Pretty Girl Gone Read online

  I parked on Wilder in front of his house. It took me a few moments to wrestle the popcorn machine out of the passenger seat. If I hadn’t fumbled my car keys in the process and had to pick them out of the snow, I might not have looked up and seen the white Ford Escort parked about a block behind me, its exhaust fumes plainly visible in the cold air.

  I carried the machine up the sidewalk, across Bobby’s porch, and knocked on the door. While I waited, I directed my eyes across the street as if there was something in the park that interested me. It wasn’t an abrupt gesture, but casual—for the benefit of my tail. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, or rather I watched the car. I couldn’t see who was in it.

  Shelby opened the door with a smile that could guide ships at night. Which in turn made me smile. I tried to picture her at sunrise, telling myself that in the morning’s first light she would look as attractive as a wrinkled grocery bag, but failed. I had known her since college, known her, in fact, for three minutes and fifty seconds longer than her husband—the exact length of Madonna’s “Open Your Heart,” the song they were playing when we met—and she always looked good to me.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the box.

  “A 2554 Macho Pop popcorn popper.”

  “Of course it is. Do you need help carrying it in?”

  “I’ve got it. Can you get the door?”

  I muscled the machine into her house and set it on her living room carpet.

  “What’s that?” Bobby asked.

  He had come from the kitchen, a newspaper in his hand.

  “Popcorn machine,” Shelby told him.

  “How did the Wild do last night?” I asked him.

  “Lost 2–1.”

  “Nuts.”

  When I went back outside, he followed me. Bobby and I had started together at the very beginning and watched the world evolve in fits and starts, in disappointments and small victories. He was me and I was him and we felt exactly the same about most things most of the time, and since we lived in the same place at the same time forever, we were able to communicate volumes to each other with a single word or sentence fragment or a raised eyebrow.

  He lifted my Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I, capable of making one hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour, thank you very much, while I grappled with my Paragon 1911 Brand Sno-Cone Machine. I do like my treats.

  “Where’s the Jeep Cherokee?” he asked.

  “In the garage.”

  “I thought the Audi was going to be the summer car.”

  “It’s just so damn fast.”

  Last spring a Chevy Blazer I was chasing outraced me on the freeway. The Audi satisfied my vow that it would never happen again.

  “Why are you home?” I asked.

  “Accumulated time off. I put in sixty-seven hours last week.”

  “Nice hours if you can get them.”

  “If people would stop killing each other, I might actually have time for the family.”

  “Where are the girls?”

  “They had better be in school.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because their surrogate uncle likes to tell them stories about how he and their father used to skip class to run around the city and they think it’s cool.”

  “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “I can tell.”

  A few moments later, the machines were arranged side-by-side in the Dunstons’ living room.

  “I thought you were bringing these over Friday,” said Shelby.

  “I have to leave town and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I wanted to make sure the girls had them for their fund-raiser.” I turned to Bobby. “That’s why you don’t have to worry about them skipping school. Because they’re Girl Scouts and we—”

  “We were never Scouts.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Where are you going?” Shelby asked.

  “Victoria, Minnesota.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m doing a favor for Zee Bauer.”

  “No kidding,” said Bobby.

  “Who’s Zee Bauer?” Shelby asked.

  “Lindsey Bauer,” said Bobby. “She’s married to the governor now.”

  “Lindsey Barrett, the first lady? You know the first lady?”

  “She used to live not far from here, near Summit Avenue, on what, Howell?” Bobby said. “McKenzie dated her younger sister, Linda, when we were seniors in high school.”

  “You called her Zee?”

  “Lind-zee,” said Bobby. “Not to be confused with Lind-duh.”

  “Linda wasn’t the smartest girl in the class,” I said.

  “She was a slut,” Bobby said.

  “Hey, hey, hey, c’mon . . .”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  “What are you doing for the first lady?” Shelby asked.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Figures.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the Ford Escort parked down the street?” Bobby asked.

  “You noticed.”

  “I’m an experienced law enforcement professional.”

  “I heard that rumor. Didn’t they just promote you to lieutenant of something?”

  “A richly deserved reward for my many years of outstanding service working homicide.”

  “Want to do me a favor?”

  “You don’t know who’s in the Escort, do you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Bobby sighed, said, “I’ll make a call.”

  “When you find out, call me on my cell. I want to lead him out of the neighborhood in case there’s trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Shelby said the word like she had just heard it for the first time. “Why does there always need to be trouble?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that.

  “I understand why Bobby takes risks,” Shelby said. “It’s his job. But why do you?”

  “We all take risks everyday, Shel. We all walk down dark alleys without knowing what lurks in the shadows . . .”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” said Bobby.

  “We risk death riding in hurtling automobiles and by golf balls that are sliced out of bounds and from burritos that aren’t cooked properly. There are diseases waiting for us out there that we’ve never even heard of and probably couldn’t pronounce if we had—”

  “Here we go,” Shelby said like she had heard it all before, which, of course, she had.

