Pretty Girl Gone Read online

  “Do you?”

  “I read the coroner’s report. I talked to the Seven.”

  “What did they have to say?”

  “They said the sex was consensual.”

  “No way to prove it wasn’t.”

  “They said they didn’t kill her.”

  “They told me the same thing. Stuck together, they did.”

  “Did you interview Jack Barrett?”

  “I did.”

  “What was his story?”

  “Same thing. He didn’t do it. Said he hadn’t seen Beth since he left the party.”

  “Did he know about the sex?”

  “No, and I didn’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “If I could’ve baited him into admitting he knew about the gang bang, that would prove he had seen her after the party. He never tumbled.”

  “Did he have an alibi?”

  “He said he went home, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I had the sense he was hiding something.”

  “You think?”

  I stood on the front stoop, bareheaded, bare hands at my side, my bomber jacket hanging open, the lapels curling open in the breeze. Yet I did not feel the cold.

  “What was his blood type?” I asked. “Did you at least learn that?”

  “O positive.”

  “The same as the tissue found under Elizabeth’s fingernails.”

  “Mighta been.”

  “Did you examine him for scratches?”

  “He had some on his arms, but that coulda happened while playing basketball.”

  “He had motive, opportunity, scratches on his arms matching the blood samples, no alibi . . .”

  “No way he gets convicted.”

  “Did you even try to build a case?”

  “Chief?” Mallinger was at my elbow. There was fear in her voice, as if she were afraid of the questions she was asking. “Did Governor Barrett kill Elizabeth Rogers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you try to find out?”

  “To serve and protect,” Bohlig told her. “That’s what it says on the sides of our police cars; that was my job. I did my job. The town is a better place because I did my job. I protected and served this town and I don’t lose any sleep over it. I picked you to replace me. Now we’ll see how well you do.”

  “You’re not a cop,” I said. “You’re a co-conspirator.”

  I sat at the small table in my motel room. I had a bucket of ice, a bottle of vodka, and a six-pack of tonic water—the Victoria municipal liquor store had opened at 10:00 A.M. and I was its first customer. Only I hadn’t opened the bottle. When I bought the vodka it was with the intention of getting impossibly drunk. Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “What am I going to do?”

  I had been asking myself that question since leaving Chief Bohlig. He was probably right. There was no way to convict Jack Barrett of murder. With the destruction of the samples, there was no longer evidence enough even to charge him. What bothered me the most, however, was that I had liked Barrett, genuinely liked him. I hadn’t felt so utterly betrayed since my father died.

  Outside the weather had turned nasty. The wind had whipped up and a hard snow was falling. Traffic moved cautiously on the county road beyond the motel parking lot. A couple of cars swung in, looking for refuge from the storm. I opened the vodka and a bottle of mix, built a stiff drink, and toasted the weather. Nature was cruel, but not vindictive, and never personal. “You might be a mother, but never a bitch,” I said and downed half the drink. “You just don’t give a damn.” I told myself I didn’t give a damn, either. I was lying.

  I finished the drink in a hurry and built a second.

  I hoped someone would tell me that everything was going to work out, that it would be all right. Someone radiant and entirely trustworthy, like Jessica Lange or Cate Blanchett. No such luck. Instead, I got Lindsey Bauer Barrett.

  I had just finished the second vodka tonic when she called. At first I thought it might be Danny Mallinger and ignored her. After five rings my cell cycled over to my voice mail. Then it rang another five times. Then another.

  “What?” I finally shouted into the receiver.

  “Mac? It’s Lindsey Barrett.”

  “Zee.”

  “Am I interrupting something? I can call back.”

  “No. I was just—Actually, I was thinking about getting drunk, if you must know.”

  “Why? What happened? Did you learn who sent the e-mail?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “What then?”

  How do you tell your friend that you believe her husband is a murderer? Quickly, I decided.

  “Jack could be guilty after all.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I uncovered some evidence, talked to some witnesses. Zee, I’m sorry, it doesn’t look good.”

  “Dammit, McKenzie. What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I asked you to learn who sent the e-mail, not investigate a murder.”

  “Zee?”

  “Who sent the e-mail? That’s all I want to know.”

  Once again my internal security system was on full alert. The alarm bells in my head were loud enough to blow out my eardrums.

  “A lot of people could have sent the e-mail,” I said. “A lot of people think Jack killed Elizabeth. The entire town has been pretty much covering up for him for the past thirty years. Even the former police chief thinks Jack did it and all but told me that he let Jack off to protect the community’s reputation.”

  “What about evidence?”

  “Evidence?”

  “Could they arrest Jack?”

  “I don’t think so. All the physical evidence has been destroyed, and the witnesses—I doubt a county attorney would even consider the possibility. But, Mrs. Barrett, when am I going to hear some tearful denials? When is the loving wife going to come to the defense of her husband? When is she going to shout to high heaven that her man couldn’t possibly be a killer?”

