I was sure that the passengers in the Maxima could not have seen me. I was equally sure that they would see the empty streets around the sports fields, realize that I was not heading toward the highway, and decide that there was no smart place for me to go except onto the bridge.
I stopped in the alley behind a large white garage and turned off the engine. From where we were parked, we could see two side streets. Nothing moved on them for five minutes. Wabasha was a small town; I was convinced that if the Maxima were still in it I would have known by now.
I started the car, pulled out of the alley, and headed for Highway 61. Erin crawled back onto the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“Pipestone.”
“Isn’t Pipestone way on the other side of the state?”
“Southwestern corner.”
“Okay, next question—why Pipestone?”
“Because it is on the other side of the state and because there’s a place called Lange’s Café that bakes the best pie I’ve ever eaten.”
* * *
Lange’s Café was one of the few places still open when we reached Pipestone four and a half hours later. Not that it was busy; only one booth was occupied when Erin and I rolled in. The place prided itself on never once locking its door in nearly sixty years. It also prided itself on its sour cream raisin pie, which had been featured on NPR’s The Splendid Table, among other places. Unfortunately, they were all out by the time we arrived, so I had to settle for Dutch apple. Erin inhaled a pecan pie à la mode, and I asked her if she was sure she weighed only 120 pounds. She gave me a look that suggested my life was in jeopardy, so I let it slide.
A half hour later, we drove to the Calumet Inn, one of the other few places open in Pipestone at 10:30 P.M., and checked in under the names Nick and Nora Dyson, using my fake IDs and credit cards. If things went sideways, I knew that Erin would need hers.
Like the Anderson House, the Calumet Inn was built in the nineteenth century and was supposed to be haunted. Each of the rooms had an evocative name like Sherwood Forest and Eden, except for 308. That’s where Charlie, the most celebrated of the resident ghosts, was supposed to reside. We were registered to Summertime. It featured a lot of Victorian furniture including a single queen-sized bed. Neither of us remarked on it while we unpacked.
Afterward, we retired to the Calumet Lounge on the hotel’s ground floor. The décor was pretty grand if you viewed it from a distance—ornate wooden bar, large windows, tin ceiling, brick walls. Up close it seemed middle-aged, like most of its customers, with no new work done for years, only maintenance. It was doing good business. There were plenty of Saturday night carousers, men and women, many divorced, not so much attempting to relive their youth as escape what they did with it.
We sat at a table next to a window with a good view of the Pipestone County Museum and shared a paper boat of free popcorn. I had ale. Salsa Girl drank bourbon. I told her that I’d never seen her drink anything but bourbon.
“I was never a white wine kind of girl,” she said. “What does Nina drink?”
“When she drinks, she’ll have something sweet like a Bailey’s or the adult milkshakes they serve at Ward 6 in St. Paul. She’s developed a deep fondness for the hard ciders that she discovered when we were in England, but they’re tough to get here in the U.S.”
We didn’t have much to say to each other after that. I had no idea what Erin was thinking. I was thinking about Sunday.
We finished our drinks and returned to the room. After locking the door, I propped a wooden desk chair against its handle. I moved another chair, this one with deep mohair upholstery and soft arms, so that it was facing the door. I pulled the nine-millimeter Taurus out of the gym bag and checked the load.
“You take the bed,” I said.
Erin stared at the gun in my hand.
“Are you sure?” she said.
“I’m sure.”
We took turns using the bathroom to get ready. Finally the lights were extinguished. Erin settled under the sheets of the bed, and I made myself comfortable in the chair. Ten minutes passed before she spoke.
“Your shoulder must be killing you.”
“It’s not too bad.”
“McKenzie, you’re welcome to join me.”
“Who would like that less, I wonder, Nina or Ian?”
“Just because we’re in the same bed doesn’t mean something has to happen.”
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”
“What now?”
“Something the Reverend Billy Graham used to say.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’ll quote Bobby Dunston, then—be careful.”
Erin chuckled at that. A few minutes later, she spoke again.
“Are you ever afraid?”
“Frequently.”
“I was never afraid. Not even when I was letting Carson chase me across the country. Yet I am now.”
“That’s because you have so much more to lose.”
“Ian—I love him more than I have words to say.”
“Is that why you’ve never told him, because you didn’t have the words?”
“How could I tell him one thing without telling him all the rest?”
I didn’t have an answer to that, so I said, “Good night, Erin.”
“Good night, McKenzie. Thank you for being my friend.”
FOURTEEN
The Calumet Inn served a pretty good Sunday brunch in its dining room. I was working hard at a Belgian waffle and some strawberries; Erin just picked at her eggs Benedict.
“Did you make your phone calls?” she asked.
“While you were in the shower. You take long showers, by the way.”
“I almost didn’t get out at all. How much time do we have?”
I glanced at my all-purpose watch.
“Three hours if they’re hurrying,” I said. “They’re not hurrying, though. Not like they did in Wabasha. They’ll make sure they get it right this time.”
