“The sun’s about ready to set over the yardarm,” Hack said. “So we might as well hoist one.”
“We drink again?” Narong asked. He was beginning to think that, besides the frequent drug use, Hack might be an alcoholic.
“It’s the friendly thing to do,” Hack said. “Just until Bowser shows up.”
“That is his name? Bowser?”
“His name’s Matt Bowser. We used to work together at the Duluth Seaway Port Authority. Until he got fired anyway.” The waitress came by and Hack said, “Two whiskies.” Then to Narong: “You really have to be a screw-up to get fired from a job on the docks.”
Narong smiled. “In Thailand, if people who work on Khlong Toei wharf screw up, we kill them and dump their bodies in the ocean.” Khlong Toei was the critical hub of Thailand’s export economy.
Hack hoisted his glass. “That sounds like a fine solution, my friend. Maybe we should institute that exact same procedure.”
Bowser walked in some ten minutes later, a big guy with frizzled red hair and a bushy beard, wearing a plaid shirt. He and Hack made an elaborate show of slapping hands and bumping knuckles. Then Hack introduced his friend to Narong.
“Pleased to meet you,” Narong said.
Bowser sucked air in through his front teeth. “You’re a polite one, ain’t you?” Then he ambled over to the bar, got himself a longneck, and came back and settled at their table. “Surprised to hear from you,” Bowser said to Hack. “Been busy?”
“Can’t complain,” Hack said. “Same old, same old. Still in Duluth. Of course, I do the occasional freelance job like I mentioned to you on the phone.” He leaned forward. “You still in the paper business?” By paper, Hack meant forged documents.
“Do a little of that now and then,” Bowser said. He was being modest. Bowser had a lock on fake IDs, car registrations, and concert tickets. And should someone want a will changed to reflect a more substantial inheritance, Bowser could handle that, too.
Hack turned to Narong and said, “In case you’re wondering, our friend Bowser used to work at the Foreign-Trade Zone in Duluth.”
“Foreign-Trade Zone,” Narong repeated. “What is . . . ?” Then the lightbulb slowly turned on. “FTZ? Does that mean . . . the same?”
“You got it,” Hack said. “And our pal Bowser’s gonna get us in there, slick as snot.”
“How?” Narong asked.
“You know which FTZ?” Bowser asked Hack.
“Gotta be the Mid-City Industrial Park zone. That’s the most logical. Eagan’s too small and there’s no way they’d ship that shit to the airport. Way too dangerous.”
“There you go,” Bowser said. “All you need is the paperwork and a truck.”
“We got the truck,” Hack said. He turned to Narong. “And Bowser will get us the proper documents.”
Bowser scratched at his beard. “I got a new kid that I been using. He works at a big-time ad agency in downtown Minneapolis, what they call a graphic design firm. He’s a genius with typography and printing. Prints IDs, insurance claims, deeds of sale, even had him print what you’d call your papers of provenance for a painting that this rich dude I know smuggled in from Europe. This designer kid created a bill of sale that looked like it was straight from the eighteenth century. Like some fine English lord had sat at his desk and written it out with a quill pen. My designer used linen paper and stained it with tea to make it look old-timey. Hell of a thing.”
“Was the painting really old?” Hack asked.
“Oh no. Hell no. The paint was barely dry.”
“Your designer sounds like our man,” Hack said. “So what’s this going to cost?”
“Five grand for the kid, thirty grand for me,” Bowser said.
“Steep,” Hack said, even though he knew the old lady would pay it.
Bowser took a sip of beer and a cagey look stole across his face. “And if you’re going to pick up what I think you’re going to pick up, I want a Big Eight for myself.” He meant an eighth of a kilo, or one hundred and twenty-five grams.
“You drive a mighty hard bargain,” Hack said. “But we can make that happen. So when can we get the papers?”
“You give me the basic poop, I’ll have the papers for you first thing tomorrow. I’ve got FTZ documents my guy can work from and he can probably steal DSN’s logo right off their website.”
“This is . . . amazing,” Narong said.
