Gone to Dust

by Matt Goldman

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” said Ellegaard.

  “Let’s go say hello.”

  We left our table and walked toward the front of the bar where Peterson and No Chin had settled into a booth. I sat next to No Chin. Ellegaard sat next to Peterson. I sighed. “You guys must be close to breaking your case because now you’re babysitting us.”

  No Chin spoke. “Well, we were a little disappointed you went to Maggie Somerville’s funeral.”

  “I can’t believe I’m looking at my tax dollars at work.”

  “We’re not the enemy,” said Peterson. “You know that. And you know there’s a real enemy.”

  “Speaking of which, Shapiro,” said No Chin, “who was your date for the funeral? Tall, high cheekbones. Al Shabaab recruits as well as Daesh—be careful with her.”

  “Don’t tell me you practice racial profiling, Agent Delvin Peterson, my brother.”

  “Seriously, Shapiro. Who is she?”

  I wasn’t under oath, but all the same, lying to a federal agent can make your life hell. They have too many friends—the IRS, the ATF, the people who make the no-fly list. “Her name is Ansley Bell. She was born and raised in California. Now she’s a fourth-year at the University of Minnesota Medical School.”

  “Why was she at the funeral?” said Peterson.

  “She was my date.”

  “Really,” said No Chin. “Fourth-year med students don’t miss a day of rounds even if they have stage-four cancer. You’re telling me this Ansley Bell took off a few hours to attend the funeral of a woman you didn’t even know?”

  They weren’t stupid, these guys. And it was better if they thought I was on their side. Plus, when someone wants information, one way to get them off your back is give them too much. “Ansley Bell was adopted,” I said. “Eight years ago she learned that her biological mother was Maggie Somerville. When I was consulting for Edina PD, we traced a frequently called phone number in Maggie’s cell to Ansley. We thought maybe she was Maggie’s secret lover. Turns out she’s her secret daughter. Had her when she was fifteen. Maggie wanted the secret kept so she didn’t have to explain to her tweens how her fifteen-year-old self got pregnant. Especially since the father is a Somali who was living in Minnesota before the first big wave of Somali immigrants. He went back to Somalia before the civil war and, to the best of Ansley’s knowledge, still lives there.”

  “Do you know the Somali father’s name?” said No Chin.

  “Omar Bihi.”

  “Stay clear of Fine until we give you the okay,” said Peterson. “Can we count on that?”

  Ellegaard looked at me, then I said, “Yeah, you can count on it.”

  25

  I drove back to the shitbox and went inside. Micaela’s crew must have worked overnight and hit the stores as soon as they opened. Like elves with credit cards. They’d installed a new rear-door window. They’d bought new food and beverages and cleaned the kitchen to a gleam it had never known. Someone had even replaced my slashed furniture with far more tasteful pieces. The leather chair was gone. I found a note on its replacement:

  The piece that was here is being repaired. It will be delivered in two weeks.

  They’d even had my sweaters dry-cleaned. I was beginning to wonder if it was Micaela who’d broken in just for the excuse to clean me up.

  I sent her a text. Thank you. She didn’t respond.

  I changed into jeans and a merino wool quarter-zip. I plugged in my phone, left it on the kitchen counter, and drove to Target where I paid cash for three pay-as-you-go phones. Then I drove down to the university. Ansley was surprised to see me when I had her paged to the lobby, and even more surprised when I asked for her phone and handed her a new one.

  “Why?” she said.

  “The FBI is using my phone to track my whereabouts. They saw me with you today, so now they’ll be tracking you.”

  “Why would they be tracking me?”

  “Well, for one thing, if they realize I’ve given them the slip, they’ll track my last-known associates. Plus, the FBI will pay extra attention to anyone who is Somali.”

  “Seriously?”

  “They have legitimate concerns. But those concerns aren’t big enough to let someone get away with murder.” She looked tired. Exhausted from sorrow. Exhausted from keeping so many secrets and having them all burst at once. “Keep your new phone on. I have the number. And I’ve e-mailed you a copy of your contacts.”

