Pretty Girl Gone Page 16

  “And shovel your sidewalks.”

  “That, too. When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know. This favor I promised to do, it’s turning out to be more complicated than I thought it would be.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Ask.”

  “When I spoke to you earlier, I said I loved you, but you didn’t say that you loved me back.”

  “You know I do, don’t you, Nina? Do I have to say it?”

  “It’s something a girl likes to hear every now and again.”

  “I love you.”

  There, I said it.

  She exhaled like she had been holding her breath a long time.

  “Nina?”

  “I’m okay. It’s just . . . after our last conversation . . . I guess I’m a little paranoid. I blame my ex-husband. ’Course, I blame my ex-husband for most of the things that are wrong with my life.”

  “I don’t know about your ex, Nina. I’ll tell you the one thing I do know: I really miss you when you’re not around.”

  Nina hesitated, said, “I’ll tell you the one thing I know for sure. You’re both my lover and my best friend. Without you I’d be so absolutely, totally outnumbered.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then, what?”

  “Well, then, I’d better hurry home.”

  “Call me. We’ll have dinner or something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Mac? I wish . . . I just wish.”

  “Good night, Nina.”

  “Good night, Mac.”

  I traded the cell phone for the remote and went back to CNN. There was unrest in Iraq. Wow, that’s news, I told myself.

  A few moments later, a hard knock brought me cautiously to the door of my motel room. I peered through the spy hole. City of Victoria Interim Chief of Police Danielle Mallinger was standing on the other side of the door. My first thought was that Hugoson and Reif had ratted me out. But then why was the desk clerk cowering behind Mallinger’s shoulder?

  I set the chain and opened the door, pulling the chain taut.

  “May I help you?”

  “Mr. McKenzie?” Mallinger said.

  “If that’s your real name,” the desk clerk added.

  “What do you mean, if that’s my real name?”

  “Could you open the door, please,” Mallinger said.

  “For what purpose?”

  “Rushmore McKenzie,” the desk clerk said. “It sounds like a phony name to me.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to check your identification,” Mallinger said.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Mr. McKenzie.”

  “I told you. He’s a drug dealer,” said the night clerk.

  “Just a minute.”

  I closed the door, pulled my jeans back on, removed the chain, yanked the door open, and stepped into the hall.

  “What did you call me?”

  “A drug dealer.”

  I stepped toward the desk clerk and was immediately intercepted by Mallinger. She put a hand on my chest and nudged me backward.

  “Look at the way he’s dressed,” the night clerk insisted.

  “It’s a hockey jersey.”

  “That’s what the gang kids wear.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Mallinger ordered.

  “Oh, you better have a good explanation for this,” I told her.

  “Look at him, Chief,” the desk clerk told Mallinger. “He fits all the criteria you said to look for. He checks in alone, late at night, driving a flashy car—”

  “Flashy car? It’s an Audi.”

  “He doesn’t have luggage, pays cash to use a room for only one night, uses an alias. What kind of name is Rushmore McKenzie?”

  “It’s the name my father gave me!”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “This is intolerable,” I shouted, then remembered what Greg Schroeder did when I said the same thing to him: he laughed.

  “Dammit!”

  I pushed past Mallinger into my room. A moment later I thrust my driver’s license into Mallinger’s hand. “My ID. Do you have an MDT in your cruiser? Of course, you do. You ran my ID and license plates this morning.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what the hell?”

  “He’s not a drug dealer?” the desk clerk asked.

  “No. He’s an ex-cop.”

  I glared at the desk clerk.

  “Go away,” I told her.

  “Thank you for your help, Florence,” Mallinger told the desk clerk. “I can take it from here.”

  “I only did what you said,” the woman insisted.

  “I appreciate it,” Mallinger said. “Very good job.”

  “He’s not a danger?” the desk clerk said, meaning me.

  “No, he’s fine, thank you. You can go now. Thank you.”

  Mallinger and I watched her leave.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Just trying to keep the riffraff out of Victoria.”

  “Go away.”

  “No, really. I want to talk to you.”

  “Go away.”

  “C’mon, McKenzie. Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “In my flashy car.”

  “In Victoria an Audi is a flashy car. Seriously, I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  Mallinger gestured at the open door.

  “If this is just a cheap trick to get me alone in a motel room . . .”

  Mallinger removed her hat and dropped it on the small table, removed her bulky coat and draped it over the back of a chair, both without asking permission. She sat down.

  “Comfy?” I said.

  Mallinger ran long, slender fingers through her red hair. “We have a meth problem in Victoria,” she said.

  “Everyone has a meth problem.”

  “That’s why I’m having Florence and the other motel managers take a hard look at strangers.”

  “Like me.”

  “Have you heard about those kids we busted?”

  “I have.”

  “They were virgins, never tried the stuff before. Didn’t know if they should sniff, smoke, or inject it. They bought it off a guy outside a bar near the county road. Only they couldn’t ID him, the man who sold it. All they knew what that he was scary-looking.”

