As she poured, Skarda moved close to me. “What if it does rain?” he asked.
“People lower their heads when it rains,” I said. “They don’t look up, they don’t look around, they don’t loiter on the sidewalk, and they don’t window shop. Store windows, car windshields, hidden camera lenses become distorted. Vehicles are made more difficult to identify. Sound is muffled. No one questions it if you’re wearing a jacket”—I pointed at Josie—“or if you’re wearing a hat. Rain, Dave, is your friend.”
I glared at Roy when I said that last bit. He was standing in the living room, gripping the assault rifle tightly. He was angry because he thought I was trying to show him up—I could see it in his eyes. That’s what I intended, although I knew it would work against me in the long run. An experienced, trained undercover operative would have handled it better, I knew, but at least Roy didn’t think I was a police spy.
“We should be going,” Josie said. “Everyone knows when and where we rendezvous, right?”
The general consensus was that they all did. The four thieves made for the door. Jill rose from the kitchen table to join them.
“You, too?” I asked.
“They need me to drive,” she said.
I glared at Josie. She shrugged in return.
“Good luck, sis,” Skarda said. He gave Josie a hug. She glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Break a leg,” I said.
I was surprised that I meant it—absolutely break a leg if it keeps you from going into that grocery store.
Where did that come from? my inner voice asked.
Good question.
A few minutes later, they were gone. Skarda and I were leaning on the redwood railing that enclosed the deck, my coffee mug balanced on the top plank. The deck was about six feet above the ground yet seemed higher because it faced a hill that angled downward for about a hundred feet to the lake—Lake Carl, it was called. There was a wooden staircase that led to a wooden dock that jutted out into the lake with a pontoon boat moored to one side and a small fishing boat with a 25-horse Johnson tied up to the other.
“Do you want to go fishing?” Skarda asked.
“I don’t think so.” I took a sip from my coffee mug. “Tell me, why did Roy get all bent out of shape when I asked him about his assault rifle?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know where he got the guns.”
“He didn’t even tell you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s because he’s chickenshit.”
“No, no, he’s not, Dyson. I know you two don’t get along…”
“Listen, kid.” Skarda was only a decade or so younger than I was, yet for some reason I thought of him as a kid. “I have never met a man who beat his wife who wasn’t a coward at heart. All right? You want to know why he refuses to tell you about the guns—to save his sorry ass. If you guys get popped, he’ll trade the intel to the cops for reduced charges or maybe no charges at all while the rest of you go down hard.”
“You think so?”
“Why else keep it a secret?”
Skarda thought about that for a long moment before he said, “You know, when I was arrested, a man from the ATF said it would go easier for me if I told him about the AK-47 I was carrying. I didn’t say anything, but…”
“You could have.”
“If I had known anything. Dammit, Roy.”
“I guess you can’t blame a man for looking out for Number One.”
“Yes, you can.” Skarda tapped his chest. “I can.”
We continued to stare at the lake. I learned later that the lake was just over eighty acres in size, which meant it easily made the cut—in Minnesota a body of water needed to be at least ten acres to be considered a lake. We had 11,842 of them.
“I hate this,” Skarda said. “Waiting, I mean.”
“Do you know where the supermarket is?”
“There’s only one in Silver Bay.”
“Do you have any binoculars?”
“Sure, why?”
“Let’s go watch.”
“Really?”
“I’d like to see the Iron Range Bandits in action. Who knows, I might even learn a thing or two.”
FIVE
From Lake Carl we made our way along washboard gravel and paved county roads through the City of Krueger—Skarda hunched down in his seat so no one would recognize him—and then up to Ely. At Ely we turned east on Minnesota Highway 1 toward Lake Superior, driving sixty-two miles of narrow, twisting, curling, climbing, and plunging roadway that took my breath away. Forget the scenic wonders of the Superior National Forest it bisected—it was a road built to excite motorcyclists and sports car fanatics while terrifying motor home and bus drivers. Driving it in winter must have been exhilarating, to say the least. When we reached the sparkling great lake, we turned south and followed the highway five miles to Silver Bay.
Silver Bay was a company town built in 1954 for the employees who were hired to process the taconite that was mined and shipped by rail from Babbitt. It gained notoriety in the sixties when it was discovered that the Reserve Mining Company had been secretly dumping taconite tailings—a potentially carcinogenic waste—into Lake Superior to the tune of 67,000 tons each day. The company didn’t stop, either, until the courts forced them to cease and desist in 1972, and as far as I knew, the tailings were still there. Most of the city itself was located on top of a hill that rose up from the lake. It had been built on an area where the trees and brush had been scraped clear with bulldozers; houses and commercial buildings had been carefully laid out with surveyor stakes.
The supermarket was part of a shopping center located on, yes, Shopping Center Road. The complex had three sides, with all of the storefronts facing a large asphalt parking lot. It was hailed as the largest shopping center north of Duluth when it was first built, although I seriously doubted it still held that designation.