  I walked out of the hospital. Fat, quarter-sized snowflakes fell from gray sky. A veneer of fresh white covered the ground. The snowfall sucked the color out of the world. Only the brightest remained. A red city bus. A lime green Patagonia jacket. A yellow pedestrian-crossing sign. But even those had been dialed down to a dull version of their former vibrancy. It was Thursday, but the week was starting anew. Not because the calendar said so, but because the barometer did. Warm, wet air from the southwest.

  I left the university and drove to Candy Alley. Couldn’t give Ellegaard a present without having something for the girls. Then I stopped at the shitbox to drop off Ansley’s iPhone. A little afternoon delight between devices. I charged it on the counter next to mine, then headed to Ellegaard’s.

  I stood on the stoop holding a pair of plastic bags and rang the doorbell. I heard running feet and a high-pitched scream, “It’s him!” The door struggled to move, so I gave it a little nudge. When it finally swung open, I saw Maisy Ellegaard standing on the other side of the glass storm.

  “What’s going on, Shap?!” she said. Seven years old and already tall, Maisy was the only one of Ellegaard’s daughters who looked like him. A towhead with blue eyes and paper white skin. But she had the outgoing personality of her mother, not her reserved father. I hadn’t seen Maisy since she was four—the only possible way she could have remembered me was if someone had just shown her pictures or told her I was coming over. “Is that a present for me?”

  “Are you going to invite me in, young lady, or should I just stand out here in the snow?”

  “Oh, yeah! I forgot!” Maisy pushed open the storm door. I stepped inside.

  “So is it a present or isn’t it?”

  “Maisy!” said her mother from the kitchen. “You’re being rude.”

  “Nuh-uh! I’m just asking Shap a question.”

  “That’s Mr. Shapiro to you,” said an older child from the kitchen.

  Maisy looked at me, her brow furled. I shook my head and whispered, “Call me Shap.”

  The smile burst back onto her face. “Come on, Shap!” She marched toward the kitchen. I followed.

  Molly Ellegaard stood five-foot-two-inches tall with long, almost black hair and a heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes sparkled when she saw me. “Nils, where have you been?”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s inexcusable.” I gave her a hug.

  “There’s something in that bag, Mommy,” said Maisy.

  “You. Are. So. Rude,” said a voice. I turned and saw Emma and Olivia Ellegaard, ages twelve and ten, their faces in their homework. Emma was the chastiser. She had dark hair and eyes like her mother with the same heart-shaped face. Olivia had the eyes and hair, but a more long and narrow face like her father.

  “Can you say hello to Mr. Shapiro?” said Molly.

  “I already did!” said Maisy.

  “Not you, Maisy,” said Olivia.

  “Hello, Mr. Shapiro,” said Emma. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you, Emma. And you, Olivia.”

  “Hi,” said Olivia with a smile.

  “Maisy, tell ’em what my name is.”

  “It’s Shap. That’s what we’re supposed to call him. He even said so himself.” Emma rolled her eyes. Olivia laughed.

  “I’m giving this bag to your mother. It’s full of ancient candy. The kind cavemen used to eat. I’m talking Necco Wafers, Pop Rocks, Bottle Caps, Runts, Slo Pokes, Zotz. Never heard of those? Of course you haven’t because cavemen ate them. I bought the whole mess at the museum of natural h
istory.” Emma wasn’t buying it. Maisy was. Olivia teetered back and forth. “Your mother is the boss of this candy. So stay on her good side.”

  Ellegaard walked in from the dining room. “What do you say, girls?”

  A flat, dull, in unison, “Thank you…”

  Ellegaard led me down to the rec room. He’d finished half of his basement to make a five-hundred-square-foot space out of carpet, drywall, a sixty-inch TV, and a Wii. Beige carpet, white walls, and Ellegaard’s head nearly touched the low ceiling. There was no furniture other than three beanbags.

  He handed me his Edina PD–issued BlackBerry. “It’s charged.”

  “Good. Report it missing tomorrow morning.” He nodded. I handed him the pay-as-you-go phone. “I’m trying to do this without turning off the phones. Nothing looks more suspicious than a phone being turned off because they never are.”

  “I’ll get in a lot of trouble for this,” said Ellegaard.

  “Might do you some good.”

  “I don’t know about that. But I’m not letting anyone push me off my case.”