  “That pretty much describes every meth user I’ve ever seen.”

  “I want to arrest him. I want to put him away. That’s what they pay me for.”

  “A drug bust would also go a long way toward removing the interim label from your title.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  “Why are you talking to me?”

  “You used to be a cop. A good one. I checked you out, first after your problems at the Rainbow Cafe this morning and then some more after your run-in with Reif and Hugoson.”

  “They file a complaint?”

  “Not with me.”

  “Where are you going with this, Chief?”

  “You’ve been running around town talking to a lot of people, asking a lot of questions.”

  “Not about meth.”

  “You want to know what happened to Elizabeth Rogers.”

  “That’s becoming less and less of a secret.”

  “I can help.”

  “How?”

  “I can show you the original incident reports, the supplementals, photos of the victim, transcripts of the Q&As, the coroner’s final summary—everything.”

  “I’d like to see the reports.”

  “Then give me something in return.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever you find out. A smart guy like you, McKenzie, someone who keeps his eyes and ears open, he could do himself a lot of good.”

  “If I learn anything at all about your meth problem, I’ll tell you.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  “Why not? But you gotta know, Chief, meth is easy. These people,
they’re so damn paranoid they’re far more dangerous than any other people who use drugs. More guns, more violence. They love booby traps.”

  “You call that easy?”

  “Because they’re so outrageously paranoid you can get rid of them with a simple knock-and-talk. Just knock on their doors and warn them to shut down or prepare to be arrested and they’ll be on the first stage outta Dodge. The trouble is, all you’re doing is moving them down the road to another jurisdiction.”

  “The trouble is finding them, McKenzie. Help me find them and I’ll help you.”

  Seemed fair enough.

  10

  Mankato was originally called Mahkato—meaning “greenish blue earth”—by its earliest inhabitants, the Dakota, although it didn’t look any different to me. It became Mankato because of a spelling error that was never corrected, possibly made by the eighteenth-century Europeans searching for the Northwest Passage who settled there after getting lost on the Minnesota River. That’s all I knew about the city except that it was where the Minnesota Vikings football team held its annual training camp.

  About four inches of snow fell overnight, but the plows had been out early and I had no trouble holding the road even at fifteen miles above the posted speed limit. The sun was bright and the sky was unclouded and deep blue.

  I easily found Dr. Dave Peterson’s address, a red brick three-story building across from the River Hills Mall that he shared with several dentists, two psychiatrists, and an insurance agent. An assistant guided me to an examination room that I guessed also served as Dr. Peterson’s office because of the family photographs and certificates hanging from the walls. I studied the photos while I waited. In their wedding picture, Dr. Peterson’s wife was a petite brunette and he was tall with a full head of hair. She had become a plump blonde and he was bald by the time their photograph was taken at their daughter’s high school graduation and I wondered if Nina’s future and mine held a similar fate.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten past eight. Dr. Peterson was late, but when was a doctor ever on time? I examined his certificates—Bachelor of Arts, Gustavus Adolphus College; Doctor of Medicine, University of Minnesota; Medical Specialist, Department of Ophthalmology, University of Minnesota; elected to the American Academy of Ophthalmology. That killed another five minutes. At twenty past eight, I returned to the receptionist to advise her that I was still waiting.

  “I’m sorry. Dr. Peterson cannot see you today. Would you like to reschedule?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not here for an examination. I came to ask—”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Peterson cannot see you today.”

  “Please. I’m here—”

  “Would you care to reschedule your appointment? We have an opening in March.”

  I considered shouting. It’s amazing how much grease a squeaky voice can get. Only the receptionist didn’t look like a woman who was easily intimidated.

  “May I leave a message?” I asked instead.

  “Certainly.”

  On a notepad emblazoned with the doctor’s name, address, and phone number, I wrote:

  Since everyone has been so cooperative, I’m going to petition the Cold Case Unit of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to immediately reopen the investigation into the murder of Elizabeth Rogers.

  “Make sure he gets that,” I said.

  “Certainly,” said the receptionist.

  I found Mankato West High School on the other side of town near the Minnesota River. It was a midsize school, educating over 1,200 students grades nine through twelve, and it took its security seriously. I was intercepted first in the parking lot and then just inside the front entrance by people who were very keen to know my identity and business. After explaining, I was given both a visitor’s tag that I wore around my neck on a chain and an escort to Grace Monteleone’s office.

  The years had not been as kind to Monteleone as they had been to Suzi Shimek. She was forty pounds too heavy, she had changed the color of her hair from auburn to a kind of orange-blond to mask the gray, and her face was etched with the lines of responsibility. Her eyes were clear, yet held the slightly wearied expression of someone who had been lied to often and was still having trouble getting used to it.

  Monteleone’s greeting was friendly, yet not warm.

