Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  By then I had completed a loop twelve blocks long and a couple of blocks wide through downtown Thunder Bay, so I was now approaching my Mustang parked in front of the first pawn shop from behind. That’s when the alarm systems in my head began firing all at once.

  It was an unconscious thing; it took a beat or two for my brain to catch up with my instincts. When it did I saw a tan-colored two-door Toyota with Minnesota license plates parked one block away with clear sight lines to my car. It was occupied. I flashed on Eddie Curtis and the car that he had been driving when Deputy Wurzer stopped him on Marina Road in Grand Portage.

  Most people when their fight-or-flight impulse is triggered will try to convince themselves that there is no danger; they’ll tell themselves that they’re just being paranoid. That’s why they don’t cross the street when they should or get on elevators when they shouldn’t. For example, I could have easily talked myself into believing that there were a thousand tan-colored cars that looked like Curtis’s in Minnesota and this was just one of them. Except, I wasn’t in Minnesota. I spun around and started walking in the opposite direction. I walked quickly. If I was wrong, fine, I told myself, I was wrong.

  I managed ten yards before throwing a glance over my shoulder. Three men were getting out of the Toyota. One of them was Curtis.

  You’ve been made.

  “McKenzie, stop,” Curtis said, in case I was still unsure.

  I think I might have cursed out loud, but I honestly don’t recall.

  I started running.

  They started chasing.

  “You chicken-shit!” Curtis shouted.

  Sticks and stones.

  I was looking for a business, a store, a restaurant loaded with lunch-hour customers, with witnesses; a location where my pursuers would be less likely to pick a fight. After all, there is safety in numbers, a man once said. The Bank of Montreal branch office on the corner seemed promising. Someone there might even be induced to call the cops since I couldn’t. My phone company didn’t provide service in Canada.

  I veered toward the bank.

  That’s when I heard the gunshot.

  I thought I felt a bullet whizzing past my ear, but that might have just been my natural paranoia. I had no doubt, though, that I’d never make the bank. Suddenly, all I could see was the three-story redbrick parking ramp standing directly in front of me.

  A second gunshot.

  Are you fucking kidding me, my inner voice shouted. You can’t shoot people in Canada.

  There was a sign at the front gate of the ramp. MAXIMUM 5 KM/H. I think I was going faster than that when I ducked beneath the red-and-white-striped booth arm and made my way inside.

  Curtis and his friends slowed behind me. I’m not sure why. Maybe they were afraid that I was planning to ambush them with the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer I had left in my room at the Frontier Motel because you can get up to five years just for carrying a concealed firearm in Canada—which partially explained why the United States averages 12,000 gun-related homicides every year and they have about two hundred.

  I had no intention of lingering, though. What was I going to do? Hide behind a car? Crawl beneath an SUV and wait for them to find me? Instead, I dashed up the sloping incline to the second floor of the ramp.

  There weren’t as many cars as I hoped, but there were enough. I saw a Lexus and slammed into it the way a lineman might attack a blocking dummy. Its security alarm went off. I kept running until I encountered a BMW. And a Nissan. And another BMW. Soon the concrete ramp was echoing with the screeching sound of car alarms.

  If you can’t get to a crowd, maybe you can get a crowd to come to you.

  I sliced between two parked cars to a low concrete wall. I could see the ramp on the level below me. I decided it wasn’t too far of a jump—despite my innate fear of heights. I scampered over the wall and leapt onto the hood of a Honda Accord. Its alarm system went off, too.

  I quickly made my way toward the exit. Let Curtis think I was hiding in the parking garage, I told myself, while I zigged and zagged to a safe location where I could explain my dilemma to the local constabulary.

  Only they were smarter than I gave them credit for. Two of the gunmen had followed me into the parking garage, yet the third had moved along the street, positioning himself outside where he had a clear view of the exit.

  Now what, smart guy?

  I heard running footsteps in between the whoop-whoop-whoop of the sirens. I cut back across the ramp and wedged myself in the tiny space between the front grille of a Honda Ridgeline pickup truck and the low wall. The sound of footsteps became louder. I didn’t see who made them.

  Yeah, but did they see you?

  Voices shouting to be heard over the car alarms.

  “Where did he go?” someone asked.

  Okay, they didn’t see you.

  “Did he leave the ramp?” someone else asked.

  “No.” The voice started soft, but became louder as the speaker left his post outside the exit and entered the garage. “McKenzie has to be around here somewhere.”

  “He must be hiding between cars or under a car. You go that way. We’ll go this way.”

  “He could be hiding inside a car.”

  “Eddie, we don’t have time for this.”

  “He’s right. We gotta get out of here. The Mounties.”

  “And then what? He knows who we are.”

  “Eddie…”

  “Keep looking. Hurry.”