“It’s the American way,” Hack said. “Fake it ’til you make it.”
“And the best thing is,” Bowser continued, “if you hit up the FTZ on a Saturday or Sunday, it’ll be staffed by a bunch of jerk-offs. They don’t just have the B or C team working then; they got the Z team. You just kind of wave your customs forms under their noses and you’re in like Flynn.”
37
FRIDAY night dinner at Afton’s house was a combination of food, jokes, and family togetherness. With no school tomorrow and no homework looming on the horizon, Poppy and Tess were all jacked up about watching a movie. The only question up for debate was—would it be Frozen or Finding Nemo?
“I vote Finding Nemo,” Poppy said. “But this family is a democracy, so everybody gets a vote.” She looked hopefully at Tess and then at Lish, Afton, and Bonaparte. “What do you guys think we should watch?”
Tess glanced across the table at Afton and made a big show of giving a conspiratorial wink. She had become such a good big sister, kind and nurturing. Afton was so proud of her.
“I vote Finding Nemo, too,” Tess said.
Afton bent down and smiled at Bonaparte. “What?” she said. “You want to watch that movie, too?”
Poppy threw her hands up in the air. “Yay! It’s unaminous.”
“Unanimous,” Tess corrected. “But I got dibs on the big chair.”
“Then I get the Spider-Man sleeping bag,” Poppy called out.
• • •
ALL the while Afton was listening to her kids, she was thinking about finding Jay Barber’s body and Leland Odin’s throat being slashed. The black blood had come spurting out like some kind of unholy fountain, reminding her of a passage in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. About how the men had labored on the kill floor all day long, slashing the throats of cattle as they were driven down wooden chutes, bawling loudly, eyes rolling with fear. Just awful.
Any person who could kill like that today, slitting throats and torturing in an impersonal, almost industrial sort of way, had to be completely and utterly deranged. Which meant he should be put in a steel-tempered cage the size of a phone booth and never allowed out. Or maybe someday capital punishment would make a return engagement. Whatever.
Afton was just wiping down the stove when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
It was Max.
“What are you doing right now?” he asked.
“Scraping refried bean crud off the stove. Taco Tuesday was on Friday this week and my kids helped with the cooking.” Afton paused, the cleaning rag in her hand. “Wait, why are you asking me this?”
“Because I’m sitting outside your house.”
“What? Seriously?” Afton’s first impulse was to run to the front window and look out. Instead, her heart beating a little faster, she said, “What’s going on? What happened?”
“Grab your coat, we’re going for a joyride.”
“Come on, Max, I can’t just up and leave my kids. I need to know why. Was there a break in the case?”
“You’re going out?” Lish called from the living room, where the movie had just started.
“Maybe,” Afton called back. “Is that okay with you?”
Lish nodded. The kids were already staring at the screen, captivated by the music and the colorful animation.
“Hey, are you still there?” Max asked.
“Yeah.”
“You know that plainclothes officer we stationed outside Sunny’s house this afternoon?” Max asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“He just called. The daughter, Terrel
l, took off a half hour ago and he followed her.”
Afton had already stepped to the coat closet and was twining a scarf around her neck. “Followed her where?”
“I got the address. It’s a house in Saint Paul that’s owned by a guy named Lester Snell.” He paused. “I’m thinking boyfriend.”
Afton slipped into her coat just as Poppy came running up to her. “Bye, Mommy,” she said. Afton touched her daughter’s head and said into the phone, “If Terrell has a hot date, why is that our concern?”
“Hot date,” Poppy said, smiling.
“Oh, maybe because he lives in what appears to be a crack house over in Frogtown,” Max said. Frogtown was a blue-collar neighborhood near the state capital that was bordered by a tangle of railroad tracks.
“Does this guy have a record? Has he ever been popped?”
“Funny you should ask. Yes, he has. He’s got a fairly long sheet that includes dope and some B&E. Goes by the street name of Mello Snello.”
“I see. That’s his professional name, I take it. So what is Terrell doing with a lowlife like him? I mean, she’s rich. Shouldn’t she be swanning around a fancy country club on the arm of some Yalie or Harvard guy?”