To reach it, I drove down Davis Drive and then took a left, driving between the Silver Bay Public Library and a weathered brown-brick building built into the side of one of the city’s few hills. There was a Silver Bay police car parked in front next to a white flagpole that flew both the U.S. and Minnesota flags. I crossed Shopping Center Road and parked the Jeep Cherokee at the edge of the lot, close enough to watch the supermarket and yet far enough away that I could quickly access any one of three potential escape routes. Cars moved in and out of the lot around us.
“When is the heist scheduled?” I asked.
“No idea,” Skarda said.
“Well, we’re early, otherwise the place would be swarming with cops. Tell me, Dave, did you know that Silver Bay had its own police department?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “No,” Skarda said. “I thought—we thought a small town like this would get police service from the county sheriff. How did you know?”
“We just drove past it. Given Silver Bay’s population, I figure a half-dozen officers counting part-timers. If they’re halfway professional, and that’s always a smart bet, I’d say they have a response time of about, oh, sixty seconds.”
“Christ.”
“I doubt there’s any deity wants a part of this mess.”
I brought the binoculars up to my eyes and looked through them. The grocery store was large and spacious, and I guessed that it served a great many more customers than those that lived in Silver Bay. It wouldn’t have been a bad target if the cop shop weren’t less than five hundred yards away. After a few minutes, I handed the glasses to Skarda. There was a café behind us that offered free Wi-Fi, and I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. Skarda said he did and would be happy to retrieve it.
“I’ll get it,” I said. “Remember, you’re not actually doing anything illegal, so don’t act like it. Whatever happens, just sit here. Calmly.”
“Calmly,” Skarda repeated, as if he weren’t sure what the word meant.
I walked to the café. There were cars parked in the spaces in front of it, including a red Toyo
ta Corolla with its windows rolled down. There was a man who looked too old to drive inside listening to the radio, something by Roy Clark, while he sipped from a travel mug. I went into the café and ordered two coffees to go from a woman who seemed happy to serve me. While she poured, I pulled the prepaid cell phone from my pocket after first making sure Skarda couldn’t see me. Jimmy hadn’t picked it up when he ran the frequency finder over me because it wasn’t turned on—it wasn’t transmitting or receiving—and apparently Skarda forgot I had it. I have a lousy memory for phone numbers, so after I inputted the 612 area code for Minneapolis, I substituted letters on the keypad that equaled Chad Bullert’s phone number—LUNATIC. The phone rang just twice before he answered.
“It’s me,” I said.
“You okay?” Bullert asked. “We tracked the GPS transmitter in Skarda’s shoe to a cabin near Krueger, but there’s been no movement since.”
“So far, so good. The boys and girls are using the cabin as a base of operations. If you want to take them, that’s the place to go. If nothing else you can arrest them for trespassing.”
“What about the guns?”
“They were acquired by an ex-army named Roy Cepek. He’s carrying an AK-47 with him right now.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Don’t know. He’s being pretty closed mouth, not only to me, but to his crew as well. He sure as hell didn’t buy it at Walmart. I’m guessing he’d spill his guts if you picked him up.”
“On what charge?”
“Aggravated robbery. In a few minutes he and the rest of the Iron Range Bandits are going to hit a grocery store in Silver Bay.”
“Christ,” Bullert said. “Tell me you’re not in on it.”
“You’re another one who tosses that name around carelessly. No, I’m not in on it. I’m what you would call a material witness. Listen, the cop shop is a brisk five-minute walk from where I’m standing…”
“No, don’t do anything. Let it play out.”
“Let it play out?”
“The guns are the important thing, McKenzie. We can get the Iron Range Bandits anytime, but the guns—McKenzie, as a private citizen you are under no legal obligation to report any crime you witness.”
“I don’t know if that’s entirely true since I am working with law enforcement. Besides, what if someone gets shot?”
“You just do your job and we’ll take care of the rest.”
Sure you will, my inner voice said. That’s why Nina insisted that I protect myself.
* * *
After my meeting with Harry and Bullert at the Columbia Golf Course three days ago—actually, it was four, now—I went to Rickie’s, the jazz joint in St. Paul that Nina Truhler named after her daughter, Erica. It was midafternoon, and the after-work happy-hour crowd had yet to arrive, although Nina’s waitstaff was ready to receive them. A few of the waitresses called my name, and I felt a little like Norm in the Cheers reruns when I entered the comfortable downstairs lounge; the jazz was played in a performance area at the top of a spiral staircase that was never opened before 6:00 P.M. In the past five years I had never received a tab for anything that I had ordered in Rickie’s, yet I always left a tip at least equal to the purchase price for whoever served me; thus I tended to be one of Nina’s most popular boyfriends.
Jenness Crawford, Nina’s assistant manager, was behind the bar. Before I had a chance to say a word, she poured a Summit Ale, my favorite beer brewed in St. Paul, my hometown, thank you very much, and set the glass in front of me.
“You’re going to make some young man a wonderful wife,” I said.
“Young man?” she asked.
I looked into her eyes, and she smiled demurely.
“I didn’t know you were gay,” I said. “No one tells me anything.”
“Let’s just say I’m keeping my options open. I’ll tell Nina you’re here.”
