Pretty Girl Gone Page 22

  “I bet Donovan used one of your PCs,” I said.

  “Just a minute,” Tapia said. “You’re not saying that Mr. Donovan is responsible for sending the e-mail you’re talking about?”

  Jace swung her head from Tapia to me and back to Tapia again, sensing trouble.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s not,” I said. “I’m just surprised to see his name in your book.”

  Of course, he sent the e-mail. He probably guessed someone would trace it to Victoria, as well—the scene of the crime. I bet he’s also responsible for placing the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. He’s been handling me from the very beginning, manipulating me to come down here and prove Jack Barrett killed Elizabeth Rogers. The incident in the skyway and the parking lot of International Market Square, the telephone call—reverse psychology at its finest. I know why he did it, too. It all makes perfect sense.

  “Mr. Donovan is an important man,” Tapia said.

  I stared at Donovan’s signature. I wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about it.

  Such a small thing, writing his name down in a book. On the other hand, they caught Ted Bundy because of a broken taillight. On still another hand, if I had known about his connection to Fit to Print, I wouldn’t have needed Donovan’s signature.

  “He’s been very good to me,” Tapia said.

  I bet the Brotherhood doesn’t know Donovan is trying to sabotage Governor Barrett. I wonder what they’ll do when I tell them.

  “This is so wrong,” Jace said. She was no longer interested in us. Instead, she was reading the place mat taped to the top of the carton. “This is a mistake.”

  “What? What is a mistake?” Tapia immediately moved to her side, forgetting me altogether.

  “This horoscope. It says we’re incompatible.”

  “No lo creo,” he cried, which my high school Spanish translated into “I don’t believe it.”

  “It says Sagittarius and Capricorn are opposites.”

  “Oh, my, Judith Catherine.” Tapia put his hand over his heart. “I thought you found a typo or something. I thought I was going to have to reprint the job.” He circled her shoulder with his arm and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  “You should reprint these mats,” Jace said. “Look at this. It says, ‘When Sagittarius and Capricorn join together they may feel that they don’t have much to gain from one another.’ Are you sure you were born in November?”

  “November 30,” Tapia said.

  The same birthday as John Allen Barrett, my inner voice reminded me.

  “ ‘Sagittarius and Capricorn may not be able to see beyond each other’s faults.’ ”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  “Do you believe it, McKenzie?” Jace asked.

  “I do not believe it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Donovan, you bastard. Who’s the schnook now?

  I had not expected violence. There was a time back with the cops when that wouldn’t have mattered. I would have responded quickly and efficiently just like one of those guys on TV who know exactly which way to roll when the bad guy leaps out with a lug wrench. Only not this time. This time I went into vapor lock. Norman probably thought I looked like a deer in the headlights when he pointed the Charter Arms .38 at me as we left Fit to Print. Only this time I knew Norman hadn’t come to kidnap me. This wasn’t a test.

  Jace had stepped outside first; I had held the door for her. I offered to hold the door open for Tapia, too. He insisted I go next, even though he was carrying the carton filled with place mats for the Rainbow Cafe.

  And there he was in the parking lot—Norman—dressed in his gray trench coat and black wingtips that were being ruined by the pool of slush he stood in.

  This is not good, I told myself.

  I had my gun. I had been carrying the Beretta in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket since my last meeting with Schroeder. Except my jacket was zipped halfway up. Why wouldn’t it be?

  Norman was holding his gun with one hand. What a show-off, I thought. He aimed at my head. He smiled. An amateur to the end, coming at me in such a public way. He did something you only see in movies and bad cop shows, too. He started talking. He said, “I’m going to enjoy this.” That is what it took to kick-start me into action. His big mouth.

  I seized Jace by the arm and shoulder and pulled her with me as I dove to my right behind the bumper of my Audi, parked in front of the building.

  Norman fired twice. The bullets missed me and hit Tapia, catching him in the exact center of the carton he was toting. He staggered backward, hit the glass wall of his business, and slid into a sitting position on the sidewalk, still holding the carton in front of him, his eyes closed.

  Jace screamed his name with such profound anguish, but at that moment it was merely noise to me. I pushed her down under the bumper and said, “Don’t move,” even as I unzipped my coat and found my gun.

  I don’t know if Norman was surprised that he missed me or that he hit an innocent bystander, yet for a precious moment he just stood there, looking down on Tapia, as paralyzed as I had been.

  I circled to the rear of the Audi in a low crouch and brought my gun up.

  “Norman.”

  He pivoted toward me, firing on the move. I yanked my shot wide, missing him completely, before I dipped back under the bumper of the car. I don’t know where my shot went. Two of his slugs ripped into the body of the Audi.

  I wished people would stop hurting my car.

  Norman was on the run now. He dashed across the parking lot, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. I came up from behind the bumper and gave pursuit. Norman had about a thirty-yard lead and I wasn’t sure I could catch him, wasn’t sure I wanted to: He still had a shot left in his .38 and one was all it took. I was surprised when he decided to use it, when he brought his gun up to shoot over his shoulder.