  “That a boy.”

  “Oh, one more thing. We got the test results back from the eyebrow hairs you found at Ansley Bell’s.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s Maggie’s daughter—no doubt about it.”

  We went upstairs. Molly had just given each girl a Zotz and told them not to bite into it, so, of course, all three did then screamed and spit into the sink. I said good-bye to their horror-stricken faces and gave Molly a hug.

  “You’re coming to dinner next week,” said Molly. “And it’s not up for discussion.”

  “Tell me what night and what to bring and I will be here.”

  I drove Ellegaard’s BlackBerry north on Highway 100, then merged onto 94 West. The thermometer on the Volvo’s dash read twenty-nine degrees. The snow fell heavy and accumulated on the frozen pavement. Half an hour later, I was in Rogers, Minnesota, where it would appear to anyone tracking Ellegaard that he was shopping at Cabela’s, the outdoors superstore.

  I dropped his phone into a creel in the fly-fishing department—unless someone had booked a trip to New Zealand or Patagonia, chances were slim anyone would be buying a creel that day. I returned to the Volvo, which, after sitting in the lot for only ten minutes, was dusted with snow. I grabbed the giant toothbrush from my trunk and cleared the Volvo’s windows.

  I needed gas, but would tip my hand if I used a credit card twenty-five miles away from my phone. So I stopped at a Holiday station, went inside, and handed the attendant a ten. With three new gallons of gas, I drove back to the shitbox, grabbed my phone along with Ansley’s, and then headed back out. I filled up at the BP on 54th and France, paid with a credit card, then headed back to Rogers. It was shortly after 5:00 when I retrieved Ellegaard’s BlackBerry from the creel in the fly-fishing department. Now, as far as the FBI knew, Ellegaard, Ansley, and I were all in Rogers, Minnesota. If anyone there were paying attention, our supposed location would raise a red flag. The FBI building in Brooklyn Center was only fifteen minutes away—I didn’t have much time.

  Ice fishermen and winter campers shopped before heading north for the weekend. I started in the ice-fishing department where two men in their midsixties looked at jigs. The tall one wore high-waisted jeans, a teal chamois shirt, and a camo baseball cap. The one who had a belly like a pregnant woman wore low-waisted jeans, a Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt, and a Minnesota Vikings winter hat with a purple ball on top.

  “A Lindy jig and live minnow,” said Tall. “That’s the only way to go.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Paul. The Rapala Snap Rap—that’s been working for me all winter.”

  “You fish it your way, Ed. I’ll fish it mine. Loser buys the Grain Belt.”

  “Oh, yessiree. I like that there deal, eh.”

  I interrupted. “Where are you gentlemen headed this weekend?”

  “Muskeg Bay,” said Pregnant. “Ice is nice and thick. No global warming this winter.”

  “Because it doesn’t exist,” said Tall. “Got the lamestream media all confused, don’t you know.”

  “Hey, young fella, don’t be following us to our secret spot, now.”

  “Wish I could. You gentleman sound like a lot of fun. Plus, the dollar’s so strong in Canada, you boys should get some Cubans for the icehouse. It won’t be as fun when they become legal in the states.”

  “Hey, there’s an idea,” said Tall.

  “Eh, I hate driving across the border,” said Pregnant. “Takes up too much time.”

  “We’ll see how they’re bitin’,” said Tall. “Where you headed?”

  “Walker. Buddy’s got an icehouse on Leech Lake. But not tonight. Taking a couple of days off next week.”

  “Okay. Sure,” said Tall. “Good fishin’ there.”

  “I hope so. Just picking up a few things now so I don’t have to on the way up.” I grabbed a package of jigs off the wall. “Well, tight lines up there, fellas. Hope you bring back a full cooler.”

  “We do, too,” said Pregnant. They both laughed, although I’m not sure at what.

  I hustled over to the camping department, ditched the jigs, and picked up a dry sack and package of bungee cords. I was headed toward the register when Micaela called.

  “I’m making a turkey,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I just felt like it. Want to come over for dinner?”

  “I do, but I can’t stay much after.”

  “That’s okay. Come over. I’ll feed you and send you on your merry way.”

