Shadow Girl
Page 20
“I want to stop at Sampson’s Bar.”
“Okay,” Afton said. “Just as long as we don’t have to actually eat there.”
Sampson’s was a dive bar on Lyndale Avenue. The kitchen hadn’t passed inspection by the Board of Health since 1995, the floor was sticky from sixty years of spilled drinks, and a bunch of lowlifes hung out at the bar. The menu at Sampson’s was dependent on a microwave oven and a refrigerator full of prepackaged sandwiches. The kind you bought and heated up yourself at an all-night gas station.
Max pulled up in front of Sampson’s Bar, parked in the handicapped zone, and threw a card that said OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS on his dashboard.
“We’re going to talk to your friend?” Afton asked.
“The Scrounger,” Max said.
“You think he’s here?”
“He’s always here.”
34
THE interior of Sampson’s was darker than a Kentucky coal mine. Definitely well below the regulation lumens required by the liquor licensing board. Still, Afton was able to make out the studded red plastic lamps dangling on bare cords over the bar, the cat-urine-yellow carpeting, and the half dozen temporarily unemployed men who were slumped over their refreshing afternoon beverages.
Max gave the bar a once-over and headed for the dining room. This somewhat improved part of Sampson’s consisted of a few Formica tables, a bandstand with an old Mendini drum set, and an unattended pull-tab booth that was shrouded with chicken wire.
Seated at one of the tables watching an episode of The Jerry Springer Show and sipping an amber-colored drink was Max’s friend The Scrounger. He spotted them immediately and tipped his drink toward them. “If it isn’t Minneapolis’s version of Starsky and Hutch. How do.”
Afton and Max sat down at The Scrounger’s table. They’d done this before.
“Got something for you,” Max said.
“Oh, yeah?” The Scrounger’s eyes were pinpricks of intensity. He wore a jean jacket with frayed holes at the elbows, brown workman’s pants, and Red Wing steel-toed boots. His ginger-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he had a scruffy beard. Afton thought he could pass for either a stoner or somebody whose poetry had just been published by the Des Moines Writer’s Workshop.
The Scrounger lived in a dilapidated duplex in Minneapolis’s Wedge neighborhood and made a living scrounging. That is, he drove up and down alleys in his beat-up Ford pickup looking for stuff. Stuff being anything remotely useful that someone had thrown out. The Scrounger preferred metals such as aluminum, brass, copper, and steel, since those could go directly to the metal recycling plant on Washington Avenue North and he could earn between a dollar and a dollar forty-eight per pound. Of course, he wasn’t averse to picking up lamps, mattresses, chairs, and sofas. These he hauled to a self-storage locker out on Highway 55 where impromptu (also known as illegal) flea markets were staged.
“So whatcha got cookin’?” The Scrounger asked.
“I’d like you to do surveillance on a girl,” Max said.
“Ah.” The Scrounger leaned back in his chair. “A covert operation.”
“Something like that.”
He smiled at Afton. “Are we investigating a friend of yours? Perhaps an attractive young woman who’s been stepping out on her husband? Some of those Edina ladies are plenty frisky.” Edina was one of Minneapolis’s wealthier suburbs.
“Nice try,” Afton said. “But I’m not from Edina.”
“With your good looks you should be,” he said, his voice silky smooth.
“Cut the crap,” Max said. “This is some serious shit here.”
“I’m with you, man.” The Scrounger pulled an unfiltered Camel cigarette out of a pack and twiddled it between his fingers. “So what’s up?”
“You heard about that helicopter crash?” Afton asked. “At the U?”
“Sure. Hell yes.”
“Okay, then.” Afton gave him the three-minute Cliffs Notes version of what they’d been dealing with.
When she’d finished, The Scrounger said, “So you said a woman. Are you asking me to tag after that guy Odin’s widow?”
“No,” Afton said. “It’s someone else who’s peripherally involved.”
“You have a photo?” The Scrounger asked.
Max grabbed the remote control and turned the TV channel to the Diamond Shopping Network. There, up on the flat-screen, was Fan Ling. She was sitting on a pink chair behind a glass table, smiling sweetly at the camera while she hocked women’s gold wristwatches.
