Practice to Deceive Read online

  What’s more, I think he felt cheated. He had supported Anne every step of her career, encouraging her when she was down, helping her cram for tests, taking care of the kids when she was in Quantico being trained by the FBI to hunt serial killers and rapists. I guess he thought he’d be getting something out of it besides the satisfaction of seeing his wife reach the top of her profession. Something for himself. It might have been different if Anne had stayed with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension instead of joining the St. Paul PD. The differences in their ranks would not have been as pronounced, and he wouldn’t have had to listen to fellow officers who wondered aloud if he saluted her in bed. But, hell, he’d encouraged her to make that move, too.

  Understand, I never liked the guy. In all the years I knew him, he never once called me by name. It was always “Detective.” But I guess I can’t blame him for that, either. I was Anne’s partner in homicide for over four years—I had a lot more of her time than he did.

  “How’s the old man?” I asked.

  “Ex-old man,” Anne corrected me. “I haven’t heard from him for a while. He was supposed to take the kids last weekend, but he never showed.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Anne looked out the side window. Then she asked, “How’s Cynthia?”

  “She’s pissed off at me.”

  “Why should she be different from the rest of us?”

  “YOU EVER SEE a gun like that?” I asked Anne. We were alone in an interrogation room. It was early evening.

  “Sure,” she said. “Desert Eagle. Fifty caliber. The Israelis make it for a company here in Minnesota. Located in Fridley, I think. Schwarzenegger and Stallone wave ’em around in all their movies. Makes a helluva noise. A lot of ranges won’t allow them, especially indoors.”

  “My ears are still ringing,” I admitted.

  Back in the old days—1800, say—you wanted to shoot someone, you’d get out your custom-made dueling pistols, and you and your guy would have a slug of brandy and go at it. Everything was accomplished elegantly and subtly and courageously—there was actually some courage involved, even though standing in an open field letting someone shoot at you was dumber than tarpaper. But big, goddamn fifty-caliber handguns? Jesus Christ!

  “Damn thing must be as heavy as Liz Taylor’s jewelry case,” I speculated.

  “Four pounds,” Anne said, then added, “Everybody goes home tonight. The assistant county attorney says to cut you loose.”

  “Nice of him,”I said.

  “It’s only temporary,” Anne warned me. “After the grand jury hears that lame story of yours, I have no doubt you and Fredricks will be back.”

  She pulled out a worn black pocket calendar and dropped it in front of me. “We found this on Storey’s body,” she said. “Looks like he was a gambler. Not a very good one, either. Almost every single day has a notation for how much he wagered, how much he won or lost—mostly lost. The last couple days are the most telling.”

  She opened the calendar and quickly found her place. I read over her shoulder, surprised she didn’t shoo me away. Muscle memory, I guessed; when we worked together I was always reading over her shoulder.

  MONDAY—Paid Mike $150. Still owe 6G. $100 on 6ers. 479

  TUESDAY—6ers lost, fucking pussies. $50 on Rangers. $50 on Devils. 821

  WEDNESDAY—Won 1, lost 1. $500 on Celtics. 901

  THURSDAY—Lost ass again. Owe Mike $6,500. He has deal. Guy in Minneapolis has job. Pays 10G. I keep 4, pay Mike 6, call it even. Leave Friday. 476

  Anne said, “Friday is blank.”

  “Looks like he lost his ass again,” I said.

  “What do you think these numbers represent?” she asked, pointing at the three digits following each notation.

  “Daily lottery,” I guessed. “Illinois Pick Three, probably. Looks like he was keeping track.”

  “Maybe,” Anne said, not willing to commit. She closed the calendar.

  “Chicago PD helping you find this Mike?” I asked.

  “So they say.”

  “Think it’ll do any good?”

  Anne shrugged then smiled. “Are you going to tell me what you’re working on now?”

  “Like I said before, I have no paying clients,” I assured her.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” she told me.