  “You have questions concerning the Victoria Seven?” she said, repeating what I told her over the phone. “I’m not sure I can help you.”

  I glanced around, trying to get a sense of the woman from the decor of her office. There was little to grab hold of. The carpet matched the drapes, which matched the chairs, which were made of the same wood as the desk, credenza, and file cabinets. Plaques testifying to Monteleone’s competence were set at eye level and arranged eighteen inches apart. I could sniff the aroma of coffee, yet found no coffeemaker or mugs. Nor were there any unsightly stacks of paper or loose pads and pens lying about. The room could have been a display in an office furniture store showroom for all the personality it revealed, except for the few photographs arranged neatly on the desk.

  “Your family?” I asked.

  “Yes. This is my son and daughter-in-law.” Monteleone held up the largest of the photographs. “This rapscallion”—she spoke the word proudly—“is my grandson.”

  “Good-looking kid,” I said.

  “Yes, and he knows it, too.” Monteleone smiled proudly. “He’s only twelve and already the girls are swarming around him. He’s very bright, too. But you have to keep an eye on him. He’s a Sagittarius like his father, and Sagittarians are adventurous, which means he can be a lot of trouble. Fortunately”—Monteleone set the photograph back on her desk—“that’s my daughter-in-law’s problem. I’ve already done my time.”

  I pointed at the third photograph. It was smaller, a three-by-five of a young soldier taken with a pocket camera, the color fading badly.

  “Is that your husband?”

  “Yes,” Monteleone said.

  “Suzi Shimek said he was killed in Vietnam.”

  “You spoke to Suzi?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Monteleone nodded.

  “Suzi never knew my husband. I hardly knew him. We found each other in June after I moved here from Victoria. We married in August, right before he shipped. He was killed on Christmas Eve.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Monteleone returned the photograph. “Why are we meeting?”

  “John Allen Barrett. He was one of your students in Victoria.”

  “Governor Barrett. Yes, he was my student, I am proud to say.”

  “Why proud?”

  “When a teacher sees one of her students become a success, she likes to think she played a small part in that success.”

  “Suzi said he was your pet.”

  “Teacher’s pet?” Monteleone chuckled. “I suppose he was. I wanted him to do well. He was capable of doing so very well.”

  “He won the state high school basketball tournament.”

  “I don’t remember him for that.”

  “What do you remember him for?”

  “His kindness. His consideration. He had the gift of making the people around him feel better about themselves.”

  “Suzi said he was very intelligent.”

  “Oh yes. That, too.”

  “He dated Elizabeth Rogers.”

  “She was the prettiest girl in high school. Who else was he going to date?”

  “I heard she and Barrett had a fight the night she was killed.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “That’s why he left the party early.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Why do you think he left the party early?”

  “He was tired of it. Tired of the hoopla surrounding the team. Jack liked basketball. It helped him get noticed at an early age. It earned him a scholarship at the University of Minnesota. Yet it was never as important to him as it was to everyone else. He was smart enough to appreciate that i
t was just a game.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Many times.”

  “Were you close?”

  “No more than any teacher and student.”

  “The two of you spoke a great deal, I’m told.”

  “Jack had dreams beyond basketball. He was grateful to have someone he could confide in.”

  “What were his dreams?”

  “To get as far away from Victoria as possible.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Monteleone glanced at the photographs of her family for a moment before answering.

  “I suppose I’m being unfair. It wasn’t Victoria that Jack despised. It was his father. Jack’s mother died when he was a baby. When he was ten, Jack’s father told him, ‘When your mother died, they all said I should put you in an orphanage. I didn’t, and it was the worst thing I ever did in my life.’ Can you imagine that? A man saying something like that to his ten-year-old son?”

  I flashed on my own father, who did everything for me after my mother died. No, I couldn’t imagine it.

  “Jack remembered the words verbatim,” Monteleone said. “They haunted him. Because of those words, Jack never asked for anything from his father. The reason he spent so much time playing basketball was so he could get away from him. His father, for his part, never went to see Jack play. Not even the title game. Jack was a hero in Victoria, but not at home. I wasn’t surprised at all that he refused to attend his father’s funeral. Instead, he went to Europe to play basketball. Given his background, it’s a wonder Jack turned out as well as he did.”

  “Perhaps you had something to do with that,” I suggested.

  Monteleone gave it a moment’s thought before saying, “It’s nice to think so.”

  “Have you seen him, spoken to him, since he left school?”

  “No. I shook his hand once during a campaign fund-raiser here in Mankato a couple of years ago, but he didn’t recognize me.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Monteleone no longer resembled at all the attractive young woman in the Victoria High School yearbook.

  “I’ve been in Victoria,” I said. “Some people blame Governor Barrett for Elizabeth Rogers’s death.”

  “What nonsense. He couldn’t possibly have known she would be killed when he left the party.”