  “My husband did not murder that girl,” she said, but her voice was flat and without emotional. She could have been a checkout girl asking, “Paper or plastic?”

  “Who knows what you know?” Zee asked.

  The alarm bells became louder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The details. Who besides you could really hurt Jack if he came forward?”

  “There are maybe a half dozen people who could do more than just speculate. But they all have good reasons for keeping quiet, personal reasons. They don’t want this to come out, either. Besides, most of them like Jack.”

  “Most, but not all. Have you forgotten the man who sent the e-mail?”

  I had.

  “I’m coming down there,” she said.

  “Don’t, Zee. That’ll only make matters worse.”

  “How could it make matters worse?”

  “People will ask why you’re here. What are you going to tell them?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Zee, if you want my advice . . .”

  “I do not want your advice, McKenzie. I want you to find the bastard who sent the e-mail. If you can’t do that, go home.”

  She hung up on you.

  I sat there, staring dumbly at the cell phone in my hand for a solid ten seconds as the realization sunk in.

  She hung up on you, after everything you’ve done for her.

  I set the phone on the table and watched it some more.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  I made a third drink.

  The cell played its tune again. I was sure it was Lindsey calling to apologize. I was wrong.

  “Hi, McKenzie. It’s me. Danny.”

  “Hello, Chief.”

  “You can call me Danny again.”

  “Thank you.”

  She paused for a moment, said, “About what happened this morning. Do you want to talk about it?”
/>   “No.”

  “I forgot. You don’t like to talk.”

  “Talking won’t change anything.”

  “It might help me decide what to do next.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I can go to the county attorney.”

  “With what, Danny? What evidence do you have? None. Your witnesses, they can’t be relied on. There won’t be any charges.”

  “We can at least get the allegation out there.”

  “What good will that do, besides getting you fired? Besides getting you trashed by every newspaper columnist, every TV pundit, and every radio talk show rabble-rouser from one end of the state to the other? This isn’t some schmo off the street, Danny. This is the governor of the state of Minnesota. A popular sitting governor. You go after him, you had better have it wired seven ways to hell and back. We don’t.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “Well, I for one am going to take a long nap. Care to join me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  This time I hung up.

  13

  The world had been transformed by the time I woke up. The storm had given way to bright sunshine, the wind had abated, and snow was melting along the edge of the asphalt where the plows had done their work. There was plenty of foot traffic, people walking about without hats and gloves and with their coats hanging open. I watched them from the window of my room, wishing for a moment that I was among them. I glanced at my watch. Only three hours had passed since the snow shower began, but most Minnesotans will tell you—if you don’t like the weather, just hang around for a few minutes, it’s bound to change.

  So, what’s next? my inner voice asked.

  Go home, Lindsey Barrett had suggested. Why not?

  You haven’t done what you came here to do.

  The world’s not going to stop revolving if that happens.

  It’s not about the world. It’s about keeping promises that you made.

  My promise to Lindsey? I doubt any court would enforce it. A verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, that’s what my lawyer once told me.

  Those are precisely the contracts you have to keep.

  Who says?

  You’re the one who chose this life. Maybe it was out of boredom or a need to feel useful or the conceit that you can personally make the world a better place to live, but you chose it. You can’t give it up because sometimes it’s difficult.

  I suppose that’s true.

  Winners never quit and quitters never win, remember? I’ll bet you a nickel they have that posted on the Victoria High School gym somewhere.

  Words of wisdom.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

  Okay, now you’re being annoying.

  I closed my eyes and shook my head and rubbed my temples in an effort to quiet my inner voice. I had been spending way too much time in my head lately, too much time talking to myself. You live alone, do most things by yourself, it’s probably inevitable. Yet at the same time, it couldn’t possibly be healthy, could it? If nothing else, you lose perspective.

  I thought about mixing another drink while I tried to determine my next step and quickly vetoed the idea.

  “Maybe I should go for a swim, instead,” I told the empty room. “Clear my head.”

  That would necessitate going shopping for a swimsuit, but so what? I needed clothes, anyway. The shirt, sweater, and jeans I’d been wearing for three days were starting to get ripe. Besides, unlimited pool privileges came with the room; Florence told me so when I signed the register.

  When you signed the register.

  Why didn’t I think of that before?

  Rufugio Tapia was behind the counter of Fit to Print. Jace Axelrod was on the opposite side, leaning against it while she spoke softly to him, and again I thought, Romeo and Juliet: “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!”

  Tapia was inhaling every word the young woman had to say, oblivious to the older gentleman seated at one of his PCs. To the three women who fussed over a photo album near the copy machines. To the Hispanic man wearing a shirt identical to the one he wore who was operating a printer behind him. He slid his hand across the counter to Jace’s hand. She welcomed it; their fingers curled and twisted into a tight knot—a knot they did not untie even when they saw me approaching.

