Pretty Girl Gone Read online

  “It’s good to see you,” I said.

  “Long time,” she told me.

  A waitress appeared, set two menus before us, and asked for drink orders. Lindsey requested iced tea after first being assured that the Groveland Tap brewed its own. I had the same.

  The waitress grinned brightly. “It’ll be just a moment, Mrs. Barrett.” Lindsey nodded her approval. The waitress departed and Lindsey sighed deeply, pulled off the knit hat, and dropped it on the bench next to her.

  “Ah, the joys of celebrity,” I told her.

  “I wanted our meeting to be secret.”

  “Why?”

  The waitress reappeared. I wondered when I had last seen such brisk service.

  “Here you go, hon,” she said, setting the beverages before us. “Would you like to order now?”

  “Later, perhaps,” Lindsey said.

  “I’m Terry, Mrs. Barrett. You just give me a wave when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Terry.”

  The waitress left without once looking at me.

  Lindsey frowned.

  “Shake it off, Zee,” I said, like she was a teammate who had just gone down swinging. “You grew up not far from here. People would recognize you even if you weren’t the first lady.”

  “Zee. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a good, long time.”

  “How’s Linda?” I asked, just to be polite.

  “Working on her fourth marriage.”

  “Too bad.”

  “She should have stayed with you.”

  “We were children when we knew each other. If we had stayed together, it would have only ended up being the first marriage for both of us.”

  “You never did marry, did you?”

  “No.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “I’m still waiting for you to realize that I’m the man you’ve been searching for your entire life and that you made a terrible, terrible mistake marrying Barrett. That’s why you called, right?”

  “McKenzie, you are a terrible flirt.”

  “When you say that, do you mean I flirt a lot or that I don’t do it well?”

  “Both.”

  “Why did you call?”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she gazed at our drinks for a few moments, and then at the walls of the booth and finally at me. She was dressed in silk and cashmere; a long, charcoal-colored wool coat hung on the hook next to the booth. She looked like she had never wanted for anything, but that was merely a carefully cultivated illusion. I knew her when she worked the camera counter at Walgreen’s to put herself through school.

  “What is it, Zee?”

  “Probably nothing. It’s just—It just makes me so angry.”

  “What does?”

  “I heard that you do favors for people.”

  “Sometimes. For friends.”

  “Am I a friend?”

  “You know you are.”

  “Perhaps you can do a favor for me—for old time’s sake.”

  “Sure.”

  “Be careful. You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If I can help you, I will—for old time’s sake.”

  Her voice was serious, yet her mouth formed a smile that was almost giddy, as if she had gone some time without hearing good news. Lindsey reached into her bag and brought out an 8½ by 11 sheet of white paper folded twice and slid it across the table to me. I unfolded it. It was a hard copy of an e-mail. It read:

  John Allen Barrett murdered his high school sweetheart, Elizabeth Rogers, in Victoria, Minnesota, and the police covered it up so he could become a basketball hero. If he runs for the U.S. Senate, I will expose him to the world.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “It’s a lie.” She spoke the word like she had just discovered its meaning. “A big lie.”

  “I should hope so.”

  I examined the e-mail more closely. It was unsigned. The gobbledygook in the “from” field was unpronounceable. It had been addressed to Lindsey Bauer and sent at 6:57 P.M. Friday, three days earlier. The subject line was empty.

  “Lindsey Bauer,” I said.

  “It was sent to my dot-com account,” Lindsey said. “I have a dot-gov address through the state, but this was sent to my private e-mail address.”

  “How many people have your private address?”

  “I don’t know. Not many.”

  I folded the paper and slid it across the table to her. “What do you want me to do?”

  She slid it back. “This is political, I know it is. Someone is trying to mess with Jack through me, and I want to know who.”

  “You want to know who sent the e-mail?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Sure, but . . .” I gestured toward the heavyset man near the door. “Why not use your own people?”

  “Because then it becomes public record. My e-mails through the state, all of Jack’s e-mails—that’s public record. You can get copies through the Freedom of Information Act. But what’s sent to me personally, that’s private.”

  “Unless you make it public.”

  “It could be that’s what all this is about. It would make a nice headline, wouldn’t it: First Lady Asks Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, ‘Is the Governor a Murderer?’ ”

  She smiled slightly, and in that moment I knew she was hiding something. I didn’t know why I knew, yet I did. Probably it was because I had seen her smile often when she was younger and I recognized that it wasn’t the same. All of my internal alarm systems fired at once. The noise was so loud in my head I was amazed that everyone in the restaurant wasn’t diving for the door.

  “What the e-mail says, is it true?”

  Her eyes were sharp, but not angry, as she considered the question.

  “Of course it’s not true.”

  “Because that would have been my first question.”

  “It’s an outrageous lie.”

  “Not who sent it, but if it’s true.”

