And then I understood. The realization hit me like a truck.
“You set me up!” I cried. “You bitch, you set me up! I was supposed to get caught in that house; that’s why you had me followed and then pulled the tail when you knew where I was going, so you could catch me in the house.”
“I needed something to justify an investigation.”
“Fuck your investigation. You used me. We’re supposed to be friends, Annie.”
“I had to …”
“Jeezus, you were going to bust me, right? Bust me with a dead man at my feet and ten Gs in my pocket. To save my ass, I’d have to confess to why I was there and who hired me and then you could go after C. C. without having to admit your involvement.”
“That’s about right,” Anne agreed.
“What about me?”
“You would have walked.”
“Without my license? B and E is a felony. The Department of Public Safety can take my license for a felony.”
“Oh, quit whining. I would have protected your license.”
“Yeah, sure, after I spilled my guts about C. C. Monroe. Wouldn’t that be good for business? Everyone loves a PI with a big mouth; I can see the clients lining up already. Goddamn it, you set me up, you bitch.”
“Still, you have to admire the logic of it all. I just knew Marion would think I sent you to help her. She’s so arrogant.”
“She’s arrogant? You bitch.”
“Will you stop calling me that.”
“Why? Isn’t it politically correct?”
“I needed help. Your connection to Brown made you the logical choice.”
“Then you should have asked me.”
Anne turned her head away. “I figured if we worked it right, you’d never have to know what I did. Look, I didn’t want you to think I was that stupid. I didn’t want you to think less of me. Okay, maybe I’m being selfish. But you and I, there’s something between us. Something strong. No, don’t shake your head. I know you have my photograph on your desk.”
“Well, you are my friend,” I said.
“And I need that friendship now more than ever.” Then with a voice that came from deep inside and got stronger with every word, Anne said, “But I think C. C. Monroe and Marion Senske are guilty of murder. If that’s true, they’re going down for it and I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it costs your friendship or my career. Nobody gets away with murder in this town. Nobody.”
“Oh, Annie …”
“I need your help, Holland. There it is. I need your help.”
I didn’t know whether to wrap my arms around her or punch her in the mouth. I did neither. Maybe I did love her; her photograph was on my desk, after all. Maybe she loved me. Maybe if she wasn’t married with three kids, maybe … But this thing with C. C. had nothing to do with that. This had to do with Anne Scalasi smashing the law, her career, her integrity all to hell—and then tricking me into cleaning up the mess—so she could remain a role model for women everywhere. Even now she was lying. She found the videotape, she must have. She put the tape in the camera for me to find, so I would have it in my possession when the cops busted Thoreau’s house, so she would have an irrefutable excuse to go after C. C. That’s the only way it made sense.
Still, I might have forgiven her. Except for Amy Lamb, 988 Fratzke Avenue, St. Paul, Ramsey County, Minnesota, USA …
“Bullshit,” I said, using one of the lady’s favorite curses. “You want my help? I get four hundred dollars a day plus expenses.”
“Taylor …” My name died in her throat.
“Let’s get something settled right now,” I told her. “I don’t give a damn about C. C. Monroe or Marion Senske or Dennis Thoreau or John Brown and right now you’re not very high on my list, either. What I do care about is that little girl in there. She’s dead because you didn’t do your job when you had the chance. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to find her killer and stuff him in a sack and drop him off the Lake Street Bridge. You want to help, that’s fine. Otherwise, stay the hell out of my way.”
“You’re not the law, anymore,” Anne reminded me.
“Neither are you, Annie.”
I opened the passenger door and slid out. The squad was already pulling away from the curb when I slammed it shut.
FOURTEEN
I HAD MANAGED only six blocks from Amy’s duplex before raw sorrow closed my throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I pulled the Monza to the shoulder of the street and stopped. I thought of Amy’s parents, afraid something like this might happen to their lovely daughter; I thought of her father taping the news of her death to the refrigerator door. I wanted to cry but did not. I had things to do and it was time I got to them.
I have always been able to recognize my own emotions and compensate for them. Love, fear, joy, pity: those were easy. Despair? Despair was the hardest of all. It took me a long time to turn it into something else. I turned it into anger, helping it along by cursing the cars that weaved around me, saluting the drivers with my middle finger when they leaned on their horns. Anger is good. You can do things with anger. You can function. Only you must be careful because anger can quickly turn to hate and hate colors everything: the way you walk, the way you talk, what you see and what you don’t. Hate makes you do things that are not in your best interest. Hate makes you kill.
Louise was sitting behind the reception desk at C. C. Monroe’s campaign headquarters, paging through the latest edition of Time magazine, her eyeglasses attached to a gold chain and hanging around her throat like a necklace. She looked up when I entered, set the glasses on her nose and smiled. Apparently she hadn’t heard the bad news. Well, she wasn’t going to hear it from me.
I asked her if she remembered me. She said she did. “Did you ever reach Amy?” she asked.
“No,” I said. I told her I was worried. “When did she leave?”
“About eight forty-five. I guess she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Yet, she came in.”
“Amy is pretty dedicated. She arrived early, maybe a quarter to, and read the papers. It’s the first thing we do, see what they’re saying about Representative Monroe.”