  My first thought—something had shifted in their relationship. They weren’t hiding anymore.

  My second was more paternal. Why wasn’t Jace in school?

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked.

  “Seniors get to leave campus if they want, and I had a free period.”

  “And you’re spending it here?”

  “I wanted to visit my boyfriend.”

  Neither Jace nor Tapia looked to see if anyone heard, but I did.

  “What am I missing?”

  “Nothing, we just decided not to keep our love a secret any longer,” Jace said.

  “Well,” said Tapia.

  “Well,” Jace repeated.

  “Well,” I said. It was my turn.

  “Well, it wasn’t just our decision,” Jace said. “My dad said—This morning he told me if I liked R.T. I should date him. Openly. Just don’t sneak around. ‘No one likes a sneak,’ he said.”

  As hard as I tried, and with as much reason as I had, it was difficult to dislike the man.

  “ ’Course, he still wants me to go to college.”

  “So do I,” Tapia said.

  “And leave you?”

  “It is important to get a good education if you are to become wealthy and keep me in the style to which I want to become accustomed.”

  “You love me for my money?” asked Jace.

  “Why else?” said Tapia before he kissed her.

  “Don’t mind me, kids,” I said. “I’m just standing here.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?” asked Tapia.

  “Señor Tapia,” I said.

  “Sí.”

  “Last Friday night, during your anniversary celebration, did you happen to keep a guest book?”

  “Sí.”

  “That you encouraged people to sign?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Do you think the person who sent the e-mail is in the book?”

  “The e-mail was sent at 6:57 P.M. You said that you closed down at about five so you could throw a party for your regular customers. That means one of those people sent the e-mail. I’m just hoping that they signed the guest register.”

  “Would you know who just by looking at the name?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I’ll get the book.”

  “Gracias.”

  “So you’re still looking for that person who sent the e-mail, the one R.T. told me about,” Jace said while Tapia slipped into his office.

  “I take it you two tell each other everything.”

  “We have no secrets, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Should we have secrets?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

  I didn’t blame her.

  Tapia returned, carrying a leather-bound book with a spiral binding. “I want to thank you for breaking Brian Reif’s hand,” he said as he gave me the book.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  I began flipping pages slowly. I was looking for a name, any name that I might recognize.

  “Breaking his hand isn’t going to make him any less of a racist,” Jace told me.

  “I didn’t break it because he was a racist. I broke it because he was a stupid racist. It was the stupid part that got him hurt.”

  “There are a lot of stupid racists here,” Jace said.

  “Sometimes it feels that way,” Tapia said. “But I’m not s
o sure. That group of Reif’s, the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction he calls it—it has only a dozen members. There are many more people like Mr. Axelrod than Reif.”

  “It’s a good town,” Jace said.

  “Yes, it is a good town,” Tapia agreed.

  I found Tapia’s eyes. He was looking at Jace so I looked at her, too. For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt, Shakespeare wrote. Reif didn’t live in the same world as these two kids. When all was said and done, I suppose I didn’t, either. What a pity.

  I went back to the book, studying each signature. Many were illegible, but then my handwriting wasn’t so hot, either. Tapia took care of his customers while I studied the book, first the women, then the older man. His employee dropped a carton on top of the counter.

  “Want me to take these across the street?” he asked.

  Tapia told him he’d take care of it.

  “These are nice,” Jace said. The box was sealed, but a single printed sheet was taped to the top—the zodiac place mats meant for the Rainbow Cafe.

  I went through the entire book, then started again. It was a long shot—worse than a long shot. It was impossible. Still, I kept at it until I discovered a name that I recognized, one that I had missed before.

  “Troy Donovan.” I’ll be a sonuvabitch! “Troy Donovan was here?”

  “Mr. Donovan?” said Tapia. “Yes, he was. Do you know him?”

  “We spoke last Monday. How do you know him? Why was he here?”

  “We’re partners.”

  “Partners?”

  “Yes. We have been for over a year.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Fit to Print is a franchise, Mr. McKenzie. I have only one of seventeen stores. I bought the rights to operate Fit to Print in Victoria from the Donovan Printing Corporation. They’re the franchiser. Mr. Donovan owns the company. It’s his plan to put a Fit to Print in every small town in Minnesota.”

  “He came here to help you celebrate your first anniversary?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Mr. Donovan is very hands-on. He visits all the stores a couple of times a year. I’m sure he’ll return for our next anniversary.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said aloud. Inside my private voice was chanting, Dammit, dammit, dammit. I knew Donovan was franchising Kinko’s-like print stores in Minnesota. I read it on the Internet when I was researching him and the Brotherhood, but I was too damn lazy to dig deeper. Dammit, dammit, dammit.