Afton shrugged out of her coat. “How are the kids?”
“I fed ’em, read to them, and then tucked them into bed,” Lish said. She was like a second mom to the girls, and they dearly loved their aunt Lish. She could whip up a mean pepperoni pizza, had taught the kids how to line dance, and loved to sprawl on the floor with them and play board games. Lish worked a short shift as a medical reporting analyst at CareView Medical, so she was always there when the kids came home from school.
“Did you tell them what happened? That I got cut and had to have stitches?”
“Uh, no,” Lish said, cocking her head to one side. “I thought you might want to tell them about that yourself. You know, about how stupid and impulsive you were? Or maybe you want to sugarcoat it and make it sound like an exciting war story.”
“I think I’ll just play it straight,” Afton said. “Anyway, thanks for waiting up.” It was getting late and she could hear Jimmy Fallon cackling away in the next room making some sort of joke about the Kardashians.
“I just finished watching the news.” Lish finally smiled. “It’s always a relief when I don’t see your face on Newswatch Seven.”
“I did my best to score some face time tonight. But no such luck.”
“Max said you chased this guy right through campus?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Lish’s brows knit together. “What were you thinking? Never mind—I know exactly what you were thinking. But you can’t do that sort of stupid stuff. You’ve got responsibilities. And not nearly enough life insurance.” She paused. “So how bad is the arm?”
Afton slid up her sleeve to reveal her bandage. “Not too bad.”
“Hurts though?”
“Hardly at all.” Her arm was throbbing as if somebody were sitting inside and wailing away on a big bass drum. “But I’m tired.”
“You want a glass of wine? I opened a bottle of that rosé that the ladies in your book club were raving about.”
In response, Afton pulled an amber vial from her pocket and rattled the pills.
“Oh. Guess not.”
The phone in the kitchen suddenly rang.
“I’ll get it,” Afton said. She limped in, picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“This is Steve Lynch from the Minneapolis Courier,” came an eager voice. “Is it true you were just involved in . . . ?”
Afton dropped the phone back on the hook. “If it rings again, don’t answer it,” she told Lish.
Lish nodded. “Got it.”
Lish fussed around downstairs, turning off the TV and shutting off lights, while Afton started up the stairs. Five steps from the top she saw a pair of shiny eyes peering out of the dark at her. Bonaparte.
“Hey, buddy,” Afton said. Bonaparte was a French bulldog she’d helped rescue this past winter after he’d been dumped down a steep embankment on the Mississippi. Bonaparte wagged his tail and stretched his squarish head out, eager for a scratch, and his ears flicked forward, huge and alert. Afton obliged. “You’re a good little guy, aren’t you?” she said. Bonaparte was doing his little prance dance now, looking like a circus dog dressed in a black-and-white fur tuxedo.
A door snicked open, then a little voice called out, “Mommy?”
“It’s me, honey,” Afton replied. “I’m home now.” Tess, her ten-year-old, had crawled out of bed and was creeping down the hallway to greet her. Her long blond hair was pinned up and she wore a long sleep shirt along with a curious, almost adult expression. Two more years and she’d be a heartbreaker. “But keep your voice down; we don’t want to wake your sister.”
“I’m awake,” a sleepy voice called. Now Poppy, her six-year-old, was toddling toward her, a miniature version of Tess, looking adorable in her terry cloth jammies.
Afton grabbed both girls and pulled them into a tight embrace. “Hey, kids. I’m sorry to be so late.”
Poppy stared at her with big eyes. “Did you have to work late?”
But Tess wasn’t so gullible. “I heard Aunt Lish talking to somebody on the phone,” she said. “Did you get hurt?”
“You got hurt?” Poppy’s voice rose in fear.
Afton squeezed her kids again. “No, no, just a scratch. Nothing to worry about. It’s kind of like when you fall off your bike or scooter.”
“What happened?” Tess asked. She was wide-awake now and wanted answers. Would probably demand answers.
“You know that part of my job is to help catch bad guys, right?” Afton asked.
They both nodded solemnly. They’d had this talk before.
“Sometimes the bad guys don’t want to be caught, so you have to chase after them.”