I watched the woman as she made her way around the bar and into Nina’s small office. I had known Jenness for years and just now learned that she played for both teams—which is why I worked as an unlicensed private investigator. Who the hell would give me a license?
A pair of cheaters was perched on Nina’s narrow nose when she emerged from her office. In the past, she would have hidden them from prying eyes for vanity’s sake. She had given up the deceit at about the same time her daughter had enrolled at Tulane University. It was a concession not to age, however, but to maturity—there is a difference, trust me on this. Beyond that, she looked as lovely to me as the day she had graduated from college. I had seen photos.
“How did you play?” she asked.
Before I answered, I leaned across the bar and kissed her on the lips.
“Lousy,” I said. “I beat Harry by six strokes, though, and that’s the main thing. Do you know what that SOB wanted me to do?”
“Give him mulligans? I know you hate that.”
“He wanted me to go undercover.”
I proceeded to give her a verbatim account of our conversation despite Harry’s claim that I could keep a secret. He knew me. He knew Nina. If he thought I wasn’t going to tell her everything, he was crazy. Afterward, she set her hand on top of mine and I felt a jolt of electricity that shot up my arm, through my chest, and straight down into my nether regions. She often had that effect on me.
“What?” I asked.
“Have you talked to Bobby Dunston?” she asked. “What did he say?”
“I haven’t spoken to Bobby, but he’s a commander in the Major Crimes and Investigations Division of the St. Paul Police Department, and I know exactly what he would tell me.”
“You should talk to him. G. K. Bonalay, too.”
“My lawyer?”
“And to that TV journalist you like so much.”
“Kelly Bressandes?”
“Tell them everything you told me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Just in case.”
“Nina, I don’t think you heard me. I am not going to do this.”
“Before you go—”
“Before I go? Do you actually want me to risk life and limb on some fool’s errand?”
“No, but that’s never stopped you before. McKenzie, it’s been months since you’ve done anything silly. You’re due.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
Nina propped her elbows on top of the bar and rested her face in her hands. She had the most startling silver-blue eyes I had ever seen, framed by jet black hair. When I first met her, the hair was short; then she grew it to shoulder-length; now it was short again, and I still didn’t know which way I liked it best.
“Do you know how long I’ve been a bartender?” she asked.
“Since you were eleven?”
“Close. Do you know what I’ve learned in all those years?”
“To never pour beer into a frosted mug, because it creates condensation that dilutes it?”
“I’ve learned how to read people.”
“You think you can read me?”
“Like a book, McKenzie. A graphic novel. Lots of pictures, little exposition.”
“I am not going to do this job.”
She smiled some more, smiled to the point of laughter, and gestured with her head toward the door. I spun on my stool in time to watch Harry, Chad Bullert, and a tall man dressed in one of the most expensive tailored suits I had ever seen walk into Rickie’s.
“Tell them that,” Nina said.
“I’ll need a table,” I said. “Not a booth. I want to be able to get up and walk away in a hurry.”
“Oh, McKenzie. You’re not going to walk away.”
I had every intention of doing just that, though, if for no better reason than to demonstrate to Nina that I was captain of my ship, master of my domain, lord of my castle. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.
The tall, well-dressed man was introduced to me as Assistant U.S. Attorney James R. Finnegan. As I shook his hand I said, “I bet your friends call you F
inny.”
He seemed astonished by the assumption. “No,” he said. “They don’t.” Then, “You have an interesting file.”
“I have a file?” I asked.
“Of course you do. I read that you’ve been involved in gunrunning before. That’s how you met Chad and Harry.”
I looked at Harry. “Does everybody call you that now?”
“See what you’ve done?”
A moment later, Nina surprised me by appearing at the table to take our orders herself. Harry stood, bussed her cheek, and called her “lovely Nina,” which I found irritating, then introduced her around. Finnegan shook her hand, said he was delighted to meet her, and asked, “Is it true that this place is haunted?”
“Uh-oh,” Harry said as he took his seat.
I was tempted to look away, but it was like a traffic accident—you just have to watch.
Nina raised an eyebrow and smiled. Trust me when I say there was no mirth in it. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Finnegan?” she asked.
“Not necessarily,” Finnegan said. “The TV show…”
The TV program in question followed a team of self-described ghost hunters as they purportedly investigated paranormal activity around the country. Erica invited them to Rickie’s without Nina’s knowledge or permission. I suspect she was just trying to annoy her mother, who tended to take a flat-earth philosophy toward things like ghosts, ESP, UFOs, and government conspiracies.
“TV show?” Nina said. “What else forms your worldview, Mr. Finnegan? Fringe? Lost? X-Files? True freaking Blood? The Vampire Diaries?”
“I just—”
“Is this what the United States Justice Department has come to—getting its information from basic cable?”
Finnegan didn’t answer, so Nina turned toward me as if I were somehow the cause of her frustration. I didn’t so much as smile—I like excitement as much as the next guy, but I’m not suicidal. I pointed at Finnegan.
“Give him the bill,” I said.
The Last Kind Word Page 7