  I stopped chasing and went into a Weaver stance—a shooting stance with good balance. I brought the Beretta up with both hands, took two quick, deep breaths, and sighted down the barrel with both eyes open. I took a third deep breath, let half out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

  I fired one round.

  It caught Norman high in the shoulder.

  Yes!

  The force of the bullet spun him in a complete circle and knocked him to the pavement. He rolled twice, yet managed to regain his feet. An amazing thing. He was staggering now instead of running, his pace much slower. I took aim, thought better of it. Norman was fifty yards away now and I didn’t want to take the chance on a wild shot.

  I gave chase again. A black Park Avenue sedan rolled past me and down the street. I had seen the car before. It outraced me to Norman’s position. Norman cut across the boulevard to the curb. The car stopped and the passenger door flew open. Norman dove inside the car. The car sped off with as much acceleration as the tired sedan could muster.

  I brought my gun up again, intent on getting off a few more rounds, but changed my mind. There were far too many people in the line of fire.

  I watched as the car took a corner far too fast, nearly sideswiped an ancient station wagon, and kept going.

  It’s partly your own fault, my inner voice informed me. If you had indicated that you could be bought or frightened when you first met Muehlenhaus, he might not have resorted to such extremes to get rid of you. Still, Norman got down here in one helluva hurry, didn’t he?

  Tapia! I remembered.

  I turned and began running back to Fit to Print, fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone as I went. I wanted to call emergency services. I had the phone in my hand, was bringing it to my ear by the time I reached the edge of the parking lot.

  That’s when I heard Chief Mallinger’s voice.

  “Halt, halt, do not move.”

  She was standing thirty feet away, sighting on me with her Glock.

  “Drop the gun.”

  “Danny, it’s me.”

  “Drop the gun. Drop it. Dammit, McKenzie, you
drop that gun right now.”

  There are few people who enjoy a good argument as much as I do, but just then didn’t seem like the time. Instead of protesting my innocence, I held the gun out in as nonthreatening a manner as I could mange and slowly lowered it to the ground. I set it gently on the asphalt and stood up, placing my hands behind my head, my right hand still holding the cell.

  “Kick it away. Kick it away. Do it now, McKenzie.”

  I nudged the gun ten yards across the lot with the side of my boot.

  “Put your hands behind your head, McKenzie.”

  “They are behind—”

  “On your knees, on your knees.”

  I sank slowly to my knees. My jeans were instantly soaked with slush.

  Mallinger was behind me. She locked one wrist with a handcuff, brought it down behind my back, and wound the cuff around the second wrist. She pushed me forward, so that I was lying flat in the slush of the parking lot, the cell still in my hand.

  “Don’t even think of moving,” she told me.

  I fumbled in my head for a few lines that might appeal to Mallinger’s gentler nature. The best I could come up with was “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “See about Tapia,” I said.

  Mallinger rushed to the front door of Fit to Print. Jace was kneeling next to Tapia’s body, hugging his shoulders and weeping. He was still holding the carton on his lap.

  Mallinger took the place mats out of Tapia’s hands and set them aside. She opened Tapia’s jacket to examine his wounds. Only there were no wounds.

  I watched as Mallinger sat back on her heels and contemplated the carton. She turned it in her hands. The bullets had gone in one side, but not out the other. She spun back to Tapia. She checked his pulse and smiled broadly. She began gently patting the back of his hands. Gradually, Tapia opened his eyes.

  “What happened?” he said.

  More statements. It seemed like I was making a lot of them lately, this time to Mallinger, an impossibly young county attorney, and a Nicholas County deputy with chevrons on his sleeve. With both Jace and Tapia backing me up, it was decided that I had probably not committed a crime, but I could be sure that all the parties involved would investigate thoroughly before they returned my gun. As Mallinger put it, “This used to be a nice, quiet town before you arrived, McKenzie.”

  I carefully explained that the man who shot at us—whom I most likely shot in return, in case they wanted to check neighboring hospitals and emergency rooms—was named Norman—“I don’t know if that’s his first or last name”—and he was employed by Mr. Muehlenhaus of Minneapolis. Neither Mallinger nor the deputy tumbled to his name. But the eyes of the young county attorney grew wide and shiny. I knew phone calls would be made. I doubted that Norman would ever be found, much less arrested.

  Kevin Salisbury, on the scene with his ubiquitous camera, had arrived before anyone else. He took photographs of Tapia, Fit to Print, the carton of place mats, Mallinger, the deputy and county attorney, assorted officers, me, and Jace—at least a half roll. Everyone gave him a statement but me. He was upset about that and reminded me that we had an agreement. I gave him a wink and a smile and brought my index finger to my lips in the universal sign of conspiracy. He whispered, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Eventually, Salisbury, the attorney, and the deputy left me alone in the parking lot of Fit to Print with Mallinger. The kids had been whisked off to Nick’s by Axelrod, where, he assured Tapia, a cure for whatever ailed him could and would be found. I would have liked to go with them, but I wasn’t invited.

  I was cold and wet with slush and Mallinger asked me, “Are you satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?”