  “The thing is, ain’t no one getting out of here alive, so we might as well have some fun while we can. Besides . . .”

  “Live well, be useful,” Bobby said.

  “I bet I could learn to like you if I worked at it,” I told him.

  He said, “You’re my hero. When I grow up I want to be just like you.”

  “You’re both a couple of cowboys,” Shelby insisted.

  Who were we to argue?

  I explained that instructions for using the machines were in the boxes as well as a hefty supply of ingredients. I told them if I wasn’t back in time, they should call my cell with questions about setup and operation. Then I headed for the door.

  I walked briskly to my Audi. I pressed a button on my key chain and the lights flashed and doors unlocked. Once inside the two-seat sports car, I started the engine and waited. The Ford waited, too. I pulled away from the curb. The Ford did the same. I led it to Marshall Avenue and hung a left. It followed.

  He’s not being careful at all.

  I flashed on my assailant in the Minneapolis skyway, heard the voice of my late-night caller. I wasn’t frightened. Nor was I particularly angry. Mostly I was curious.

  I headed east until I hit Lexington and hung a right. The Ford closed on my rear bumper, then fell back again. At University I hung another right and drove west. The Ford stayed with me. I caught the traffic light at Hamline. The Ford was two cars behind me. My cell rang and I answered it.

  “McKenzie?” Bobby said
.

  “Yeah.”

  “The license plate is registered to Schroeder Private Investigations. It’s a one-man shop owned by Schroeder, Gregory R.”

  “PI, huh.”

  “Schroeder is five-eight, 160 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, age fifty-five.”

  “Practically a senior citizen.”

  “Do you need more? I can get you more?”

  “No, that’ll do. Thanks, Bobby.”

  “I’ll have the girls call you later, thank you for the sno-cone machine and whatnot.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Bobby’s daughters—Victoria and Katie—were my heirs. If Schroeder, Gregory R., should put a bullet in my head, they’d get to keep my treat machines, and my cars and house, and all my money.

  I deactivated the cell phone and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I glanced in the mirror. My assailant in the skyway had brown hair, I recalled.

  Now what? I wondered.

  It’s like your dear old Dad used to say, my inner voice replied. If you don’t ask questions, you’ll never get answers.

  Ask what?

  Let’s start with, why is he following you?

  Sounds like a plan.

  I annoyed the drivers directly behind me by driving below the speed limit. As I had intended, I caught the long stoplight at University and Snelling, probably the busiest intersection in St. Paul. I put the Audi in neutral, set the brake, opened the door, and stepped out into the street. I left my Beretta in the glove compartment. I had put it there earlier that morning because it had been my experience that after threats usually comes violence. Only this didn’t seem to be that kind of play.

  The hard wind peppered my face with tiny, sharp snow crystals—it was as if the weather was warning me that this was not a smart idea. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and angled my head away from the wind.

  I made my way along the line of cars to the Ford Escort. The driver of the first car I passed rolled down his window and shouted, “Hey, man, what the hell are you doing?” I ignored him.

  Even though he must have seen me coming, the man in the Escort seemed surprised when I halted next to his door. I examined him through the windshield—brown hair, hazel eyes, not tall. I rapped on the driver’s-side window. Schroeder rolled it down.

  “Hey, Greg,” I said. Schroeder’s eyes grew wide. “There’s a fifties-style cafe just a few blocks up University at Fairview called Andy’s Garage. Near Porky’s. Know it?”

  He nodded.

  “Meet me there and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  He nodded again.

  I returned to the Audi before the light changed. My hands trembled just a tad, but I didn’t know if it was because of the cold or because once again I was playing fast and loose with whatever luck I had left.

  I arrived first at Andy’s Garage and found a parking space in the restaurant’s tiny lot. Schroeder appeared moments later and was forced to park up the street. I was already sitting on a stool at the counter when he entered. A pretty young thing with pink and purple hair was pouring coffee when he sat next to me.

  “Coffee,” Schroeder said like he was begging for an antidote to West Nile disease.

  The waitress poured a generous mug.

  “Bless you, child,” Schroeder said.

  “Are you two together?” she asked, a perky smile on her face. She seemed genuinely pleased when Schroeder answered, “More or less.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you.”

  I paid for both coffees, but the waitress let the money rest on the counter when she left.

  “So, why are you following me, Greg?” I asked.

  “For practice.”

  “You need it.”

  “Think so?”

  “I made you in what, ten minutes?”

  “Try a day and ten minutes.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  “I picked you up at the Groveland Tap yesterday,” he added.

  Yes, I did.

  “The guy in the Park Avenue—he was very mediocre,” Schroeder said. “I was surprised when he got the drop on you.”

  “So was I.”

  I raised the coffee mug to my lips with both hands for no other reason than to keep them from shaking and studied Schroeder over the rim. His eyes were more green than hazel and they seemed tired. His hair was in want of a trim, he needed a shave, and judging by the way he poured it into his coffee mug, he had way too much sugar in his diet.