“What’ll we do while we wait?”
* * *
Although it was located in the heart of Yankton Sioux territory, the quarries that later became the Pipestone National Monument, located about ten minutes north of the city, were considered neutral ground by most Native American tribes. It was their only resource for catlinite, or “pipestone,” the red stone that was used to make the ceremonial pipes that were vitally important to traditional Plains Indian religious practices, so it was agreed that, regardless of their differences, the tribes would have unfettered access at all times. Even today, only people of Native American ancestry are allowed to quarry the pipestone. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen there.
At least that’s what I told Salsa Girl as we strolled along the Circle Trail that was squeezed along the quartzite cliff walls. Still, we were both on high alert, more interested in the people that approached us than we were in the historical markers, tallgrass prairie, and the quarries themselves. When a man said, “Excuse me,” we both flinched.
He was old and accompanied by a woman who claimed that her walker was only temporary while she recovered from some unnamed surgery. He asked if we would take their photograph against the walls of the cliff—without the walker—and we did. The woman was very friendly. She told Erin, “You have red hair; you must be from Ohio”—don’t ask me why—and asked, “Are you a college student?”
Erin said she wasn’t but thanked the woman for saying so just the same. As they passed us on the trail, the woman told me, “Your wife is very beautiful.”
“I think so, too,” I said.
Erin watched them move up the trail and then turned her gaze out at the park.
“Like Dr. Samuel Johnson, I set a high value on spontaneous kindness,” she said. “I want to be like that woman.”
I glanced at my watch again; I had been doing so every ten minutes sin
ce we arrived. I told her, “As another wise man once said—ain’t nothing to it but to do it.”
* * *
Erin dropped me off at the Pipestone County Courthouse. It was built in 1901 in the neoclassical style with the same reddish quartzite stone that was found near the pipestone quarries and featured a Renaissance dome on top of a high clock tower. A bronze statue of Lady Justice stood on top of the dome. I found it comforting, but just barely.
As I started to slide out of the Solara, Erin grabbed my arm. I turned to look at her looking at me. Her face seemed to be filled with words, but the only ones she spoke were “I’ll see you soon.”
I gave her a nod.
After I got out of the car and shut the door, she drove off. I didn’t watch her. Instead, I walked the two blocks back to the Calumet Inn. I walked slowly.
Sunday in the historic part of Pipestone was very quiet; that was one of the reasons why I picked it. I saw no pedestrians on the street and no one sitting in a parked car. Nor was there anyone loitering in the hotel lobby. I made my way to the third floor and moved toward the room designated Summertime.
I unlocked the door, opened it, and started to step inside. I stopped when I saw Carson Brazill lying on the queen-sized bed, both pillows stacked behind his head. Levi Chandler was sitting in the stuffed chair and reading something on his phone. A strong hand fell on my left shoulder and shoved hard; I tried not to react to the pain it caused. I stumbled into the room, nearly falling. The door was closed and locked behind me.
“The girl?” Brazill asked.
“Just him,” said the henchman who pushed me. “Frankie went down to the lobby to watch for her.”
Play it cool, my inner voice said.
“Hotel management is going to be very annoyed when it finds out you guys—”
I didn’t finish the sentence because the henchman hit me hard in the mouth, driving me to the floor.
That hurt.
While I was on the floor, the henchman searched me thoroughly to make sure I wasn’t armed or wearing a wire. When he finished he said, “Clean.”
“Pick him up,” Brazill said.
The henchman grabbed me by the shoulders and hoisted me onto my feet.
“Where is she?” Brazill asked.
“Who?”
The henchman hit me again, and again I ended up with a face full of carpet.
That hurt, too. Clearly cool isn’t working for you.
“Do I have to ask you again, McKenzie?” Brazill said. “I don’t mind, but Carl’s hand is probably getting sore.”
“No, it’s okay,” Carl said. “I could do this all day.”
“Did you hear that, McKenzie?”
“Yeah.”
Carl pulled me to my feet and tossed me into the straight-back desk chair that I had propped against the door handle the night before. It was made of carved wood and wasn’t very comfortable. I fought the urge to bring my hand up and caress my shoulder, which hurt just a tad more than my face.
“Where … is … she?” Brazill asked.
“I … don’t … know.”
Brazill shook his head. Carl cocked his fist as if that were a signal to punch me again. I brought my arm up to fend him off. I spoke quickly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t. She dropped me off and drove away. I don’t know where. We thought it would be safer if I didn’t know.”
Brazill rolled off the bed and found a corner to sit on. He glanced at Chandler, who had turned off his phone and stuffed it into his pocket.
“He thinks he’s clever,” Brazill said.
Chandler shrugged in reply.
“Did Christine tell you why I’m looking for her?” Brazill said.
“Something about $680,000.”
“To be precise, $683,240.”
“She only gave me a round number.”
Carl smacked the back of my head with the flat of his hand.