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what the writer wants you to ask.”

  “Have you spoken to the governor about it?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Does he even know about the e-mail?”

  “He has enough to worry about without this nonsense.”

  The alarm bells just kept getting louder and louder. I felt sweat on my forehead and trickling down my back. I considered removing my bomber jacket, decided to leave it on.

  “Was the e-mail sent to anyone else? To the governor?”

  “I don’t know. If Jack received one, he didn’t tell me.”

  “Why send it to you?”

  “To drive a wedge between us.”

  “Between you and the governor.”

  “Yes.”

  “If that was the case, why accuse the governor of murder? Why not just say he’s sleeping with one of his assistants?”

  “If I knew who sent the e-mail, maybe then I’d know the answer to that, too.”

  She had me there.

  “Is Jack running for the Senate?”

  “People have been asking him about it, only he hasn’t decided, yet. That’s confidential, by the way.”

  “Apparently not.” I slid the paper off the table and into my inside jacket pocket. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, though. The threat goes into effect if Jack runs for senator, not governor.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it almost constantly since I received the e-mail. I have no answers. You will help me, though, won’t you, McKenzie?”

  “You know I will. But, Zee, I gotta ask, why me?”

  “I told you.”

  “You told me why you didn’t go to the state, not why you came to me.”

  “You’re smart. You’re tough.”

  “C’mon, Zee.”

  “If I’ve learned one thing as a politician’s wife, I’ve learned this—plausible deniability. I go to a private investigator, someone
that can be compelled to talk, and the media learns about it, what can I say, what can I do? I go to you, an old friend from the neighborhood, who’s to know, and if they did . . . ?” She shrugged.

  “I could rat you out?”

  “No. Not you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you never told anyone why you broke up with my sister the evening of the senior prom, not in all these years.” She smiled at me. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve never told anyone. Not even your good friend Bobby Dunston.”

  “Not even Bobby.”

  “And you never told anyone about us.”

  “No.”

  “Most men would have. Certainly most men who were seventeen years old would have. They’d have bragged about it every chance they could. Not you.”

  “Not me.”

  “You’re an honorable man, McKenzie. You were an honorable man even when you were a kid.”

  I supposed she was paying me a compliment, so I said, “Thank you.”

  “Do you ever think of that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  The question made me squirm against the back of the wooden booth. “Let’s just say I cherish it and let it go at that.”

  “Do you really?”

  I nodded.

  “I always feel guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “I used you.”

  “In what way?”

  “The night of the prom when I learned that my sister was sleeping with my boyfriend, that they had been together that entire spring—you know, I would have married Michael that spring if he had asked me.”

  “That’s what made it so—is ‘sordid’ the right word?”

  Lindsey nodded and stared at her tea. When she looked back at me her eyes were moist.

  “I didn’t behave much better,” she said. “The evening I invited you over to the house, it wasn’t to return all those gifts that my sister had taken from you—your records, your sweatshirt. It was because she had taken something from me and I wanted to prove I could just as easily take something that belonged to her.”

  “I didn’t belong to her, Zee. That evening I was all yours, body and soul. And I have to tell you—even though it happened only that once—it’s like the song says, ‘I feel a glow just thinking of you.’ ”

  “You will help me then.”

  “Of course I will.”

  In the back of my mind I was thinking, You’re a schnook. Lindsey was using the memory of that one night we spent together to hook me into doing her bidding, and I was going to let her.

  “So, are you going to the gala tonight? Jack’s big charity do? I know you have an invitation. I saw your name on the guest list.”

  “I’m not a gala kind of guy.”

  “You should come. I’ll introduce you to the governor. You’ll like him. I know you will.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, no, I’m running late,” Lindsey said suddenly. “I have to go.” She was standing now, pulling on her coat. The heavyset man at the door was standing as well. Lindsey gestured at the drinks. “I always forget to bring money. Can you get these?”

  “Sure.”

  Lindsey leaned into the booth and kissed my cheek.

  “It was so good to see you again, McKenzie.”

  She put on her hat and sunglasses and moved toward the door. The heavyset man held it open and icy air swirled into the restaurant. I called to her.

  “How do I reach you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find you.”

  “Zee. The e-mail? How can you be sure it’s not true?”

  Lindsey turned. I couldn’t see her eyes for the sunglasses. She said, “You’re a dear,” and hustled out of the door.

  I don’t care for cell phones and the lack of privacy they represent and for a long time I resisted them, a conscientious objector in the telecommunications revolution. But over time I gave in, just as I surrendered years earlier to CDs after vowing vinyl today, vinyl tomorrow, vinyl forever. Guess I’m just a wimp when it comes to peer pressure.

  I opened the tiny phone book I carry, found the correct page, and thumbed ten numbers on the keypad of the cell.