  I propped myself between the wall and the truck’s front grille and pulled my legs up so Curtis and his minions wouldn’t be able to see my feet if they searched beneath the Honda. I supported one knee on the bumper and braced the other against the wall, while I folded my body so that it would be hidden by the grille. It was hard; I was doing a complex yoga pose without ever having done yoga before. I figured my chances were better, though, if I stayed put rather than trying to make a run for it. Something I learned hunting pheasants in farm fields with the old man all those years ago. I rarely saw the birds hiding among the cornstalks. It was only when they attempted to fly away that they were in danger of being shot.

  I listened intently.

  Footsteps came and went.

  Voices, only I couldn’t hear what was said.

  One by one the sound of the car alarms died away.

  Silence. It seemed louder than the sirens had been.

  Someone shouted my name. He told me what he was going to do to me.

  Someone else shouted what I could do to myself—something that I wouldn’t have thought was possible until I had folded myself between the pickup and the wall.

  More silence.

  Another siren. And another.

  Outside or inside, I couldn’t tell.

  Give it a few minutes before you take a look, I told myself.

  I waited longer than that.

  My muscles cramped.

  I let them.

  My head ached.

  I ignored that, too.

  Her voice startled me.

  The hand I was using to keep myself perpendicular slipped and my forehead whacked against the truck’s headlight.

  I looked up into her eyes.

  Detective Constable Aire Wojtowick was another woman who made me reevaluate my dating criteria. While Perrin Stewart was big from side to side, she was big from top to bottom. Well over six feet and solid without a hint of doubt in her eyes. If LeBron James ever encountered her on a basketball court, he’d say, “Excuse me,” and dribble in the opposite direction. Her people were from Slovakia, which surprised me. Given her golden hair and blue eyes you’d swear she was a product of Sweden. Or Minnesota.

  “Hello, McKenzie,” she said. “Miss me?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  I uncurled my body and stood. My legs protested when I took a step. I didn’t want Aire to know that, though. My forehead ached, yet I refused to rub it.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  “I was in the neighbor
hood when I heard that there was a running gun battle on the streets of Thunder Bay. Are you out of your mind?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was three others. I have one name and the description of a car. If you contact the Canadian Border Service…”

  “Are you sure there were only three?”

  “Yes. A man named…”

  “I have them in custody. Now I have you, too. My work here is done.”

  We both headed for the exit of the parking garage.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I was the one being chased. Check your traffic cams. And witnesses. There have to be witnesses.”

  “Are you armed, McKenzie?”

  “Of course not. Not in Canada. Wait. How did you find me?”

  “Our parking ramps have cameras. How ’bout yours?”

  “It depends on how old—if you saw film then you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “You haven’t told me anything yet,” she said. “Like what the hell you’re doing in Thunder Bay.”

  “I was going to call you. I really was.”

  “A couple of pawn shop owners beat you to it. You used my name to conduct your inquiries? How dare you, McKenzie?”

  “I can explain all this, Aire.”

  “You’d damn well better. And it’s Detective Constable Wojtowick to you.”

  “It’s going to be a long story.”

  She gestured at my face. “I notice you’ve been bruised.”

  “That’s part of it.”

  By then we had reached the exit of the ramp. There were half a dozen black-and-white Thunder Bay Police Service vehicles blocking traffic and at least twice that many officers. I liked the red patches on the shoulders of their black uniforms and the red bands on their hats. So European. Aire was the only one dressed in plainclothes.

  “Are you still the junior member of the Criminal Investigation Branch?” I asked.

  “I’ve moved up to middle management. Are you still tilting at windmills?”

  “From time to time.”

  We walked past a few of the cars. The trio that had attacked me had been cuffed and stuffed into the backseats of separate vehicles. I wondered if they were also the men who punched me out on the beach across from the Frontier Motel and decided I didn’t really care one way or the other. I recognized Curtis.

  “Let me talk to this guy,” I said.

  “Hell no.”

  “It might give you some insight into what’s going on.”

  “Oh, you’re going to give me plenty of insight, McKenzie. Guaranteed.”

  “Detective Constable.” I used Aire’s title on purpose. “In my country we have a thing called an excited utterance. It’s defined as a statement made by the declarant when the declarant is startled by something. It’s admissible as evidence.”

  “Declarant—that’s a lawyer’s word if I’ve ever heard one. Forget it.”

  “Detective Constable.”

  “Do you honestly think he’s going to take one look at you and confess all his crimes?”

  “His name is Eddie Curtis. He’s a Native American. Ojibwa. First Nation up here. I’m pretty sure he was running a burglary crew out of Cook County in Minnesota. I know for a fact that he came to Canada to kill me.”

  “For a fact?”

  “More or less.”

  “What is it with you Americans that whenever you think beyond your own borders it’s to screw things up for the rest of the world? All right, McKenzie. Five minutes.”

  We approached the officer standing next to the vehicle. He actually tipped his hat at Aire.