“Did you chase him and catch him?” Poppy asked.
Afton hesitated. She tried never to lie to her kids. “No, not exactly. Tonight the bad guy got away.”
“So you didn’t lock him up in jail?” Tess asked.
“Not yet.”
“What if he tries to find you?” Poppy asked.
Afton gripped both girls tighter. “That’s not going to happen. The bad guy doesn’t even know who I am or where I live.”
Tess put a hand to her chest and gave a theatrical sigh. “Thank goodness.”
“Now you guys crawl back into bed, okay?” Afton nodded at Bonaparte. “Bonaparte, you’re on dream duty. I want you to chase away any bad dreams and make sure that Poppy and Tess only have sweet dreams tonight.”
Bonaparte gave a little bark and wagged his tail so hard his entire back end shook.
“Atta boy,” Afton said.
“Mommy,” Tess said, “are we still taking Bonaparte to the dog walk on Sunday?”
Afton tilted her head as if deep in thought. “Well, let me think about that.” Poppy and Tess had been collecting pledges for the Furry Friends Animal Shelter and were looking forward to taking Bonaparte to their Jog Your Dog event. “I think . . . yes!”
• • •
TEN minutes later, Afton was snuggled under a puffy down coverlet. As she lay in the dark, trying to relax and drift off to sleep, her mind kept skittering back haphazardly to some of the crazier times in her life. Her wild college days, dropping out and then bumming around as an adventure guide and rock climber, two boyfriends that both became ex-husbands before she’d turned thirty.
Yeah, her dad had warned her (he was always quick to warn) that she was throwing her life away when she’d married Chad, ex-husband number one. And he’d been both right and wrong in his pronouncement. He was right because Chad had turned out to be a lazy, self-centered slug, whose idea of a good time was drinking beer and racing his truck. And wrong because out of that marriage had come Poppy and Tess.
Thinking about her sweet girls, Afton fell asleep with a smile on her face. But as she tumbled deeper and deeper into sleep, her dreams grew troubled. Until finally she dreamt of an Asian man with lightning-fast hands and a razor-sharp knife.
17
JAY Barber needed to clear his head. Had to escape his house before he lost his freaking mind. Before his wife, Shelly, started asking too many questions. Which explained why he was jogging around Lake Harriet at 6:00 A.M., shivering his ass off as a thin ray of sunlight peeped over the horizon.
He’d received the call from Sunny at four fifteen this morning. The briiing of the phone slicing through his REM sleep and giving his heart one hell of a nasty jolt. Then Sunny was on the line, babbling wildly about how some maniac had snuck into Odin’s hospital room last night and slit his throat.
That did it for Barber. No more sleep for him. Odin butchered like a pig in a slaughterhouse? Even though he’d been parked in a luxury suite in a major hospital? Jay had immediately called Bob Steckel and set up an emergency meeting for ten o’clock at DSN. Said all the empathic things a shocked business partner might be expected to say.
Except Barber wasn’t just shocked, he was scared shitless. He knew about the hijacked drugs. Had figured that, when the helicopter was shot down, someone was sending Odin a very clear and distin
ct message.
Odin. Sweet Jesus. The old fart had gotten crazier and crazier over the last couple of years. The dope and the women and all that other stuff. No wonder he’d needed a new ticker. And this last hijacking—holy crap! When Odin had told him about it, whispered it to him only a matter of weeks ago, Barber had just about burst a blood vessel. This wasn’t the business they were supposed to be in. This was the kind of dangerous crap that Chinese triads and South American cartels got involved in.
And now Odin was dead, killed by an unknown assassin. Probably the same one who’d taken down the helicopter.
Barber knew he’d been dealt a dirty hand. Now he was the one who was left to clean up the mess. Barber might have some ideas about that, of course. But first . . . first he had to quell the fear that rose like dirty bubbles in his brain and try to think.
His feet slapped loudly on the deserted jogging path as he ran along halfheartedly, the cell phone he’d clipped on the inside of his sweatshirt pocket poking into his ribs. A thin mist had settled over the middle of the lake, giving it an ethereal feel. Like some kind of ominous, creeping fog out of a Stephen King novel.