  “McKenzie,” Kim Truong shouted after two rings. I guessed she had read my name on her caller ID. “How are you, you stud muffin?”

  “Same old, Kimmy. Same old. How are you? Staying out of trouble?”

  “What can I say? Thank God for the morning-after pill. Tell me you called because you dumped the girlfriend.”

  “Oh baby, oh baby,” I answered and Kim chuckled. I had never known a woman to speak the way she did, but then I’ve never known a woman quite like her, either—young, petite, pretty, a transplanted Vietnamese computer genius with a barroom personality that would make a sailor blush.

  “Whaddaya need?” she asked.

  “I have a job for you.”

  “Hmm, I like the sound of that.”

  “Can you track down the owner of an e-mail address?”

  “Easy.”

  “With just the address?”

  “Easy. What is it?”

  I recited the long, seemingly meaningless series of letters and numbers in the “from” field on Lindsey’s e-mail.

  Kim was using her surfer’s voice, carrying on a conversation with me while simultaneously surfing the web, reading e-mails or trading instant messages, so I wasn’t surprised when she said, “Wait, wait, wait . . .” Seconds later Kim said, “Tell me again.”

  I did.

  “When did you get the e-mail?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Shoulda called then, Mac. We coulda tapped into the ISP’s short-term memory cache before new records replaced the old records, know what I mean?”

  I pretended that I did.

  “Don’t worry. If your friend’s using a route account with a concrete street address like Eudora or Outlook, it’ll be like looking up a phone number. If he’s using a Web-based account like Yahoo or Hotmail that exists only in cyberland, or even an anonymizer, one of those sites created to mask information about the original sender—and right now I’m thinking that’s what this looks like—it’ll be tougher, but a babe like me, I can handle it.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “Really?”

  “Ten minutes once I start. Can’t do it now. Some delinquent launched a particularly nasty little virus and my accounts are screaming for me to purge their systems before the entire Western economy collapses around them, so I’m gonna have to get back to you.”

  I had often wondered if Kim had ever launched a few viruses of her own in order to drum up business—it would have made for a nifty extortion racket—but I never asked.

  “As soon as you can get to it, I’d appreciate it,” I told her.

  “So, McKenzie. This e-mail. You got a stalker?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like one?”

  “I’ll let you know if there’s an opening.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Kim said. “I can hack an ISP and trace the route back to the original sender, or at least to his computer. No muss, no fuss. Only we’re talking the violation of several federal privacy statutes . . .”

  “I figured.”

  “For that kind of exposure, I’m gonna have to charge you.”

  “You’re on. Just don’t go crazy out there, Kim. Protect yourself, okay?”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “Send me a bill.”

  “What bill? I tell you how much it costs and you pay me in cash. It’s not called the underground economy for nothing. ’Course, I might take the price out in trade, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’ve got my number.”

  “I wish.”

  “Hey, Kimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pleasure talking to you.”

  “See ya.”

  The sky was cloudless and pale; the
sun fierce and white and glistening on the snow piled along the streets and sidewalks. Except the prettiness of the afternoon was just bait to lure unsuspecting prey out of doors. The sweat on my forehead froze so quickly in the frigid air when I left the Groveland Tap that the fingertips of my brown leather gloves came away encrusted with frost when I brushed my brow. I began to shiver as the rest of the perspiration on my body chilled, and it took an effort to keep my teeth from chattering.

  At five degrees below zero—not to mention the minus twenty-three-degree windchill—Minnesotans understand that Nature gives the body a choice. Either lie down and die or run to some place warm. Me, I was running. I broke into a slow trot when I left the Tap, moving along St. Clair Avenue to my Audi parked half a block up. Not for the first time I marveled at those eccentric men and women who dash out of saunas, roll around in the snow or leap into a nearby frozen pond, then hurry back to the sauna before frostbite settles in.

  I had just about reached my car when a man on the other side of the street called, “Excuse me.” He was dressed for business in a gray trench coat over black dress slacks and wingtips. He was carrying an unfolded map in both hands and looked hopelessly lost. It was one of the oldest ploys in the book, but I didn’t see it until he crossed the street and shoved the .38 into my gut. I blamed the weather. After all, how many muggers prowl the streets at five below looking for vics?

  “My employer wishes to speak to you,” he said politely, his warm breath rising like mist.

  “He could have called,” I said. “I’m in the book.”

  A combination of cold fear and hot anger thrilled through me as he pressed the muzzle under my ribs. It was a dangerous combination for all involved—frightened, angry men don’t always do what’s in their best interests. I carefully reviewed his words in my head. “My employer wishes to speak with you.” I took that to mean that he didn’t want me killed, whoever he was—at least not for the time being. I decided to keep it uncomplicated, give my escort no reason to make any fatal mistakes. So, a moment later when a black Park Avenue pulled up, I said, “Is this our ride?”

  My escort yanked open the back door.