“Oh, that chick.” The Scrounger nodded to himself as he grabbed a handful of raw peanuts from a bowl and popped them into his mouth. “Sure, I know who she is.”
“Good,” Max said. “Then you won’t have any trouble tailing her.” He opened his wallet and placed four twenty-dollar bills on the table. They disappeared faster than a white dove in David Copperfield’s opening act. “Okay, then, we’re set.”
But The Scrounger was still staring at the TV screen, looking almost mesmerized as he chewed his peanuts. “You know, I bought a food processor from that chick a few months back.” He tilted back lazily in his chair. “Hell of a thing.”
• • •
WHILE Afton and Max were communing with The Scrounger, Hack and Narong were glued to a small TV set, too. The discovery of the bodies out in Prior Lake was all over the twelve o’clock news.
“Damn it,” Hack said. “I thought for sure the pigs would make fast work of those guys and there wouldn’t be nothin’ left. Maybe just a few bones or unpalatable bits. Like . . . knuckles or something. Teeth.”
“This is trouble?” Narong asked. They were both functioning in a slight haze even though it was late morning.
Hack considered this. “Oh, probably not.”
They watched some more, then a commercial for Tide came on, so they clicked over to Channel 7. More coverage. This time there was shaky camera work that showed a beautiful blond woman in a red blazer as she ran toward the hog pen waving a microphone.
“Good-looking chick,” Hack said. He’d always considered himself a connoisseur of women.
“Look, look!” Narong cried suddenly. The station was showing footage of a slim woman turning away from the camera, her right hand thrown up in a don’t-film-me gesture. “You see that woman who is trying to run away? That is the woman policeman who chased me the other night. That is the exact woman!” He was red-faced and angry, spitting out his words, his dark hair practically standing up on end.
Hack peered at the footage. She didn’t look like any kind of cop he’d ever seen, but you never could tell. What she did look like was athletic, defiant, and fairly intense. He studied her image. He liked intense.
“That woman,” Narong said. “My feeling is . . . she is some kind of evil spirit.”
“Take it easy, she’s just some random chick.”
“No,” Narong said, touching a hand to his chest. “I can feel her thinking about me, crouching in the shadows to come after me. That’s why we must find her first and kill her.”
“Chill, buddy, we got to stick with the program.”
But Narong was insistent. “No, you must help me find this woman so I can kill her. So I can slit her throat. You must do this for me so I can have my peace.”
Hack handed Narong a can of Red Bull and said, “Let me think about it.”
35
I’M so sick of driving back and forth to this place, I’m ready to start popping Dramamine tablets,” Max said. They’d just made the turn off the freeway and were headed for Diamond Shopping Network’s headquarters.
“I hear you,” Afton said. “Still, we’re lucky that Thacker managed to line up those dogs.”
Max gave an unintelligible grunt.
“Maybe we’ll find something. Maybe you can close your case.”
“You mean our case. You have just as much stake in this as I do.”
“I appreciate the sentiment. In fact, I’m a little dumbfounded that Thacker’s let me tail
you around as much as he has.”
“He likes you and he trusts you.”
“And he’s overextended right now with the Harrison killing, the robbery at the new stadium, and the fact that a gang of Eastern European jackholes installed skimmers in the pumps at a chain of H&R gas stations.”
“There’s that, yeah.”
“But he’s never going to wave his magic wand and make me a detective.”
“What do I keep telling you?” Max said. “Ya gotta follow protocol. These things don’t just happen overnight.”
“No,” Afton muttered. “Only bad things happen at night.”
“Ah,” Max lifted a hand off the steering wheel and gave a dismissive wave. “So have you been playing Spider-Woman lately?”
“I had planned to head down to Winona and climb Sugar Loaf, but with this arm . . . I think that’s going to have to wait a few weeks.” Afton wasn’t one bit picky when it came to climbing. She enjoyed rock climbing, bouldering, and even hacking her way up the occasional frozen waterfall.
