Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Read online

  When the desk clerk pushed the registration form in front of me, I signed Jacob Greene’s name carefully.

  There were no lights burning inside the Dunston home. I had watched it carefully before making my way around to the back and across the brick patio Bobby and I had built over the Labor Day weekend. I gently rapped on the sliding glass door—Bobby and I had installed that, too. A moment later, I rapped again, this time louder. A light clicked on inside. Its beam stretched across the floor. Shelby followed the beam into the dining room. She stood at the far end of the table, staring at my image through the glass as she tied a thin robe about her.

  She came forward, unlocked the door, and slid it open.

  “McKenzie, what are you doing?”

  She was whispering. I whispered back.

  “Hi, Shel. Is Bobby here?”

  “No, he’s at work. What’s going on?”

  “Are the girls asleep?”

  “Of course they’re asleep. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Look, if Bobby’s not here, I’m gonna have to ask you to take this.”

  I handed her the shoe box. It contained everything except the cash.

  “What’s this?” Shelby asked.

  “My life.”

  “Your what? What are you—” Shelby set the box on the floor and stepped onto the patio, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “What are you talking about, McKenzie?”

  Her feet were bare, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “You’re cold,” I told her. “Go back inside.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Did Bobby tell you …”

  “He told me everything.”

  “Then you know I’m in trouble.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “All my financial records and my will. The girls get everything.”

  “No.”

  “There’s also a life insurance policy. Fifty thousand dollars. You’re the beneficiary. If anything happens to me, I expect you to buy an expensive sports car. A red one.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “No one lives forever.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” she repeated.

  “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Why not? Do you think you’re protecting me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay here.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll see you.”

  “Rushmore, wait.”

  I waited.

  “I won’t take it very well if something happens to you. I’ll go all to pieces.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “You think that’s funny?”

  She turned her back to me and hugged herself tighter. I could see her reflection in the glass of the patio door. I took a few steps across the brick and rested my hands on her shoulders. She tilted her head back against my chest.

  “You shouldn’t love me.” She was talking to my reflection.

  “I know, but what’s a guy to do?” I quickly added, “I love Bobby, too.” I said it so she’d know she had nothing to fear from me, now or ever. It was a nice gesture, I thought. Made me seem less like a jerk. It also had the added virtue of being true. And another minor concession to let Shelby know I wasn’t obsessed with her.

  “Tell Nina I’ll call her when I can.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now I really do have to go.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell Bobby I’ll be in touch.”

  “I will.”

  I kissed the back of Shelby’s head and smelled her strawberry shampoo.

  “Good-bye, Shelby.”

  She didn’t answer. I left her standing in bare feet on the cold patio brick.

  Rushmore McKenzie no longer had anyplace to go. But Jake Greene had a motel room on the I-494 strip in Bloomington, so that’s where I drove. I had a club sandwich in the bar and three beers. It was nearly 2:00 A.M. before I took the elevator to my room. I showered, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

  “Now what?” I said out loud.

  The gray light of dawn was stretching across the ceiling before I came up with an answer.

  6

  Dr. Jillian DeMarais had a suite in One Financial Plaza, which in the imagination might conjure grandness but was only two connecting rooms. The first measured eight by ten feet and contained two chairs and a sofa with a coffee table between them—a reception room without a receptionist. Jillian used to have a receptionist, someone to book appointments, answer the phone, make coffee, and ensure that patients were comfortable in the waiting room until Jillian was ready for them, only she quit. So did the one before that and the one before that. Now a machine answered Jillian’s calls.

  There were four paintings, one on each of the four windowless walls—a Degas, Matisse, Chagall, and van Gogh. I had often wondered if Jillian used them to diagnose new patients, a kind of artistic Rorschach test. Before we begin, tell me which painting you like best. I preferred the Degas. I had meant to ask Jillian what that revealed about me but never did.

  There was a connecting door that led to an inner office, but it was closed, and I didn’t knock on it. Jillian might be with a patient, and she hated to be interrupted. Instead, I waited. Eventually the door opened. Jillian had been alone, after all.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said when she saw me.

  “Hi, Jill.”

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “I’m like a bad penny. I keep turning up.”

  “Come in.”

  I followed Jillian into her office. She sat behind a desk that had probably cost a considerable fortune when it was built by French craftsmen in the eighteenth century. I sat in front of it. Jillian studied me for a moment with dangerous blue-green eyes. Gazing into them made you forget to watch the road ahead.

  “It hurt me when you stopped calling,” she said. “It hurt me worse than—you could have told me almost anything and it would have been less painful.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you stop calling?”

  “That,” I said, pointing at the medical degree hanging on the wall. “And that.” Moving my finger toward the Ph.D. from Stanford. Jillian DeMarais was two times a doctor. “And that and that.” Pointing at more diplomas, plaques, and board certifications. “You have more degrees than a thermometer.”