  “Do you have what you came here for?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “So you’ll be leaving us soon.”

  Mallinger allowed me to take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips. I kissed her middle knuckle.

  “I’m sorry I complicated your life,” I said.

  “I’m a big girl. I can deal.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Barrett. He didn’t kill Elizabeth Rogers. Chief Bohlig and the Seven and the rest of Victoria—everyone jumped to a conclusion thirty years ago, and so did I this morning.”

  “You think he’s innocent?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Two reasons. First, Jack didn’t have a car. How could he have dumped Elizabeth’s body along the county road if he didn’t have a car?”

  “An accomplice?”

  “That would suggest premeditation and we know there couldn’t have been.”

  “That’s thin, McKenzie. What’s the second reason?”

  “The second is a lot more conclusive. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you. Not unless it is absolutely essential and it isn’t because . . .”

  “Because Barrett will never be charged, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You don’t want to embarrass the governor if you don’t have to.”

  “That pretty much covers it.”

  “Whatever it is that you know, it can’t possible be worse than the rumor that he killed a girl.”

  “Sure it can.”

  “How?”

  “Because it’s not a rumor. Listen, I just wanted you to know that Barrett is innocent.”

  “So it doesn’t haunt me that he got away with murder.”

  “I like you, Danny.”

  “I like you, too, McKenzie.”

  “I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.”

  “I’m not. At least not about everything.”

  “I’d kiss you if we weren’t in public—a nice, long, noncomforting kiss, if you get my drift.”

  “Maybe I should put the cuffs back on and drag you off to a holding cell.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “McKenzie, if the governor didn’t kill Beth, who did?”

  “I have some ideas about that.”

  “Feel free to share.”

  “What are you doing for dinner, tonight?”

  “That depends. Am I going to be in uniform?”

  “Personally, I prefer lace. A pretty girl in lace can sell me anything she wants.”

  Mallinger fingered my soiled sweater.

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry, Chief. I clean up real good.”

  “I’ll meet you at the motel,” she said.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I’m sorry I made you lie in the slush,” she said. But the way she was grinning at the memory of it, I didn’t believe her.

  When I unlocked the door to my motel room, I found Lindsey Bauer Barrett waiting inside. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if Hillary Clinton had come calling.

  Lindsey was sitting at the small table; her hands were folded neatly on top like a schoolgirl waiting for the principal. The drapes were opened and I could see the motel parking lot over her shoulder. She had to have seen me coming and this is the pose she had chosen to greet me with.

  “Hello, Mac.”

  “Zee.”

  I didn’t bother to ask how she got in.

  Zee gave me a quick inspection, wrinkling her nose at my appearance.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I was lying in a gutter. You should know something about that.”

  “It’s going to be one of those conversations, isn’t it?”

  I set the shopping bag on the bed and removed my jacket. I’ve had it for many years—bought it long before I came into my money—and I hoped a dry cleaner could restore it. I hung it in the small closet and pulled off my boots while Lindsey watched me. There was a look of expectation on her face.

  “I want you to do two things,” I told her. “First, call your friend Muehlenhaus.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he is. Call him. Tell him there’s been a t
errible mistake. Tell him that I can prove Jack Barrett didn’t kill anyone; I can prove it beyond a doubt, reasonable or otherwise. Tell him to stop trying to have me killed.”

  Lindsey didn’t bat so much as an eyelash, which proved to me what I had suspected: She knew Muehlenhaus had sent Norman. She had probably been in cahoots with him since the very beginning.

  “Second”—I pointed at the bucket near her elbow—“go down the hall and get some ice.”

  I took my time in the shower. Took my time shaving and brushing my teeth and getting my hair just so for my date with Mallinger. I had purchased a pair of black Dockers and a blue dress shirt with a button-down collar and put them on. It was warm and damp in the tiny bathroom, so I waited until I was outside and had a chance to cool off before donning a black silk-blend sweater speckled with blue, red, and gold. I sat on the edge of the bed, quickly buffed my black leather boots with a towel and slipped them on.

  “You look good,” Lindsey said.

  She was still sitting at the table. The ice bucket was three-quarters full and she had made a sizable dent in the vodka.

  “I made you a drink,” she told me.

  I went to the table and picked up the short, squat glass that the motel provided. The drink was a bit stronger than I liked, but welcome nonetheless.

  “Where’s your driver?” I asked.

  “He’s around.” Lindsey gestured at my room. “Not exactly a Barrett Motel, is it?”

  “Did you call Muehlenhaus?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Oops.’ ”

  “You people.”

  “I hope you don’t think that I—”

  “You called him. You told him that I had information that might prove Jack killed his high school sweetheart. You probably asked him, ‘What should we do?’ What did you think his answer would be?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Fine, you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t. You must believe me, Mac. I only wanted to protect Jack. That’s why I called Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

  “The thing that bugs me—besides getting shot at and seeing an innocent kid almost killed—isn’t Muehlenhaus. He’s predictable. It’s you, Lindsey. It’s your willingness to believe that your husband actually murdered a girl. That just floors me.”