“Then what happened?”
Louise seemed mystified by the question. “Nothing happened,” she said. “Why should something happen?”
“You said she wasn’t feeling well.”
“About, I don’t know, quarter after, she said she was feeling poorly and she was going to take a walk, get some fresh air. She asked me to cover the phones for her. She was quite pale.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know, toward the capitol. Why?”
“Then what happened?”
Louise shrugged in reply. “She came back, made a phone call; she still looked pale and shaky and I said she should go home if she was feeling poorly. She said she would.”
“That was about eight forty-five?”
“Yes.”
“Does Amy have a car? Did she drive?”
“No, she takes the bus.”
“Maybe a boyfriend picked her up,” I asked hopefully.
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Louise replied quickly. “At least that’s what she said.”
“Another friend, someone who might have given her a ride home?”
Louise shrugged again. “I don’t think she knows too many people here, she’s from outstate. Anyway, she didn’t wait for a ride. She just left.”
I returned to my car. Sitting behind the steering wheel, I made out a quick timetable, noting the associated events surrounding Amy’s death:
7:45—Amy arrives at campaign headquarters, reads newspapers.
8:10—Amy takes walk.
8:45—Amy returns, calls me at office.
8:45—C. C. calls me at home.
8:50—Amy takes bus to duplex.
9:30—I arrive at State Capitol.
9:45—Amy calls me at office.
11:45—I arrive at
coffeehouse.
12:00—C. C. arrives at coffeehouse.
12:00—Landlord leaves duplex.
12:15—Amy calls me at office.
1:30—Landlord returns to duplex.
2:30—C. C. and I leave coffeehouse.
3:00—I reach office, listen to messages.
4:15—I reach duplex.
The most important times were these:
12:15—Amy calls me at office.
1:30—Landlord returns to duplex.
Seventy-five minutes. More than enough time to die.
And where was I while Amy was being killed? I was sitting in a second-rate coffeehouse baby-sitting C. C. Monroe, supplying her with an alibi, waiting for a blackmailer that as far as I could prove didn’t even exist.
I returned to the campaign offices. Louise was still sitting behind the desk.
“Who else knew Amy was going home early?”
“What?”
“Who else knew when Amy left?”
Louise seemed confused. “I don’t know, anybody who worked here, I guess. It wasn’t a secret. Why are you asking me this? What’s going on? Is Amy all right?”
“Did anybody ask for her specifically?”
“No. Yes, well, she did get a phone call right after she left.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t recognize the voice. The caller asked for Amy. I told her she just went home. She thanked me and hung up. What’s the problem?”
“She?”
“Yes, a woman.”
Anne Scalasi and McGaney were entering campaign headquarters as I was exiting; I held the door open for them. I didn’t smile in recognition. They didn’t either.
“Taylor, you mess up this investigation I’ll have your ass,” Anne told me.
I ignored her.
I parked in a slot reserved for the representative from the district where I live and walked quickly from the ramp to the State Office Building. It was late in the day and most of the people who worked there were either gone or on their way out. I punched the blue elevator button and rode up to C. C.’s floor. A woman was standing at a desk near C. C.’s office, pulling a plastic hood over a word processor. I walked past her to C. C.’s door. It was locked.
“She’s not here,” the woman said to my back. “No one’s here.”
“You know where she is?”
“Duluth. She’s campaigning in Duluth.”
“All day?”
“She had a late start, didn’t leave until about three.”
“Marion Senske?”
“Is with her,” the woman answered. “You with the press?”
“Does it show?”
The woman looked me over, moving her eyes from my Nikes to my jeans to my sports jacket and white shirt. “Who else can get away with dressing so casually?”
I walked with her to the elevator.
“What do you do here?”
“I’m a secretary. There are about a dozen of us. We handle five, six reps each.”
“You screen her visitors?”
“C. C.’s? Sure.”
“Did she have any today?”
“No. She didn’t have any appointments scheduled because she wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Maybe a young woman without an appointment, Amy Lamb, five-three, light brown hair?”
“I really couldn’t say. I only work half days when the legislature isn’t in session; I came in at noon. Representative Monroe wasn’t here when I arrived. And when she did come in, she only stayed a few minutes.”
The elevator doors slid open before we reached them and a member of the State Capitol Security Force stepped out.
“Evening, John,” the woman said.
“Ellen,” he said in reply, nodding to her and then to me. He walked past us down the corridor, shaking the knob on each office door as he went.
“What do you think of Representative Monroe?” I asked the secretary when we were in the elevator going down.
“You gonna quote me?”
“Nope.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I think she’s a lightweight. If it wasn’t for Marion Senske, she’d be selling cosmetics door-to-door.”
“C. C. Monroe and Marion Senske killed both John Brown and Dennis Thoreau,” I said aloud as I drove I-94, taking the bridge across the Mississippi, heading back to Minneapolis. “They did it to silence them so C. C. could win the election. Amy Lamb figured it out when she read the newspaper articles about them. She confronted C. C. and Marion, but they blew her off. Amy decided to call me; she called the number on my card, my office number. C. C. and Marion beat her to me, calling me at home. They invented the blackmailer to keep me occupied and to provide C. C. with an ironclad alibi. Meanwhile, they sent someone to kill Amy.