“That’s what weird about this. That’s what we need to find out.”
Afton hung up the phone, bid a quick good-bye to Lish and the kids, and then hurried out to Max’s car and jumped in. “So what’s the deal?” she asked him. “You cruise around on Friday nights like Batman? Looking for evildoers?”
“If you must know, I had a date.”
“You? Had a date?” Afton instantly regretted the surprise that colored her voice.
“Don’t look so surprised. There are still a few women in the northern hemisphere who consider me a fairly decent catch.”
“Well . . .” Afton stopped. She knew Max had a social life, she just didn’t know to what extent. This was a whole new insight into his fairly low-key outside-of-work persona. Maybe this was why he’d asked her about Grecian Formula. She studied the back of his head. Nope, still salt and pepper. Didn’t look like he’d made any major commitment yet. “So you had to cancel it? Your date, I mean?”
“Mmn . . . yup.”
“Is this someone that you’re serious . . . ?”
“How am I supposed to get serious with somebody when I’m out chasing bad guys all the time?” Max said as he gunned the engine and blasted through a yellow light just as it winked red. “And babysitting you.”
• • •
THEY crept down Thomas Street, past a few ramshackle houses that looked as if they were either crack houses or HUD houses that young couples had bought on the cheap and were trying to rehab.
“Another neighborhood in transition,” Afton said. “Lot of that going on these days.”
“The old folks move out and the young folks move in,” Max said. “Or the dope dealers.”
“Young dope dealers,” Afton said. “Don’t need low-interest loans or government mortgages because they’re making a killing selling crack to the neighborhood kids. So. You have a bad feeling about this guy Snell?”
“I don’t exactly have a good feeling.”
Max switched off his lights and eased his car past a dilapidated-looking Victorian home. Paint blistered off its finials, balustrades, and banisters, but the bones of the place looked solid. “There,” he said. “That’s the house.”
Sliding forward in her seat, Afton looked out. A plain brown car, your basic unmarked cop car, sat across the street from a small, story-and-a-half house that was painted slate gray. A rattletrap pickup truck and a silver Mercedes SL550 sat directly in front of the house. Excitement nipped at Afton. “Is that Terrell’s car?” she asked. “The Mercedes?” Afton knew a bit about cars from her ex Mickey. And she knew that particular model of Mercedes probably went for a cool eighty-five grand.
“It’s registered to her, yes,” Max said. “Though I’m guessing she probably didn’t make the payments on it.”
“So what’s a rich girl doing over here?” Afton wondered out loud.
“Frankie,” Max murmured into his phone, “you can take off now, I got this.” There was a burst of static and Max said, “Thanks, but I don’t think we’re gonna need backup. I got my pit bull riding with me.”
“Pit bull? Is that what you think of me?” Afton asked.
“If the shoe fits.”
The brown car started up, the headlights flashed on, and it slid past them in the dark. Max eased his car forward and parked directly behind the Mercedes. “Okay, now.”
Together, Afton and Max walked up the cracked sidewalk and knocked on the front door. They could hear loud music coming from inside. Led Zeppelin wailing away like there was no tomorrow.
“You think they’ll open up?” Afton asked. Terrell struck her as a bossy young woman who did whatever she damn well pleased. If she and her friend were sitting inside sparking up a fat one, they might just ignore whoever was banging at the door.
As if in answer, the front door cracked open and a stringy-haired man stared out at them. “Who are you?” he asked. He was wearing jeans and a torn AC/DC T-shirt and was barefoot. His face was sallow and his eyes barely focused.
Max flipped open his ID.
“Cops,” the man said. “Shit.”
“We’re actually not interested in you,” Afton said. “We’re looking for Terrell.”
“She’s not here,” the man said, just as Terrell yelled, “Who the hell is it, Lester?”
“Looks like she’s here after all,” Afton said.
“Whatever,” the man grunted.
They pushed their way past the half-drunk, definitely high Snell and into the house.