There were questions he had to figure out. How much did Sunny know about Odin’s deal? Did she know anything at all? How exactly could he unload the merchandise—and how fast? And, most important, was he in mortal danger? Would these maniacs, whoever they were, come after him?
Barber figured they might, and he made a mental note to hire a personal security detail ASAP. Like, really good security guys who packed serious weapons and weren’t afraid to use them.
As Barber jogged along he also thought about the money. Couldn’t help it. There was so much to be gained if he played this just right. There was the sale of the merchandise, of course. The key-partner insurance that would come his way now that Odin was dead. And the enormous profit he’d reap if he convinced the board—and it wouldn’t be so very difficult—to sell Diamond Shopping Network to Consolidated or the Saudi company.
Maybe the best thing to do would be to cash out completely. Barber took a gulp of air as he rounded the turn by the bandstand and let his fantasy run a little wild. Leave the wife, who’d become a pain in the ass anyway, move to Bora Bora, wear a loincloth, and walk the beach. Drink tropical drinks and make love to island women. Probably not a bad way to live. Not much stress.
On the other hand, there were glittering, cosmopolitan cities where he could live in unfettered luxury: London, Paris, Rio, Dubai.
Luxury. Somehow luxury sounded far more inviting than primitive hedonism. Good. That was one decision nailed down. Now all he had to do was . . .
Something small and sharp slapped him hard in the back of his neck.
Shocked by the ferocity of the sting, Barber stumbled, his arms windmilling out to his sides. Then he caught himself and regained his stride, but just barely. What the hell was that? A hornet? Had he just been stung by a damn hornet?
Barber slowed to a shambling pace, feeling angry, out of sorts, and a little light-headed. Before he could think what to do—go home and swallow a Benadryl?—there was another sharp stab in the back of his right thigh.
What the hell is this?
Now he felt as if he were moving in slow motion, picking his way through molasses, his vision and hearing all going a little bit woozy.
He reached back reflexively to touch his thigh and his fumbling fingers felt a sticklike thing, what his reeling mind suddenly realized must be a tiny dart, hanging off him.
Barber staggered off the path and onto the still-damp grass, heading for a dense copse of poplars and fir trees. The limbic portion of his brain, the part that controlled the fight-or-flight response, was beeping out a warning signal, telling him he had to get out of sight and hunker down. That danger was imminent. But as his knees wobbled, as his steps became a jittering shuffle, he began to collapse. He flailed wildly for a few moments, hoping to somehow recover, but the ground was suddenly rushing up at him way too quickly. His chin struck the turf with a molar-shattering impact and he felt a distinct pop in his nose. Barber groaned in pain and tried to roll himself over even as his mouth filled with blood. As he shifted onto his left shoulder, spitting blood and a hunk of broken tooth, almost retching from the pain, his eyes fluttered open.
Two men peered down as him.
Barber blinked, his eyes goggling as he tried desperately to pull everything into focus. He stared up at them, his lips working soundlessly until he finally managing a garbled “Gugh?” One man was a serious-looking Asian with a blue snake tattoo that was visible on his neck just above his black windbreaker. The other was a tough-looking hillbilly wearing a camouflaged army jacket and missing a front tooth.
“Say now,” Hack said. He pulled a thin piece of wire out of his jacket pocket and slipped it around Barber’s neck. Caught him, like a rabbit in a snare.
Then the two men got their hands under Barber and carried him awkwardly across the uneven ground. Barber’s feet paddled helplessly as if they had a mind of their own and still hoped to make a belated getaway. Then one toe stubbed on a tree root and his running shoe went flying off. And even though Barber’s eyes were still open, his wonked-out brain still trying to puzzle out what was happening to him, he didn’t seem to feel a thing when they tossed him into the back of a cargo van. Then the door rolled shut and he descended into complete unconsciousness.