“I’ve heard about that thing in Winona,” Max said. “It’s up on a bluff? Supposed to look like a miniature Devils Tower?”
“The bluff is about five hundred feet above the Mississippi River, and then the limestone rock pinnacle is another eighty-five feet. Not so tall.”
“Are you serious? That’d scare the shit out of me.”
“Actually,” Afton said, “that kind of climbing is more a mental exercise in serenity.”
• • •
THE drug-sniffing dogs were waiting for them when they pulled up in front of Diamond Shopping Network’s headquarters. Two black-and-tan German shepherds, along with their handler, a guy named Dan Ritter who looked like he could be a rugged, outdoorsy model for the L.L. Bean catalog.
“Thanks for helping out,” Max said, once they’d all introduced themselves.
“Not a problem,” Ritter said. “The dogs always love a good search. It helps keep them on their toes.”
One of the dogs stuck his neck out to sniff Afton’s outstretched hand. “And who is this?” she asked.
“That’s Stryker,” Ritter said. “And the other one is Shiloh, a female.”
“Nice dogs,” Max said.
Stryker continued to sniff Afton’s hand. Then the dog’s eyes flicked up to connect with hers and the hard intelligence that shone in them made it feel as if Stryker’s brain was doing a very careful assessment. Afton decided this was the kind of dog that probably would have enjoyed working for the Nazis. A dog that was all teeth and business with very little emotional need to please his master.
They all trooped inside, where Angus Wagner, looking nervous and distraught, met them in the reception area. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said. “Mr. Barber murdered as well? This is just unbelievable.”
“You have our condolences,” Afton said, handing him one of her business cards for the second time. “If you need me to help answer any questions or run interference . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Wagner said, practically blinking back tears. “You know, our employees are absolutely terrified. We’ve had more people call in sick today than ever before. I guess most of them saw the news this morning.” He looked pointedly at Afton.
“And you’ve increased your security?” Max asked.
“Of course.”
This time they didn’t bother to sign in. Rather, Wagner led them hurriedly down a long hallway, through two sets of locked doors, and into the large DSN warehouse. The place was humming with activity. Workers holding mobile devices buzzed up and down aisles, pushing hand trucks and utility carts. Forklifts hoisted pallets that were stacked high with cardboard boxes.
“A lot of our merchandise is drop-shipped,” Wagner explained. “In other words, when a customer orders from us, we send their order on to the manufacturer or, in some cases, the wholesaler. Then it’s shipped out from there. But as you can see, DSN warehouses a huge amount of our merchandise right here on premises.”
“And you ship it out from here?” Afton asked. “I mean, to your customers?” Stryker’s ears were pitched forward, listening to every word that was said. She felt like the dog was following the conversation.
“That’s right,” Wagner said.
“So if you have shipping then you also have receiving,” Afton said.
“I guess that’s why you brought the dogs out, huh?” Wagner said.
“We believe there’s a possibility that Mr. Odin and Mr. Barber were murdered over drugs,” Max said.
“And you think you might find drugs here?” Wagner sounded incredulous, as if he could barely entertain the possibility. “That someone shipped drugs to us?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Max said.
“It’d be good if you cleared your people out of here,” Ritter said. “The dogs function much better without a lot of distractions.”
Wagner nodded. “Yes, we told our warehouse people they could expect a fairly lengthy break.”
Ritter pulled a red rubber ball from the pocket of his vest and waved it around. Instantly, both dogs came to attention and focused on the ball.
“This is their cue,” Ritter said. “The dogs see this and they know they’ll receive a fun reward for all their hard work. Okay.” Now he focused on the dogs. “Search.” He led Stryker and Shiloh down one of the aisles, their harnesses and leashes jingling. The dogs walked along slowly, heads held low, moving in a fluid motion, noses fairly twitching. Afton, Max, and Wagner followed well behind them.
Ritter and the dogs walked along, the dogs sniffing and occasionally stopping. When they finished one aisle, they turned and then went down a second aisle.
“This could take a while, huh?” Wagner asked.
