moved cautiously to the driver’s side door of the Audi and shined a flashlight through the windows. He must not have seen anything that interested him, because he moved the light along the base of the building and along the loading dock.
Bobby, my inner voice said. You would never reach out to the Western District patrol commander just to accommodate a friend. Of course not.
The officer returned to his cruiser. Through the binoculars, I saw him speaking on his radio; I could almost hear his voice asking for a 10-24 on the Audi.
That’s when the driver chose to leave the building. He backed his way out of the door, closed it tight, and turned. He was carrying a large box with both hands that he nearly dropped when he saw the police car. As it was, he paused for a long time as he stared at it.
The police officer slipped out of the car and spoke to the driver across the roof. Words were exchanged, yet the driver didn’t budge. The officer gestured. The driver moved to the stairs and descended slowly. The box looked as if it suddenly weighed ten thousand pounds.
The officer didn’t approach the driver; instead he remained behind the patrol car. He gestured for the driver to stop, and they began a conversation.
I left the Mustang and moved across the parking lot toward them. The driver’s head came up when I crossed into the circle of light near the building. The officer caught the look in his eye and pivoted so he could watch me and the driver at the same time. He brought his hand to the butt of his Glock. He made sure I saw him do it.
I moved both of my hands away from my body so he could see that they were empty and continued approaching.
“Stop,” the officer said.
I stopped.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s McKenzie. I was asked by the owner to keep an eye on the place.”
The officer gestured at the building. “This place?” he asked.
“Salsa Girl Salsa.” I threw a thumb over my shoulder. “I was watching from over there.”
“Licensed?”
“No. Just a concerned citizen.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why were you watching?” the Audi driver asked.
“Because someone has been vandalizing the property.”
“Salsa Girl never mentioned it to me.”
“Why would she?”
“I’m her partner. No, really. Randy Sax. You can check.”
I was close enough now to get a good look at his face. It was older than I thought when I saw it at a distance; the half moons under his eyes suggested that he didn’t get much comfort from sleep. Yet he had a high, whiny voice that made him sound like a teenager questioning why everyone was picking on him.
“Okay,” I said.
“What’s your name again?” the officer asked.
“McKenzie. Call Erin Peterson. She’s the owner. She’ll vouch for me.”
“Rushmore McKenzie?”
“Yeah.”
“I remember you. You’re the one who quit the department to collect the price on some embezzler a few years back. The insurance company paid you fifty cents on every dollar of the stolen money that you recovered.”
“That’s right.”
“Damn.”
From the way he cursed, I didn’t know if he was envious or disgusted by what I had done. Believe me, I got both reactions from the cops in the Twin Cities.
“Let me see some ID.” The officer made a gimme gesture with his free hand; the other remained on the butt of his handgun. “Both of you.”
While I reached for my wallet, Randy Sax set the box he was carrying on the trunk of the Audi. He dug into his pocket for his wallet, too. We both handed our driver’s licenses to the officer. He returned to his vehicle and called in a 10-27, a driver’s license check. Randy and I stood between the police car and the Audi where the officer could see us.
“You’re a cop?” Randy said.
“I used to be a cop. Back when I was young and impressionable.”
“I’d love to be a cop. Why’d you quit?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. Tell me something, Randy.” I couldn’t bring myself to call him Mr. Sax. “What’s in the box?”
“Tomatoes.”
Randy opened the box just wide enough to reach in and pull out a lush red tomato, then quickly closed it again. He held the tomato for me to see.
“I’m making a huge batch of my world-famous spaghetti sauce for my family Tuesday. It’s my niece’s birthday.”
“Does Erin know that you’re stealing her tomatoes in the dead of night?”
“Technically, ten percent of them are mine. I was on my way home from a party and decided—what’s this about vandalism?”
“Technically, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“If you’re working for Erin, then you’re working for me, too.”
I held out my hand and gave it a little wag.
“You’re making a mistake if you think you can treat me like some dumb kid,” he said. “I not only own ten percent of the company, my family owns Minnesota Foods. We distribute Erin’s salsa. What do you think of that?”
“I’m sure it’s a profitable relationship for everyone involved.”
Randy’s expression became that of a middle schooler who was being sent to his room for reasons that seemed unjust to him. I expected him to go off. Instead, he said, “No one tells me anything,” and studied his tomato. Once again, I wondered about his age. According to the Salsa Girl origin story, he had invested in Erin’s company about ten years ago. Assuming he was the age of consent at the time, he’d have to be at least thirty now, and I would say he looked a few years older. Yet Bobby Dunston’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Victoria, seemed more mature.