• • •
HACK drove with Narong riding shotgun. They sped down Lake Harriet Boulevard, cut over on Thirty-ninth Street, and then rounded the east side of Lake Calhoun. There was a chain of four lakes that ran right up the gut of Minneapolis: Cedar, Isles, Calhoun, and Harriet. They were hooked together by narrow waterways, bridges, and trails; rimmed with beautiful parkland; and mostly lined with expensive homes. The vision of all these splendid homes reminded Hack of Superior Street back in Duluth, just past the old Fitger’s Brewhouse. There were fancy mansions up there, too. Like Glensheen Mansion, where old lady Congdon had been smothered to death. Now the University of Minnesota owned Glensheen and led tours through the place, all the visitors ponying up their thirty-five dollars to look for restless, wandering spirits, though UMD tour guides always seemed to downplay that particular part of the mansion’s heritage. Still, he’d taken the tour himself and really grooved on the place. Especially the old lady’s bedroom, where she’d died.
“Slick as shit through a goose,” Hack said gleefully as they turned down Hennepin Avenue to join the early birds who were grinding their way through early morning rush hour traffic. One lane was closed up ahead because of perpetual road construction around Loring Park. “We really pulled this off.”
Hack was fairly crowing as he drove along, pleased with himself, pleased at how well things had worked out with Barber. Unlike Narong, who’d screwed the pooch last night, he’d engineered this morning’s capture to go off without a hitch.
Narong, on the other hand, was beginning to suspect that Hack was crazy. Or maybe even possessed by demons. Thailand was populated by Buddhists and Hindus, but most everyone still clung to the old legends that were passed down. And the demons in those legends, like the ten-faced Thotsakan or his brother, Kumphakan, were not to be trifled with. Perhaps it would be prudent to wear an amulet for protection.
“How’s he doing back there?” Hack asked. Every once in a while they heard a dull, metallic thump coming from the back of the van. It wouldn’t pay to have Barber wake up and start banging around in a drug-addled stupor. You stop at a red light, you never know what nosy person might hear a suspicious clunk or thunk. Everybody was paranoid these days, ready to point a finger and call the cops.
“He’s fine,” Narong said. “Still sleeping.”
“He’s not sleeping, he’s out, man. He’s, like, unconscious,” Hack said. “You practically gorked him with that dart. What the hell drug was that anyway? Maybe I should get me some.”
Narong glanced over at Hack, who was driving one-handed now while he pulled a twist of foil from the pocket
of his jeans. When they stopped at a red light, Hack unwrapped it, bent his head forward, and snorted a tiny mound of coke from the foil packet. “Whoo-ee, this is good stuff,” he said, his voice going high and reedy. “You want a toot? I got another twist here someplace.”
Holding up his hand to wave off the offer, Narong smiled to himself. There was still more work to be done. He needed to prove himself to Mom Chao Cherry. But that would happen; he was quite sure of it. All he needed to do was sharpen his knife and refine his interrogation technique.
18
YOU’RE not supposed to be here.” Max scowled at Afton. It was Thursday morning, forty minutes before Thacker’s big emergency meeting was scheduled to start. Everybody in Homicide was walking on eggshells, shoulders hunched all the way up to their ears, feeling the pressure. They’d already been briefed about last night.
Now Afton’s presence seemed to ratchet up the pressure even more.
“I had to come in and do the Identi-Kit,” Afton said. “Remember?”
“So do it.” Max was sitting at one of the communal desks in Homicide, making scratches on a yellow notepad. Those notes would be added to a large binder Afton had been keeping on the Odin case. Max preferred to work old-school, with yellow pads and rollerball pens. Computers were great for accessing databases and doing all sorts of research, but paper notes were easier for him to sort through. Easier to keep straight in his head.
“I already worked on the sketch,” Afton said. “We should have laser copies by the time the meeting starts.”
Max aimed a finger at her. “You’re not coming to that meeting. If you showed up, Thacker would shit a brick.”
“I have to come.”
“Why? Everybody already knows about your chasing the guy, about how you got cut.”
“Maybe I can give some additional input.”
“You’re killing me,” Max said. “You know that?”
Afton slapped a hand against his shoulder. “Come on, you know you love it.”
“Aw, jeez . . .” Max made another note, threw down his pen. “So how’s the arm?”
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