  “Ma’am,” he said.

  “Did you read him the caution?”

  “I did, ma’am. I don’t think he appreciates where he is.”

  “Let me give it a try.”

  The officer opened the car door and Aire leaned inside. Curtis stared at her, a blank expression on his face, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “You are under arrest for discharging a restricted firearm in public and about a dozen other crimes we haven’t worked out yet, including attempted murder,” Aire said. “Do you understand? You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. We will provide you with a toll-free telephone lawyer referral service if you do not have your own lawyer. Anything you say can be used in court as evidence. Do you understand? Would you like to speak to a lawyer?”

  Curtis didn’t reply.

  I squeezed between Aire and the door frame.

  “How you doin’, Eddie?” I said.

  “Fuck you, McKenzie.”

  “What are you doing here, Eddie? Who sent you to kill me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You have the chance to do yourself some good, Eddie. I’d take it if I were you.”

  “I have the right to remain silent.”

  “Actually, you don’t,” Aire said. “There’s nothing in the charter that says you have the right to remain silent. I mean, you can. Anything you do or say may be used as evidence against you. But it’s not a right. Nor do you have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. Nor do we have to stop talking to you even if you have nothing to say to us. This is Canada. We do things a little differently up here.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Eddie,” I said. “Look at me. Eddie.”

  He looked.

  “This isn’t the United States. Our laws won’t protect you here. My advice, cooperate.”

  “I—I want a lawyer.”

  “As soon as we get you to jail you can call a duty counsel who will assist you until you can secure representation,” Aire said.

  “Like a public defender?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Who sent you Eddie?” I asked.

  “Fuck you, McKenzie.”

  “Change of subject—where are the paintings?”

  “I am so goddamned tired of hearing about those fucking paintings. I ain’t got nothing to do with them. How many times do I have to say it? If it wasn’t for those paintings you wouldn’t have been nosing around and I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Then why did you kill David Montgomery?”

  “I didn’t kill Dave. Don’t even think of putting that on me. I’m telling you, I have an alibi for that; is what I told that fucking deputy when he pulled me over on the rez like he owned the place. I had nothing to do with it. Dave wasn’t even part of my crew. Okay, sometimes he’d tell me things like about this woman whose windows he replaced who had ancient Roman coins that she turned into jewelry and I’d slip him a couple bucks. Other than that, he was just some asshole dating my sister.”

  “I’m sure she’s very proud of you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Good luck to you, Eddie. You’re going to need it.”

  I stepped away from the vehicle. Detective Constable Wojtowick closed the car door. She spoke to the officer.

  “Did you hear that part about his crew?” she asked. “About the Roman coins?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Make sure it’s in your report.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Together Aire and I started walking down the street.

  “Am I in custody?” I asked.

  “Do you need to be?”

  “I was just wondering if you were going to take me to the police station or if I could drive myself.”

  “Do you remember where it is?”

  “Balmoral Street across from the car dealership?”

  “Where’s your car?”

  I pointed down the block to where it was parked outside the pawn shop.

  “Is that a Mustang? Not having a midlife crisis, are you, McKenzie?”

  “It was a gift from my girlfriend.”

  “Nice. McKenzie, I’m going to ask you a lot of questions in front of a camera. Then we’re going to transcribe your answers and you’re going to sign it after swearing that every word of it is true.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

 
; “For now, though—what are you doing in Thunder Bay?”

  I gave her the edited version.

  Aire’s response was to stare at me.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Your Sheriff Bowland could have done all that himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you mean what do I mean? The man contacts my office. He sends us an incident report along with the list of stolen items. Me or one of my people check the pawn shops like you just did and secure the stolen property. Next, we contact a judge and have an arrest warrant issued for the suspects who sold the stolen property. These suspects, they can only be prosecuted in Canada. If they’re in the States, we can’t touch them. We’ll contact the CBS and have a checkmark placed next to their names, though, so if they try to enter the country again, bingo …

  “’Course, they can’t be prosecuted in the States, either, at least not for selling stolen property in Canada. We would pass on everything that we have and that should be enough for the sheriff to secure a warrant to search the suspect’s house, car, whatever; see if he can build a case, that way. Take the suspect’s fingerprints if they’re not already in the system and try to get a match at the crime scenes. At worst, the sheriff will be able to put eyes on him.”

  “I guess he was put off by all the paperwork, one country’s law enforcement agency cooperating with another,” I said.

  “What paperwork? There isn’t any paperwork beyond what I just told you.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that a sheriff’s department in the United States reaching out to a police service in Canada isn’t any different than working with Wisconsin?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never worked with Wisconsin.”

  “C’mon.”

  “What?”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Deputy Wurzer told me…”

  “What?”

  I gave it some thought and decided. “Maybe it does make sense.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “Nothing. Nothing, Detective Constable. It’s just—you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “While you’re thinking, I have another question for you.”