“No, stop it! Stop it!”
Don’t fall into that trap, I told myself.
I’ve seen it happen before; I nearly did it myself a couple of times when I was with Homicide. You want so desperately to be right that you make up the answer first, then arrange the facts to fit. Only, in the end, the answer you invent won’t make you any happier than not knowing at all. The trick is to keep everything in its true size, to not lose perspective. Failure of perspective is what nails you. Keep the crime separate from your life, don’t allow what’s going on around you to affect your judgment, don’t impose anything on the victim or the suspect that comes from somewhere else—keep it clean.
“Suck it up and do it right,” I told the reflection in my rear-view mirror. “Just this one last time, do it right.”
FIFTEEN
DETECTIVE WORK isn’t mathematics—known variables adding up to a logical conclusion. It’s random, like a maze that more often leads to a dead end than to cheese. I’m the rat, scurrying along, running into walls, following my nose until I either find the meal or starve to death.
As soon as I reached my office, I removed the tape from my answering machine and replaced it with a fresh cassette. I sealed the cassette in an envelope, wrapped a thick rubber band around it and put it in my safe.
I fired up my PC and transcribed all my notes onto the hard drive, organizing them as best I could. When I finished I backed away from the machine. Think about it, I told myself. If I’d been at home I’d have gone out to the driveway and shot baskets. Instead I found a jazz station on the radio and sang along with Diane Schuur and Harry Connick Jr., cleaning as I sang, dusting all my nooks and crannies. I was particularly careful while dusting my hockey stick, the one Wayne Gretzky broke against the North Stars way back when he played for Edmonton. And the “homer hanky” I waved when the Minnesota Twins won the 1987 and 1991 World Series. And the framed photograph of me and Kirby Puckett—Kirby is the one in the Twins uniform; I’m the one with the stupid grin.
I remembered a few more details, formed a few more thoughts while I dusted, and keyed them into the system. I went to my windows, watched the lights of the city and shoppers strolling the Nicollet Mall.
The Nicollet Mall is our answer to New York’s Fifth Avenue except there is no automobile traffic. Only buses. People meander the winding streets, crossing with impunity, queuing up at the shops and restaurants, listening to the street musicians who play for the change the people toss into their open instrument cases. Periodically the cops will drive the musicians out, but they always return. One musician, a tall black man with tired eyes whom I call “the Saxman,” always plays the same corner, the one where Mary Tyler Moore tossed her hat in the air at the beginning of her TV program. I once heard Sonny Rollins in concert and I swear this guy could give him a run. Maybe once, twice a week I’ll drop a few bills into his red felt case and listen to him play. He’ll see me and nod. I nod back. We never speak to each other. What’s there to say? “Man, why are you playing saxophone on a street corner?” “Man, why are you listening?”
The best time to be on the mall is at noon when thousands of young women scramble over the street,
trying to get their shopping done before the lunch hour expires. Especially in the spring, when they shed their bulky winter garments and flit from shop to shop like butterflies in search of a place to land. The most attractive young women in America come from Minnesota’s small towns, filling the Twin Cities’ office towers with their freshness and exuberance, with their wholesome and wholly unaffected beauty. You can lean on the lamppost at Seventh and Nicollet and watch them—watch them while the Saxman plays soft and low, watch them as they move through their lives completely unaware of life’s cruelties and dangers. They fill the air with their sweetness; you can breathe it in and hold it like the bouquet of a fine red wine. Sometimes it’s enough to make you cry. And when the Saxman is really on, you watch the young women in their spring dresses and you pray that it will always be this way, that you’ll never find one of them lying spread-eagled on the hood of a car in a dark parking ramp somewhere, her body ripped, her beauty wasted. Like I have.
I thought of Amy Lamb and went back to my cleaning.
I was sitting at the PC, preparing a list of names and on-line directories to drag them through, when my telephone rang. The voice that answered my hello surprised me. It belonged to Cynthia Grey.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
“Go ’head.”
“In person.”
“I’m busy.”
“It’s important.”
What was important to her wasn’t necessarily important to me, I decided. But I was just about finished in my office and the prospect of going home alone, of facing another lonely night, this one filled with images of Amy Lamb … I asked Cynthia where I should meet her and she directed me to a dive on Franklin near the freeway in Minneapolis.
“For someone who doesn’t drink, Counselor, you seem to spend a lot of time in bars.”
SIXTEEN
LE CHATEAU was a blue-collar strip joint located in a neighborhood where men slept in the open using newspapers for blankets and their hands for pillows. Rectangular, with a flat roof and no windows, it bore not even a faint resemblance to a French castle; the only daylight that ever made its way inside seeped through the spy hole in the thick metal door. Above the door a neon sign flashed LIVE NUDES LIVE. Inside another sign read TABLE DANCES $15. DON’T BE OVERCHARGED. It was suspended from the ceiling by a thin chain. Beneath it a bored, overweight bouncer collected the cover.
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