  I hung up, paid, exited the store, dropped the three phones into the dry sack and sealed it. I opened the bungees, threw out the package, and put the cords in my jacket pocket. The traffic on 94 crawled. Headlights and street lamps lit up the falling flakes. Red taillights decorated the freeway like Christmas.

  Cabela’s didn’t display much outside during winter—not compared to the boats and canoes and deer stands in summer. But a few prefab icehouses sat out front, so I waited in one of those for Tall and Pregnant to exit the store. Fifteen minutes later, they did. I left the icehouse and followed.

  I had no idea which vehicle was theirs, if it was a car, truck, SUV, or RV. One of them pushed a button on his key fob, and the lights of a Ford F-150 with a topper lit up. I got lucky—it happens once in a while. The pickup had a cargo shelf attached to the hitch. Tall and Pregnant threw their bags into the passenger cab, then Tall got into the driver’s seat and Pregnant into the passenger seat. I sprinted toward the back of the truck hoping Tall would check his e-mail like every other asshole did when I was waiting for their parking spot. Maybe that’s exactly what he did or maybe he was just getting his shit situated for the drive. Whatever he was doing, it gave me enough time to reach the back of the pickup and kneel behind the cargo shelf.

  Two propane tanks were ratchet-strapped to the steel-mesh shelf. I sat my ass in the snow, pulled a handful of bungees out of my pocket, and hooked one end underneath the cargo shelf. That’s when the truck started. I couldn’t remember if a car was parked in front of it—if there was, Tall would have to back out of the parking space. My being in the way wouldn’t stop him. I stretched the bungee, hooked the second hook underneath the steel mesh, and hoped Tall and Pregnant were fighting over whose iPod to listen to on the drive north. I slipped the dry sack, with the three phones inside, between the bungee and the steel-mesh shelf, then got into a squat. Maybe they were opening beef jerky or Salted Nut Rolls. Whatever they were doing, they gave me enough time to stretch two more bungees under the dry sack, securing it solidly underneath the shelf.

  Pregnant and Tall wouldn’t discover the phones until they removed the LP tanks, probably a few miles south of the Canadian border. I stood and walked straight back from the pickup. I made it all the way to the store before Tall put the truck in drive and headed for the parking lot exit.

  26

  I stopped at the liquor store and bought a bottle of Tyrconnell 10. It cost eighty
bucks, but sending the phones on their trip north put me in the mood to celebrate.

  Micaela made turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. We ate at the little table overlooking Lake Harriet. The sodium lights on the lake’s encircling parkway cast an orange hue through the falling snow. A pair of runners slogged across the unplowed path, their headlamps pushing two cones of white light in front of them. I caught Micaela’s reflection in the window—she wasn’t looking at the lake—she was looking at me. Her likeness doubled in the double-pane glass. My friend. My love. If I could only get both women into one image, one Micaela, I’d be okay.

  She had grown more beautiful as she got older. In a few years, I’d have to blind myself just to carry on. But not beholding her would cure nothing. Loving Micaela exhausted me. What it was. What it wasn’t. I wanted to fall in love with Ansley Bell, not because she was young and beautiful but because she might be the antidote for Micaela. I wanted to feel jealous when seeing Ansley with the guy who turned out to be her husband. But I wasn’t. Not a bit. It should have at least stoked a fire of disappointment, but I felt nothing. I wished Ansley could hurt me. I wished anyone could other than Micaela. If I could feel anything in relation to another woman, I’d be cured. But I wasn’t. Maybe I was having a bad week or maybe it was the Tyrconnell or the tryptophan or the combination of all three, but sitting at that table overlooking a snowy lake and the city behind it, I’d lost the strength to hold up my shield. I was collapsing under its weight. And she saw it.

  “What’s wrong, Nils?” she said.

  I stared at her doubled reflection in the window as if she were a solar eclipse, as if it were the only safe way to do so.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  I turned and looked at her but said nothing.

  After a long silence, she said, “Do you want another whiskey?”

  “Yes, but I can’t. I’m working later.”

  “Anything new on the case?”

  “Ellie and I are going to flush out our prime suspect. Something feels wrong about it, though. I just can’t pinpoint what. I can’t focus.”