  When I didn’t say anything more, Anne sighed heavily. It was her I-don’t-believe-a-word-that-you’re-telling-me-but-I’m-going-to-let-it-slide-for-now sigh. Then she added, “Interesting company you’ve been keeping,” she said.

  “Freddie?”

  “He’s having a wonderful time; was positively gleeful when he told the assistant county attorney how he pumped four rounds into the victim. ‘Saved Taylor’s worthless fuckin’ life.’ Must have said it twenty times.”

  “He’s a helluva guy,” I admitted. “They should carve his face on a mountain.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Anne told me, then watched my face to see how I would react. I wasn’t sure myself. A few hours ago I would have agreed with her. But now? I said nothing.

  “We confiscated his gun,” Anne added.

  “Probably a wise precaution. Wouldn’t want him saving my life again.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. Just don’t have lunch with Monica Adler.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Or Levering Field,” Anne oh so casually tossed out.

  “Hmm? What?”

  “Levering Field. Surely you remember Mr. Field. The Ramsey County court was moved to issue a restraining order forbidding you to have any contact with him.”

  “And I haven’t,” I lied.

  “Monica Adler is his attorney.”

  “You don’t say?”

  Anne did not reply. She looked away, preferring not to look me in the eye when she said without emotion, “I would cry if something happened to you, Taylor. I would be so upset, I’d have to recuse myself from the case and let Casper and McGaney work it. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “No,” I admitted. Especially the part about her crying.

  THE SIGNS AROUND Como Lake were identical and spaced about one hundred feet apart. They demanded that pet owners pick up after their animals. Apparently, pet owners in St. Paul take such signs seriously. It took me over an hour to find enough dog droppings to fill a grocery bag a quarter full. Then I double-bagged the droppings so the fire would burn longer. Leaving it on Levering Field’s doorstep, I lit the bag, rang the doorbell and dashed to my Monza. I reached it, hid behind it, just as Levering’s front door opened and he stepped out. He looked at the bag, hesitated a moment, then stomped on it.

  “Aww, shit!” he yelled.

  I THOUGHT IT all was just so damn funny that I had to tell Cynthia, describing the expression on Levering’s face in exquisite detail. “When it comes to pranks, you just can’t beat the classics,” I told her. But Cynthia was not amused; I should have guessed. Instead she chose to linger over what had happened earlier in the day.

  “It scares me, what you do for a living,” she said.

  “Scares me, too,” I said. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

  She just stared, her eyes wide. I could not identify the emotions she was working through. Anger? Frustration? A tear formed, but she brushed it away quickly. Sorrow? Why sorrow?

  “It’s what I do,” I said.

  “You can do other things,” she replied, her voice strong and clear.

  “But not as well.”

  “Quit joking.”

  “I’m not. Truly I’m not.”

  TEN

  LEVERING FIELD NEVER actually said “uncle.” Or “I give.” Or even “I’m sorry.” What he said was, “Come to my house at eleven o’clock, and I’ll have your money.”

  “All of it?” I asked.

  “All of it,” he said, and hung up.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said to the receiver.

  I took my time shaving, showering, getting dressed—at least I thought I did. Tru
th is, I was so jazzed that I managed the job in fifteen minutes flat. It was barely eight when I finished. I’m not a breakfast person, and there isn’t anything on TV on Saturday mornings worth watching—even ESPN is disappointing, broadcasting nothing but fishing shows. I decided to pass the time in my office. Only there wasn’t much to do once I got there, either. I made coffee, read the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Minneapolis Star Tribune newspapers, and waited. I thought about calling my dad but decided he could keep until I had the cash in my hand.

  Of course, the thought that I might be walking into another trap never entered my mind. That’s why I took the Beretta 9mm, the one with the holster, out of my drawer and hung it on my belt just behind my right hip. I also considered calling Freddie, then decided against it. Levering didn’t make me half as nervous as Freddie did. Besides, a hit at Levering’s own home? I just couldn’t see it.