By then the officer had decided that we were who we claimed we were and returned our driver’s licenses.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening.”
“We’re good?” Randy asked.
“Yes, sir. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“Not at all, not at all. Doing your job. That’s great. Here. Have a tomato.”
The officer took the tomato and gave Randy a casual salute with it. Randy opened the trunk of the Audi and put the box inside while we watched.
“McKenzie,” he said, “you gotta come to the party, see what I do with all these tomatoes. Erin is always invited to family gatherings, only she never comes. Tell her to take you.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“Night-night.” Randy climbed into his Audi and drove off. The officer and I watched him go.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I gestured at the corner of the parking lot where the Mustang was parked.
“Nice car,” he said. “You buy it with the reward money?”
“Actually, my girlfriend gave it to me.”
“Must b
e some girlfriend.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
The officer tossed the tomato into the air and caught it.
“It’s not three million bucks,” he said. “As long as we come out ahead, though, that’s the main thing.”
The officer climbed into his car and drove off. I returned to my Mustang, started it, rolled up the windows, and put the heater on high.
My inner voice asked, Do you really believe that Randy stopped on his way home to steal a box filled with tomatoes?
“I should have looked inside the box just to make sure,” I said aloud.
* * *
I had left the parking lot and was heading west toward the entrance of a freeway that would take me home when my cell rang. Normally I would have ignored it; I don’t like using my phone when I’m driving. Yet given the time of night, I thought it was probably Nina. I felt a tingle of concern as I pulled over and took the phone from my pocket. Only it wasn’t Nina. It was Erin Peterson. I swiped right.
“This is McKenzie,” I said.
“McKenzie, I just got a call from Randy Sax.”
“He’s kind of a dip, isn’t he?”
“He’s also irate.”
“He didn’t seem that way when he left.”
“McKenzie, he told me that the police stopped him in the parking lot and all but arrested him, and then you showed up and started interrogating him, too.”
“That’s not quite how it happened.”
“What did happen?”
I explained.
“You’re right, Randy is a dip. McKenzie, what were you doing at Salsa Girl?”
“Keeping an eye on your building.”
“You’re taking this way too seriously.”
“Or not seriously enough. Did Randy tell you that he stole a box filled with tomatoes?”
“Only after I insisted he tell me why he was there at this time of night. McKenzie, can you meet me?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
I glanced at my digital clock again. Knowing her habits, I figured that Nina was still at Rickie’s.
“Tell me where,” I said.
* * *
Like most women who take good care of themselves, Erin made it hard to guess her age. Thirty? Forty? Somewhere in there. I wasn’t normally obsessed with age, but seeing her sitting at the bar in a joint not far from the Minneapolis campus of the University of Minnesota made me wonder. She seemed to blend in so nicely with the students. One of them was standing next to her chair and speaking earnestly. I didn’t know what he was saying, although I could guess. Probably it was the same thing that I would have been saying to an attractive woman in a bar if I were his age. In any case, Erin kept smiling and shaking her head.
Finally Erin slipped off her chair and rested her hands on his shoulders. She leaned in and pecked his lips. Clearly he wanted a longer, more passionate kiss. It was just as clear that he wasn’t going to get it. After some hemming and hawing, the kid left. Erin returned to her chair. She said something to the woman sitting next to her, and the woman laughed.
The woman raised her empty glass as I approached from behind. The bartender reached her in a hurry and refilled it. Afterward, he pointed at Erin’s drink. She shook her head.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said.
“McKenzie.” Erin’s voice was high—at least higher than usual—and her eyes were inordinately bright and shiny. Saying no to another drink was probably wise, my inner voice said. She rested her hand on my arm. “Thanks for coming.”
“My, my,” said the woman next to her. She spoke with a Hispanic accent that sounded second generation. “Aren’t you a hunka hunka burnin’ love?”
“Really?” I said.
“Down, girl,” Erin said. “McKenzie is spoken for.”
“Loudly?” asked the woman.
“I don’t know. How loudly does Nina speak for you?”
“Pretty loud.”
“See? She’s so gorgeous, too, that you just want to run her over with your car. Her eyes are silver. I mean, they’re blue, but they’re so pale that they look silver. Silver.”
“I take it you’ve been here for a while,” I said.
“We started at—oh, McKenzie, this is Maria. Maria is my production manager. She’s been with me eight years as of today. Maria, say hello to McKenzie.”
“Hello to McKenzie,” Maria said.
Both women giggled.
Oh my God.
“We decided to have dinner to celebrate after we closed up shop,” Erin said. “Just the girls. Alice and the others have already gone home.”
“Lightweights,” Maria said.