“C’mon,” I said.
“Speak respectfully,” Carl said.
“The money is only part of it,” Brazill said. “There’s a lot more to it than that.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Christine tell you?”
I tried to look confused. It wasn’t hard; confusion was my natural state of mind.
“She said—she said she’d be willing to pay the money back,” I said. “With interest. She doesn’t want to run anymore. She said she’s tired of running.”
“Too bad for her.”
“Brazill—”
Carl slapped me again.
“That’s Mr. Brazill to you.”
“Mr. Brazill, what do you want?”
“What do I want? After fifteen years? I want her head”—I waited for him to say “on a plate”; instead he finished with the words “in my lap. You know, I never touched her while we were working together. Not once. It would have been unprofessional. But after what she did—the contract in North Carolina that I made with the Outfit went unfulfilled because she left. My superiors were very annoyed. I lost several other contracts after that because I couldn’t find a woman with the proper skill set to take Christine’s place. The Outfit shut me down. I went from a top earner to middle management just like that.”
You know what? my inner voice said. This is going to work.
“All good things must come to an end,” I said aloud.
Instead of using the flat of his hand, Carl used his fist, this time connecting just below my ear. It shook me off the chair onto my knees. I didn’t need to pretend that they were beating me into submission.
“Do you want those to be your last words?” Brazill said. “Is that what you want carved on your tombstone?”
Carl used my collar to drag me back onto the chair.
“The money,” I said. “We can make a deal.”
“Deal? You think I drove all the way to this bodunk town to make a deal with you? I might make a deal with her, but not with you, McKenzie. With you I’m offering a trade. Christine Olson for Nina Truhler.”
My heart skipped several beats. I sounded out of breath when I asked, “You have Nina?”
Brazill laughed.
“No,” he said. “That would be kidnapping. A federal crime, and me with no desire whatsoever to get involved with the Feds. I know where she lives, though, when she’s not staying with your cop friend and his wife and daughters. I know where she works. I even know where her daughter’s apartment is in New Orleans. The Outfit has people down there. It would be an easy matter to reach out to them. But let’s concentrate on Nina, for now. You have good people watching over her, McKenzie. How long is that going to last, though, hmm? How long can you afford to guard her day and night? How long will she let you? I’ve spent fifteen years chasing Christine. Do you have that kind of patience?”
I made a show of anger. Brazill would expect anger, I told myself.
“If you touch her—”
“What? Are you threatening me? Well, are you?”
I glanced up at Carl, who was sneering, and at Chandler, who looked like he was waiting for a bus. I altered my expression from anger to fear.
“No,” I said.
“You’re not as dumb as you look. McKenzie, you’re trying to be a gentleman; I can see that. It fits your reputation. Yes, I know who you are. But do you know who Christine is? Did she tell you about the archbishop she seduced in St. Louis? How about the woman who ran a homeless shelter in Philadelphia who just wouldn’t be a sport and move a lousy two blocks? Christine is not a good person, McKenzie. She’s not deserving of your loyalty. Even if she was, are you willing to trade Nina Truhler for her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? McKenzie, this should be an easy choice to make. Or did she turn you just like she did all those other marks, make you her bitch? I notice there’s only one bed in this room.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like?”
“You don’t understand. I was just trying to do C
hristine a favor. Someone was sabotaging her business, Salsa Girl Salsa.”
“We know all about that now. What she did with her life after she ran out on me. Erin Peterson—what a name.”
“It turned out to be her partner who was messing with her. He was using Christine’s business to mule heroin up from Mexico. It was sold on the streets of St. Paul, well, throughout the Twin Cities, I guess, by a man named Alejandro Reyes.”
“How much heroin?” Chandler asked.
Brazill looked at him as if he were speaking out of turn yet said nothing
“At least four keys a week,” I said. “Probably Reyes could have sold a great deal more, but he was trying to maintain a low-profile operation. His competitors are the Red Dragons, and they have a corner on the OxyContin market. Reyes doesn’t have the numbers to go up against them.”
“What’s the grade?”
“Pure white.”
“So we’re talking approximately seventy G’s a week; about three-point-six million a year.”
“Closer to four million, I think.”
“You’re saying that Christine didn’t know anything about this, the heroin?” Brazill said.
“No, it was all her business partner.”
“Business partner,” he repeated slowly.
“Junior partner. Punk named Randy Bignell-Sax. Erin was using him as a front. She didn’t want any part of his side job. She made much more than that selling salsa.”
“How much more?” Chandler asked.
“I heard the number six million.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” Brazill said.
“Just wondering if there’s a way to make a profit from all of this.”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“What profit?” I said. “I shut down the pipeline, told Reyes he’d have to find another way to ship his H. Besides, the Outfit doesn’t have a presence in the Twin Cities or anywhere else in Minnesota. Not since they put Kid Cann away something like, what, sixty years ago?”
Chandler leaned close to his employer’s ear, although I could hear his whisper anyway.
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