  At ten-thirty I left my office, reclaimed my car from the lot and drove to my house, taking the entrance ramp to I-94. I accelerated hard off the ramp. My Chevy Monza surged forward and then, inexplicably, began to coast. All the red lights on my dashboard flared at the same time. I pressed the accelerator, but there was no power. I slipped in the clutch, turned the ignition. Nothing. I drifted to the shoulder of the freeway, slowed to about fifteen, and tried to pop the clutch. Nothing. I stopped the car just past the Riverside Avenue exit.

  I raised the hood and looked underneath. I don’t know what I expected to find. A big switch stuck in the off position, I suppose. I fiddled with a few wires, went back behind the wheel, turned the key. Zip.

  I cursed the Monza. She had served me without fail for eighteen years and an astonishing one hundred ninety-four thousand miles come hell or hard winters, but what has she done for me lately? Then I cursed myself when I realized I had left Sara’s cell phone in my office.

  I-94 was at the bottom of a steep man-made valley cut through Minneapolis. There was nothing for me to do but climb one side of the valley, vault the fence at the top, and follow the service road to a Perkins restaurant.

  When I walked into the restaurant, the hostess saw the mud on my shoes, knees, and hands and clearly breathed a sigh of relief when I went to the public telephone. My first call was to Park Service, a garage I frequent on Como Avenue. I explained my situation to Nick, the owner, and requested a tow. He said a wrecker would be rolling in minutes. My next call was to Levering Field’s home. The phone rang six times before it was answered by a machine. As requested, I recited my name, the time, and delivered a message: Car trouble; I’ll be there as soon as possible.

  When I returned to my Monza, a representative of the Minnesota Highway Patrol was placing a citation under my windshield wiper—it is an offense to park on the freeway. I attempted to explain the difference between parking and breaking down, but he ignored my argument. I told him I had already called for a tow and would be out of his way in ten minutes. He thought that was swell. Then I told him I was an ex-cop. He smiled at that, took the citation from the windshield and pressed it into my hand. He told me to have a nice day.

  The patrolman went back to his unit, I sat inside the Monza, and we waited separately for the wrecker. It arrived ten minutes later. Ten minutes after that I was loaded up, and we were heading east again, along I-94 to Highway 280. I gave the patrolman a one-finger wave when he passed us at the exit.

  Another ten minutes later and we were at Park Service. I called Levering Field yet again, getting his answering machine once more. I asked Nick, if I could borrow his loaner. He said sure, directing me to a maroon American Motors Ambassador that he had bought at auction from the Minnesota Department of Transportation. It had a sluggish transmission and about one gallon of gas, but it was clean. I stopped at an Amoco station and filled it up, using my credit card.

  It was eleven-forty-five when I arrived at Levering Field’s home.

  I’LL TELL YOU the difference between St. Paul and Minneapolis. In St. Paul, someone knocks on your door, you open it. In Minneapolis, you peek through the spy hole and shout, “What do you want?” But Levering’s front door was unlocked and open about a foot. Hell, they don’t do that even in the suburbs. I slipped the Beretta out of my holster, gripped it with two hands, nudged the door open further, and slipped inside.

  I stood for a long time in the entryway, listening intently. There was no sound except my breath coming fast. Nothing moved. Not me. Not the stiff on the floor.

  It was too bad about the blood. Levering was a nifty dresser; it was the only thing about him that I admired. Take the charcoal number he wore now. Silk. Hand stitched. Impeccable. But the blood that seeped from the bullet hole in the back of his head soaked the collar and shoulders. Have you ever tried to remove blood stains from silk? I shook my head in disgust. That suit must have cost—what? Twenty-five hundred bucks? Maybe more. Now it was just an expensive dust rag. As for Levering … I bent to the body and placed two fingers across his carotid artery. It was a wasted gesture. Judging from where the bullet was lodged in back of his skull, he was probably dead before he hit the floor.

  Levering was stretched out in his living room, his mouth full of carpet, his left hand reaching toward the second floor staircase just beyond the front door. The room was neat, no sign of a struggle. No sign of the money, either. I squatted next to Levering’s body, wondering why these things always happen to me, when I heard her.