“Is that why you called, because you need a ride home?” I said. “It’s not a bad idea.”
Erin lightly slapped my chest three times.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have that covered. I might be ever so slightly intoxicated, but I’m not … I’m trying to think of a word.”
“Out of control,” Maria said. “That’s three words, but if you say ’em really fast…”
“No, that’s not it. Injudicious. I’m not injudicious. A professor at DePaul University always used that word when he was scolding students for not paying attention to his lectures. It’s my favorite word.”
“DePaul, where’s that?” Marie asked.
“Chicago.”
“McKenzie, do you have a favorite word?”
“Yes, but I stole it from the Reverend Jesse Jackson. He once said, ‘I not only deny the allegation, I deny the alligator.’”
“That’s great. But which word? Allegation or alligator?”
“You need to use them both together.”
“It’s a favorite joke, then, not a word.”
“I don’t know what you want to talk about, but I suspect we’ll be better off talking about it tomorrow.”
“I wanted to tell you something important. Something that couldn’t wait. What was it? Something about—oh yes, about the Bignell family. Randy Bignell-Sax is a member of the Bignell family, and we do not want to antagonize the Bignell family until I’m ready.”
Until you’re ready? my inner voice asked.
“Does that include Randy?” I asked aloud.
“Randy is—what’s the word? Capricious.”
“Ohhh,” Maria said. “I like that one, too.”
“I can control Randy. He’s harmless. The rest of the Bignells, though, they are ruthless people, and I want to stay out of their line of sight.”
“Randy invited me to a party for his niece tomorrow night,” I said. “He said you should take me.”
Erin thought that was funny.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “That would be … injudicious.”
“Again, how about we talk tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be in the office at six thirty.”
Looking into her shiny blue eyes, I didn’t believe her.
FOUR
Eight A.M. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and I was leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest and looking into Erin Peterson’s office. She was working her computer. Her eyes were clear, her hair was coiffed, what little makeup she wore was expertly applied, and her crisp white shirt and dark blue skirt and jacket were neat, businesslike, and sexy all at the same time.
“Don’t you clean up nicely,” I said.
Erin refused to look at me while she answered. “If you knew how much effort it took you’d be traumatized.” Her voice had returned to its normal low register; once again it reflected her self-control. She stared at her computer screen for a few beats before she spoke again. “Should I tell you why I’m happy to see you?”
“I didn’t know you were.”
Erin swiveled her chair away from the computer screen, rose slowly, and circled her desk. There was a restlessness in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She moved to the door and tugged my arm until I fully entered the office. Erin closed the door. She sighed heavily as
she hugged me, her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed against my neck. It wasn’t the welcoming hug of friends who have not seen each other for a while. It was stronger and filled with deep meaning.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and pulled her tighter against me. I could feel her breasts flatten against my chest. At the same time, a low charge of electricity rumbled through me that I hadn’t felt since … not since I first became involved with Nina Truhler.
Erin murmured my name into my collarbone. She stepped back and rested her hand against my chest. Her head came up and her eyes met mine. When she did that, I swear to God I nearly kissed her. I didn’t because I knew Nina wouldn’t like it. ’Course, she wouldn’t need to know …
Are you serious? my inner voice asked.
I took a step backward, putting distance between me and Erin’s lips because yeah, for a moment there I was serious.
Erin tapped my chest. “Don’t worry, McKenzie,” she said. “That’s not what this is about.”
“What is it about?”
“Fear.”
She returned to her desk.
“I arrive at six thirty every morning, always the first one here. My staff filters in between seven thirty and eight. We begin production sharply at eight fifteen and continue until six, six thirty P.M. Monday through Thursday. Nine thousand gallons of salsa. Most of my people have Fridays off, when our Upper Midwest shipments go out and my Texas truck returns with my jalapeños and other ingredients. That’s the schedule.”
“Okay.”
Erin reached under her desk for a clear plastic sandwich bag. She held the bag for me to see. It was half filled with dark brown pellets about three-quarters of an inch long and one-eighth of an inch in diameter.
“This is what I found on my desk this morning,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Rat excrement.”
“Oh shit.”
Erin chuckled as she dropped the bag into her wastebasket.
“You do have a way with words, McKenzie,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”
“How bad is it?”
“If whoever left this on my desk had poured it into one of my mixing tanks instead, I’d have to shut down. Throw out any product that might have been contaminated. Clean and sanitize my equipment. Replace the ingredients that were wasted. Start mixing from scratch. Two days wasted, possibly three, without a chance of meeting my delivery dates. It would be injurious to say the least.”
Like to Die Page 5