  “McKenzie …”

  “You’re intelligent, educated, accomplished, beautiful, rich, and who am I? Just a cop from the neighborhood.”

  “You have money now.”

  “Yes, but I’ll always be just a cop from the neighborhood. You can do better. I realized it every time we went to the ballet, or the opera, or one of those charity things you’re involved in. I realized it every time we met one of your friends.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “You should have called me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re here now,” Jillian reminded me.

  “I need a favor.”

  “A favor? After all this time? How audacious.”

  “I didn’t know who else I could trust.”

  “Trust.” She tasted the word, decided she liked it. “I’ll take that as a compliment. What kind of favor?”

  “You sometimes use hypnotism in your work.”

  “Sometimes. Not often.”

  “I need you to hypnotize me.”

  “Why? Did you forget something?”

  “A license plate number.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Very.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I did, holding nothing back. I wanted her to have as much information as she needed.

  Jillian sighed and rose from her chair. She walked slowly around the desk, picked up a long blue
pen, and began twirling it slowly with the thumb and fingers of her right hand. She sat on the corner of the desk, just inches from where I was sitting.

  “I don’t know, McKenzie. Didn’t you once tell me that I couldn’t hypnotize you? That I couldn’t hypnotize anyone who resists? That only weak-minded people could be hypnotized?”

  I stared at the pen.

  “Didn’t you tell me it had nothing to do with intellect and everything to do with emotions?” I asked her. “That the people easiest to hypnotize were those whose emotions were near the surface?”

  “That pretty much leaves you out, doesn’t it, McKenzie?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We tried this once before.”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you remember that we talked about the colors of the rainbow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked you to say them out loud.”

  “Yes.”

  “Blue’s a rainbow color, isn’t it, McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like the blue of this pen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Close your eyes and tell me if you can still see the blue.”

  “I can see it.”

  “Does it make you feel relaxed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep looking at the blue. Do you feel like you want to sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “To help you sleep, think of the rainbow. Name the colors to yourself one by one. Start with red. When you get to blue, you’ll be fully asleep.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you reached blue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to remember something you’ve forgotten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to remember going to Frank Crosetti’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what happened when you went to Frank Crosetti’s house. Remember it out loud. Start with Frank Crosetti pointing a shotgun at you.”

  “I was frightened.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I heard a car. A man is driving a car up the driveway. He is driving very fast.”

  “Do you see the car clearly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe the car.”

  “It’s a Ford Mustang convertible. 2002 or 2003. The top is up.”

  “What color is the car?”

  “Yellow.”

  “What is the license plate number?”

  I rattled off six digits.

  “Remember the rainbow, McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go through the colors again. When you get to the color blue, you will wake up feeling rested and you’ll remember everything you told me.”

  “Yes.”

  “McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the real reason you stopped seeing me?”

  “You’re not a nice person. You were kind to me, but you were rude to everyone else, to your receptionists, to waiters, parking lot attendants, ushers, to a lot of people.”

  “Start naming the rainbow colors to yourself.”

  When I reached blue, I opened my eyes and found Jillian hovering above me. She had written the license plate number of the yellow Mustang on a sheet of her stationery.

  “Here.”

  I took the sheet.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Jill.”

  She said, “Get out of my office, McKenzie.”

  In some cities—New York and New Orleans come to mind—a sizable percentage of civil servants figure they earn their paychecks just by showing up in the morning. Actually doing work, that costs extra. And if you expect service with a smile, forgetaboutit. But in Minnesota, there is no culture of baksheesh. Most government employees here are happy to assist you. Some will actually go beyond their job descriptions to be helpful and will ask for nothing in return except a simple thank-you, and even that’s not required.

  Take the woman at Minnesota Driver and Vehicles Services in the Town Square Building in downtown St. Paul, for example. She seemed delighted to furnish me with both a Record Request form and the requisite Intended Use of Driver License and Motor Vehicle Information form. She even helped me massage the language I used to complete the section labeled “Explain How You Intend to Use Record Information”—“Owner of vehicle with above license plate number caused damage to rental car; requester would like information to present to rental car company.” When time came to pay for the service, she said, “I’m sorry,” before requesting the $4.50 fee.

  In return, she gave me the name Penelope Joan Glass, 839 47th Avenue, Hilltop, Minnesota, as well as Penelope’s vital statistics—height 5’ 8”, weight 125, eyes blue, hair blonde—and her phone number, date of birth, vehicle identification number, and driver’s license number. I could’ve requested Penelope’s driving record, too, but that cost extra.