  I asked, “Who are you working for?”

  “Can’t tell ya.”

  “C’mon, Greg. You don’t have privilege. Private investigators have no more rights than the average citizen. Fewer, in fact, if you want to keep your license.”

  “That’s true. If a judge orders it, I’ll talk my head off. You wouldn’t happen to have a subpoena in your pocket, would you? No? I didn’t think so.”

  “I could get one.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “Your honor, this man attacked me on the Minneapolis skyway and then stalked me.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “You fit the description.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Say, ‘If you run I’ll catch you, if you hide I’ll find you.’ ”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Another guy.”

  “The one in the parking lot of the International Market Square?”

  Jesus.

  “And over the phone,” I said. “His voice was disguised. It could’ve been you.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  I believed him.

  Schroeder decided his coffee wasn’t sweet enough and added more sugar.

  “How did you learn my name?” he asked.

  “I’m psychic.”

  “Then you should know who I’m working for.”

  He had me there.

  “I know who you’re working for,” he told me.

  “Are you psychic, too?”

  “No. I’m clever, just like you.”

  “We should start a club.”

  “I’ll be president because I’m older and wiser.”

  “Greg, why would someone want Barrett to be governor, but not U.S. senator?”

  “I’ll bite. Why would someone want Barrett to be governor, but not U.S. senator?”

  “Because someone wants the job but doesn’t think he could win in a stand-up fight.”

  “That’s one explanation.”

  “You have others?”

  Schroeder nodded his head.

  “Such as?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re starting to bore me, Greg.”

  “Just lulling you into a sense of complacency.”

  “Ah.”

  “Want some advice?”

  “No.”

  “Tell the big boys Barrett’s a helluva guy and get out while the gettin’s good.”

  “What did you say?”

  Schroeder smiled the way a parent might at a child who’s made a mistake on his homework.

  “The guy who attacked you—he wants you to flush Barrett, doesn’t he?”

  “One does, I’m not sure about the other.”

  “Now you know that there are people just as determined that you don’t.”

  “Oh what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

  “That sounds like the title of a book,” Schroeder said.

  “I don’t suppose you have a scorecard that identifies the players and their positions.”

  “Hell. I’m still trying to get your number.”

  “Swell.”

  “I’ll tell you this, though. You’re way over your head.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I slid off the stool and put on my bomber jacket. Schroeder watched me while I searched my archives for something clever to say, a good parting line. Schroeder waited patiently.

  “Ah, hell,�
�� I said and left the cafe.

  I drove my car out of the parking lot before Schroeder could even reach his and went west on University. Schroeder’s Ford entered the traffic lane and sped up behind me. I watched him in my mirror.

  “I wasn’t paying attention yesterday,” I told his reflection. “You won’t surprise me again.”

  To prove it I slipped Big Bad Voodoo Daddy into my CD player. “How about a little traveling music,” I said and cranked the volume.

  I had paid nearly $45,000 for the fully loaded Audi 225 TT Coupe because of the CD player. And the seven speakers strategically located within the car. And the Napa leather interior. And the light silver color. Mostly, however, I bought it because the 1.8-liter 225-horsepower four-cylinder turbocharged engine could propel the Audi from zero to sixty in 6.3 seconds—at least that’s what the manual said. I had done much better on several occasions.

  I turned left at the intersection of University and Highway 280, and took my own sweet time reaching the long, sweeping entrance ramp to I-94. Schroeder’s Ford followed, just beating the light. As if on cue, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy began laying down the opening rifts to the hard swinging “Boogie Bumper.” I downshifted and accelerated. By the time I reached the top of the ramp, I was doing seventy.

  Back in what he referred to as his “sordid youth,” my father raced stock cars. He and his pal, Mr. Mosley, had put together a team that competed on dirt, clay, and asphalt ovals throughout Minnesota and western Wisconsin. Arlington Raceway, Cedar Lake Speedway, Elko Speedway, Raceway Park in Shakopee, the Minnesota State Fair Speedway, and even Brainerd International Raceway—my father had raced them all. It was at Brainerd that he bested actor and racing aficionado Paul Newman by the length of his front bumper in a qualifying run. He had a photo to commemorate the event, Newman’s arm draped around his shoulder, the Oscar winner laughing at an off-color joke that my father never told me. It had been one of his most prized possessions and now I owned it.

  Then Dad got married. His bride was ten years younger than he and openly frowned on his dangerous hobby, and when I was born, she made him swear off racing altogether. “You have a family to think of,” she told him. After my mother died when I was in the sixth grade, I thought he might take it up again, but he didn’t: A promise was a promise. Yet, while he no longer drove competitively, my dad remained a loyal fan of auto racing. He took me to Cedar Lake and Brainerd and, one glorious Memorial Day, to the Indianapolis 500. When I was fourteen, he taught me how to drive a stick on the dirt roads Up North. I was the best driver in my class at the police academy before I even met my skills instructor, and afterward, I was better still.