“Holy crap,” Afton said once she was inside. It looked as if Mick and Keith had gone on a drunken rampage and completely trashed the place. “What happened in here?” A lamp, two hassocks, and a dinette chair were overturned and garbage was strewn everywhere: old pizza boxes, newspapers, banana peels, empty jars of peanut butter, candy wrappers, junk mail.
“Makes the backseat of my car look positively neat and tidy,” Max said. “Like I’ve got a serious case of OCD.”
“What do you two want?” Terrell slurred. She was sitting on a crappy-looking couch and had obviously been smoking weed. But from the tone of her voice, she wasn’t one bit mellow. “Did you follow me?” Her eyes goggled at them and her mouth pulled into a snarl. “How dare you. I’m entitled to a personal life, you know!”
“There’s a warrant out on your boyfriend,” Max said.
“Big deal,” Terrell said. Then, curiosity sparking her face, “What for?”
“He’s got a couple of unpaid parking tickets,” Max said.
Terrell snorted. “So bill me.”
Afton smiled at Snell, whom she had pretty much pegged as a sleazeball. “You’re her boyfriend?”
“Gentleman companion?” Max asked with a smirk. “And I use that term loosely.”
Snell shrugged. “Suppose you could call it that.”
“Because if you two are in a committed relationship, then we missed your shining presence at the funeral this morning,” Afton said to Snell.
“Funerals bum me out, man,” Snell whined.
“I can just imagine,” Afton said. She was getting a weird vibe from Snell. He came across as anxious and more than a little flustered. She suddenly wondered if he could have somehow played a role in Odin’s and Barber’s murders.
Max was obviously thinking along the same lines, because he turned to Snell and said, “But you haven’t been too stoned out of your noggin to know what’s been going on, right? The murder of your girlfriend’s stepfather as well as his partner, Jay Barber?”
Snell bobbed his head. “Heard all about it. Weird shit, man. Must be some real crazies running around out there, maybe along the lines of that Manson gang.”
“Charlie Manson’s been in prison for forty-six years,” Afton said. “So I doubt it was him.”
Max focused a mirth
less grin on Snell and said, in a conversational tone, “Tell us about the old lady.” He meant the suspected ringleader, the woman from the hotel.
That stopped Snell in his tracks. “What? My old lady?” He shook his head as if to clear it and looked genuinely confused. “She’s long gone. We’ve been divorced for over a year. She hated my guts, man. Couldn’t wait to get away.”
“Don’t get cute,” Max said.
“Come on, man, it’s all nice and legal. I can show you the papers. They’re here . . .” Snell looked around at what passed for a living room. “Somewhere.”
“I’m talking about the other old lady,” Max said. “The one who was staying at the Hotel Itasca, the one who engineered the helicopter crash. We know the two of you were in on the whole thing.”
“What?” Snell whooped. His mouth gaped open like a fish gasping for air, revealing a set of yellow teeth. Then he whirled to face Terrell, who also looked completely blindsided. “Do you know what this guy’s talking about?”
“You’re accusing us of murder?” Terrell shrieked. She didn’t sound stoned anymore, she sounded furious. As if she’d just hit DEFCON 1.
Like a boxer who wouldn’t quit, Max kept pummeling away at Snell. Asking him about the people from Thailand, the luxury hotel, the helicopter crash, slitting Odin’s throat, the kidnapping of Barber, the whole ball of wax.
Terrell kept screaming like a stuck pig and Snell’s eyes got wild as he suddenly seemed to come awake and realize how serious these accusations were. Afton wondered if the neighbors would hear the awful commotion and call the Saint Paul police.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Snell said, rings of sweat dampening his T-shirt. “What is this crap anyway? The plot for a new Jack Reacher novel? I don’t know shit about what you’re talking about.” His pleading eyes bounced from Max to Afton and back to Max again. “Really I don’t! Ya gotta believe me!”
Max pushed him a little more but then finally backed off. He didn’t have any real evidence and Snell looked like he was about ready to have a brain hemorrhage and collapse. There was no need to bring a couple of EMTs into the situation.
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