  I felt a flush of accomplishment as I wrote down the information in my notebook. I was doing some real detecting and it felt good, like the tingle you get when you exercise seldom-used muscles. But I was left with a question.

  “Where in hell is Hilltop?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” the woman said. “I have a map you can borrow …”

  Forty-seventh Avenue came to an abrupt and unannounced dead end against a high chain-link fence. I muscled the Neon around with a series of tight Y-turns until I faced the open street again and silenced the engine.

  “You live in an area your entire life and you think you know it,” I said aloud.

  The city of Hilltop was little more than a glorified trailer park measuring half a mile long and two-tenths of a mile wide and surrounded on all four sides by the city of Columbia Heights. It wasn’t even on the map. I had to seek help from the St. Paul Public Library to find it.

  “How is this possible?” I had asked the librarian after she showed me the tiny city’s location. She directed me to an article that had appeared in a decade-old edition of Trailer Park magazine.

  According to the article, in 1956 the residents of two independent trailer parks located on the edge of Columbia Heights asked that they be annexed into the city. Columbia Heights refused. So, the residents voted to incorporate and created their own city, called “Hilltop.” Meanwhile, Columbia Heights, fearful that this “junkyard for people”—that was quote from the article—would spread, purchased all the property surrounding Hilltop, effectively stunting its growth.

  “The things you learn in a library,” I said when I read this.

  “That’s just magazines,” the librarian told me. “Wait until you’re introduced to books.”

  You gotta love a sarcastic librarian.

  Hilltop wasn’t easy to find. There were no signs announcing where it began and where it ended. Eventually, I located it on the west side of Central Avenue NE between 45th and 49th Avenues behind two strip malls. Like Columbia Heights, it was a working-class community, a place with more picnic tables than patios, where you’re more apt to see kids running through sprinklers than swimming in pools.

  I couldn’t tell which trailer belonged to Penelope Glass from my vehicle, so I left the Neon and began walking along 47th. It seemed more like an alley than a street, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. I tried to match the addresses on the roadside mailboxes to the trailers. Many of the boxes were hand-decorated, and homemade signs bearing the names of the owners were hung next to some front doors along with American flags. The trailers themselves all seemed to be pretty much the same size but came in an assortment of colors, most of them pastel. The narrow gaps between them were filled with grills, plastic picnic tables, tiny sheds, children’s playthings, carports, and small gardens guarded by trolls.

  There was activity—a little girl played jacks, an old man walked a St. Bernard, a trio of women of a certain age performed tai chi exercises, a woman dressed in black chino shorts and a pink tank top carried a blue recyclables bin to the curb. The woman in the tank top waved at the man with the St. Bernard and disapp
eared into a sparkling white trailer with maroon trim and shutters. I was just passing it when she reappeared carrying a Cub Foods grocery bag filled with discarded newspapers and mail and set it next to the recyclables bin. Her legs were long and lithesome, and her hair was sun-drenched blonde. She reminded me a little of Shelby, and like Shelby she was nearing the age when she would be considered at the high end of Cosmopolitan’s target audience. She fit the description I bought from Driver and Vehicles Services, but I was still confused by the addresses and wasn’t ready to identify her as Penelope Glass. I noticed an empty carport next to her trailer as I strolled past. If she was Penelope, where was her yellow Mustang? Where was the man who was driving it? I kept walking.

  The system of addresses began to make sense to me, and I soon realized that the trailer belonging to Penelope Glass was behind me. I turned around. The three older women practicing tai chi had dispersed. One of them was now chatting with the woman in the pink tank—Penelope, I decided. It had to be.

  How are you going to make this work? I wondered. How are you going to get this woman to identify the man who was driving her car without tipping your hand?

  It seemed impossible. But like Mr. Tierney used to say, “Half the battle is showing up.” Just as I started walking toward the two women, a rusted pickup truck accelerated down the street. It hit a massive speed bump, bounced up and down on worn springs, and drove past me without reducing speed. It came to a sudden and noisy stop in front of the two women. The driver’s door flew open. A man, tall and thin, dressed in dirty jeans, jumped out from behind the steering wheel. He shoved the older woman to the ground and made a grab for Penelope.

  I was already on my horse, sprinting toward them.

  Penelope shouted, “Let go!” as the man dragged her toward the truck.

  Another man in his early forties appeared on the doorstep of the trailer three down from Penelope’s. He was my height with black hair and carried a wooden baseball bat. “Stop,” he yelled.

  The attacker stopped pulling Penelope and looked at him expectantly.

  The older woman was on her feet. She was standing sideways, her legs far apart, her feet at forty-five-degree angles, her body weight evenly distributed—it was a horse stance, a karate stance popular in the ’60s and ’70s. She let loose with a loud shout, a kiai, and I have no doubt she would have inflicted serious damage to the attacker, except I got there first.