  “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” the woman’s voice screamed. I looked up to see Levering’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Emily. She was standing just inside the entry-way, a half dozen shopping bags gripped in her hands. She dropped the bags and screamed some more.

  “You killed my father! You killed my father!”

  I straightened up, slipping the Beretta into the holster on my hip.

  “It sure looks that way,” I admitted.

  THE 911 OPERATOR wanted me to stay on the line after I reported the murder, but I had nothing more to say to her. I wished her a nice day and hung up. The first squad car arrived exactly eighty-seven seconds later by my watch. It carried only one officer. He sprang from the unit like he was landing on Omaha Beach. Twenty minutes later Levering Field’s house looked like an invasion site. I counted no less than eight blue and whites and four unmarked cars, grille lights flashing, light bars going full.

  The St. Paul Police Department’s lab guys were already inside, dusting everything, shooting videotape of every square inch of the crime scene. Outside, the crews from four different TV news stations recorded the comings and goings at the Fields’ residence from the other side of the yellow tape that kept them on the sidewalk. Occasionally, they pointed their cameras at me. Why not? I was the only one leaning against an SPPD cruiser with handcuffs on, palms facing outward, uncomfortable as hell. One of the newshounds jumped up and down and waved and yelled, “Hey, pal!” I gave his camera a nice smile. Wait until Mom hears about this.

  Anne rode the hammer into the driveway and was out of the car before the siren’s whine had died away. She had already been late for one shooting this week; damned if she’d miss a second. She saw me leaning against the car and stopped. I smiled at her. She did not smile back. A moment later she was inside.

  Uniforms with nothing better to do were loitering outside the door, around the squad cars, and along the perimeter of the crime scene, standing inside the bright yellow tape like they were something special. They all snapped to when Anne arrived. One ambitious team started noting the license plate numbers of all the vehicles parked anywhere near the scene. The officer who had cuffed me was on his radio, checking to see if any citations for parking or moving violations had been issued in the area that morning. Suddenly, everyone wanted to help. Anne does that to people.

  THEN AMANDA LEVERING arrived, holding unsteadily to the arm of a man who never took his eyes off her, and went into the house. I recognized him immediately. It was the man she had met after I sent her the flowers.

  Amanda was in the house for less than fifteen minutes. When she emerge
d, she was holding the hand of her daughter, the man following behind. They all stopped to get a good look at me. This time I did not smile.

  THE MEDICAL EXAMINER followed the stretcher out. He was wearing a black sports jacket over his medical blues, a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket. A body bag lay on the stretcher. The color matched the ME’s coat. He was still wearing his rubber gloves.

  I watched as they loaded the body into the ambulance. The ME retreated to his station wagon. Both vehicles left, an officer holding the yellow tape high to let them creep underneath it.

  ANNE CROSSED THE lawn slowly, McGaney following at her heels. She was carrying my Beretta in a plastic bag.

  “I thought you stopped carrying,” she said when she reached my side.

  “It hasn’t been fired,” I assured her.

  “Have you been informed of your rights?” she asked, handing the bag to McGaney.

  “C’mon Annie. Cut me some slack.”

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You said something. What was it?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  Annie wouldn’t let it go. “Did you hear him say something?” she asked McGaney.

  “He wants you to cut him some slack,” McGaney answered.

  “Book him,” Anne said.

  “‘Book him’?” I repeated. “Who are you, Steve McGarrett?”

  Anne took a backward step, an odd expression on her face, one I had not seen before. Then her right hand came up. I turned away from it, but it caught me high on my right cheekbone just below the eye, sending a shiver of pain up through the top of my head and then down. I hunched, waiting for a second blow that did not come. After a moment, I turned toward her.

  The knuckles on Anne’s right hand were red and already swelling. I knew she was hurt, but she refused to acknowledge the pain, refused to even flex her fingers. Instead she let her hand rest at her side, motionless. If my hands hadn’t been shackled behind by back, I would have resisted the impulse to rub my throbbing cheek for the same reason.