“Give it a chance,” Afton said. She was keeping her fingers crossed.
“The thing is,” Wagner said, “I have a meeting with Mr. Steckel, our corporate attorney. I guess you could call it an emergency meeting.”
Twenty minutes went by, then thirty, then forty. The dogs continued to cruise up and down the aisles. By now Wagner was repeatedly glancing at his watch, looking more than a little impatient.
“Maybe the place is clean,” Max said.
“Of course it’s clean,” Wagner said. “DSN is a reputable business. There are no drugs here.”
Then Shiloh stopped. And Stryker stopped right beside her. They sniffed, then sniffed again, looking more than a little excited. Shiloh looked directly at Ritter and whined.
“Got something,” Max said under his breath.
“Impossible,” Wagner said.
“We got a hit,” Ritter called out. “Can you get some of your workers to come over here and”—he gestured with his hands—“pull open these boxes?”
Wagner motioned to a group of men who were standing way at the end of the building. “Bobby? Jose? Could you please come over here and lend a hand?”
Bobby and Jose came over and pulled out an enormous wooden crate. Then Jose bent forward and slipped a crowbar under a wooden strut, bent into it, and popped the entire top of the box off.
The dogs whirled about in a frenzied circle until Ritter pulled them away.
“I don’t believe it,” Wagner said.
Afton and Max edged closer and slipped on latex gloves.
“Take care, now,” Max cautioned. They scooped out handfuls of white foam peanuts. Below the peanuts lay a thick sheet of cardboard. That was lifted out to reveal more peanuts. They scooped again until a yellowed hunk of plastic appeared. “Got something here,” Max said. Everybody leaned in while Max pulled out the top item that was carefully wrapped in plastic.
“What is it?” Afton asked.
“Looks like . . .” He peeled back the plastic gingerly. “A pair of leather sandals.”
“Got some freeloaders in there,” Ritter said. He’d moved back to check out the box.
“What?” Afton said. She didn’t catch his meaning at first.
“Bugs,” Ritter sai
d. “You see those little uglies crawling around inside? Probably roaches. Or maybe even beetles.”
Afton saw a scurrying movement and took a giant step backward. Bugs were not her friends. But Bobby and Jose moved in closer.
“Bugs,” Jose said. “We get that sometimes.”
“Here?” Wagner said. He seemed offended.
“Oh, yeah,” Jose said. “Most of the time the shipments of clothes or whatever have been sprayed down with formaldehyde. But when they’re not . . .” He made a face.
“At least the dogs got some practice in,” Ritter said. He pulled two rubber balls from his pocket and tossed one to each dog. “Good dogs. Good job.” Tails wagging, each dog caught a ball in its mouth like a trained circus seal.
“When cartons are shipped from a warm, moist climate,” Ritter continued, “you find all sorts of insect life nesting in the foam pellets and cardboard. Heck, they even dine out on the cardboard. Makes that ocean crossing so much more enjoyable.”
“You see this all the time?” Afton asked.
“Lots of times,” Ritter said.
Jose nodded. “Us, too.”
“So we got nothin’,” Max said, turning away, disappointment evident on his face.
“You got bugs.” Ritter leaned down and gave Stryker a pat on the shoulder. “Good dog.” Stryker was already over the red ball. Now he just looked bored.
• • •
BACK in the car, Max said, “At least we gave it a shot.”
“Maybe it’s not drugs,” Afton said.
“Then what could it be?”
Afton gazed out the window as they whipped past a line of bare trees. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
36
HACK and Narong walked into Louie’s Liquor Lounge, directly across the street from the Gemini Truck Terminal in Roseville, just north of Saint Paul.
Louie’s was your classic trucker dive bar, a plain brick façade with no real windows to speak of and a neon sign that had its letters stacked vertically so it was difficult to read without cocking your head.
Whatever. Inside, the place was dark and discreet and nobody much wanted to poke their nose into anybody else’s business. A ratty pool table sat in the corner, but nobody was playing. A hot dog grill sat on the bar but the dogs looked dry and unappetizing, like they’d been cooking for a week.