Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 8

  Eventually I found myself outside the King of Kings Baptist Church of Golden Valley without having made a decision to drive there. I stopped the Cherokee in the middle of the street and lowered the window. Another song lyric reached out to me. How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

  I wasn’t any good at funerals and hadn’t been since my mother died when I was twelve. The fight-or-flee instinct kicked in, but I suppressed it. The lot was full, and I ended up parking on a side street a block away from the church. I entered through the rear door. Faces turned toward me, most of them African American. Some wore expressions of curiosity, others admonishment. You’re late. How could you be late? I didn’t tell them that I didn’t want to be there at all, that I had tried to make myself too busy to be there and failed, as I had in so many other things. I didn’t tell them that I was afraid to say good-bye to Mr. Mosley.

  I was impressed by the number of people who had come to memorialize him, especially by the number of Asians, Hispanics, and Caucasians. Among the white mourners were Shelby and Bobby Dunston. I would have liked to sit in the back with them, but Reverend Winfield saw me enter and waved me toward the front. He found a seat close enough that he could stop me if I attempted to escape. Maybe I would have run off, too, if only I had someplace to go.

  Most of the men and women who rose to eulogize Mr. Mosley were strangers to me, although I knew of some of the events they spoke of. Cornelius Jackson was there, and he told how Mr. Mosley had saved his life at the Minnesota State Public School for Dependent and Neglected Children. Another man rose to say how Mr. Mosley had saved his life during the Korean War. Lorenzo Hernandez testified that Mr. Mosley had saved his life, too, by giving him a job tending honeybees, a job that helped him escape the suffocating poverty of Guatemala, that allowed him to remain in the United States.

  The speeches were all sweetened with choruses of amens and alleluias and easy laughter, for many of the stories were both funny and joyous, and there was raucous music that made a white boy from Minnesota think of Memphis and New Orleans. Although I had promised myself that I was done weeping, tears rolled down both cheeks.

  Reverend Winfield gestured at me several times during the service, urging me to stand. I refused. He persisted, gesturing again, mouthing words that I refused to acknowledge. Finally he called my name loud enough for everyone to hear and pointed at me and said I wished to speak. There was nothing I could do but stand and turn and face the congregation, which suddenly seemed to be much quieter than it had been. This was not something I had planned to do—speak of my relationship with Mr. Mosley, a man whom I had known my entire life. Where would I begin? I was surprised when the words came out.

  “I had two fathers …”

  Someone in the back shouted, “Alleluia!”

  Afterward, I shook the hands of a great many people that I didn’t know. Many others hugged me. Two old women even kissed my cheek. They were the only ones who used Mr. Mosley’s first name, and I wondered if after all these years there were a few things that he hadn’t told me.

  I noticed Lorenzo Hernandez waiting. When the crowd thinned he came up and said, “Ju look for killer of Mr. Mosley, Reverend say,” in a thick accent.

  “Sí,” I said.

  “Ju find ’im, ju tell me.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Por favor,” he added.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Mr. Mosley, ‘e good to me. I make ’im proud.”

  “Sí,” I said.

  A moment later, Reverend Winfield was hugging me. He hugged me several times.

  “It went very well,” he told me.

  “It was almost enough to restore your faith in the Almighty.”

  He raised an eyebrow when I said that. Maybe he knew that during the service I had managed to say a prayer for Mr. Mosley. And Susan Tillman. And, God help me, for Danny. Maybe he could see it in my face. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Almost,” I added.

  “You’ll be back,” he said.

  Shelby and Bobby had waited for me. Shelby hugged me, too. Bobby looked as if he might also give me a squeeze.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I told him.

  They insisted I spend the night on their sofa. I didn’t think that was necessary, and I gave them an argument. But the thing is, while I’ve debated successfully with each of them separately, I’ve never been able to stand up to both at the same time.

  “McKenzie. Wake up.”

  Shelby was leaning over the sofa, shaking my arm. She was wearing a pink off-the-shoulder sleep shirt, and for a brief moment I thought one of my most fervent fantasies was about to come true.

  “It’s Bobby.”

  “Bobby?”

  “Get up.”

  I followed Shelby into the kitchen. The clock on her wall read 6:15. She handed me the receiver of her wall phone.

  “It’s Bobby,” she repeated.

  “Bobby?” I said into the receiver.

  “McKenzie. Are you awake?”

  “I am now.”

  “You’re in trouble.”

  “So what else is new? Where are you?”

  “I’m at my desk. Listen. The FBI has just issued paper on you.”

  “What do you mean, paper?”

  “A Seeking Information Alert.”

  “A what?”

  “You know what a Seeking Information Alert is. It’s just this side of Wanted, Dead or Alive.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The FBI’s looking for you. Are you sure you’re awake?”

  “I am awake. What are you talking about?”

  Bobby sighed deeply. Here he was trying to help me, at no small risk to himself, and I was being dense.

  “We just received it—a flash e-mail. The FBI has issued a Seeking Information Alert on McKenzie, Rushmore James.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation is requesting the assistance of all city, county, and state law enforcement agencies in determining the where- abouts of Rushmore McKenzie, a United States citizen last seen in St. Paul, Minnesota. Although the FBI has no specific information that this individ- ual is connected to any potential terrorist activities, based upon information developed in the course of ongoing investigations, the FBI would like to lo- cate and question this person. It comes with a photograph. The photo was taken when you were younger. I hardly recognized you.”

  “Why? Why is the FBI doing this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m not a terrorist.”

  “You expect us to take your word for that?”

  “That’s not funny, Dunston.”

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “Ahh, jeezus.”

  “It’s like when Joe McCarthy was calling people reds. Once he dropped the label on a guy, you were pretty much colored for life.”

  I mixed a half dozen obscenities, profanities, and vulgarities into a long, complicated sentence.

  “My words exactly,” Bobby said.

  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Doesn’t it? Think about it.”

  I did, for about seven seconds. Finally I said, “The Carver County deputy who caught Mr. Mosley’s murder—before he was taken off the case, he told me that not only had Crosetti disappeared, there was no record that he had ever existed. I asked him who had the resources to make someone vanish like that, and he said, ‘Who do you think?’ I guessed at the time it was the government. Now I know which branch.”

  “Bingo.”

  “That’s why Dyke blew me off earlier. The FBI got to him—I bet the guy driving the yellow Mustang was FBI. They’re protecting the man who killed Mr. Mosley. Now they want to pick me up because I’m trying to find him.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “But why? Why would they do this?”

  “Ask them.”

  “What do you mean, ask them?”

  “How long have we know
n each other?”

  “Several lifetimes. We were legionnaires together under Marcus Aurelius.”

  “I need you to listen to me, McKenzie. Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I want you to come in.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. Come in. Now. Before things get out of hand.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “So the FBI can label me an enemy combatant? Drop me in a hole in Guantánamo Bay—no charge, no lawyer, no rights? I don’t think so.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Why not? What’s going to stop them? The Constitution? C’mon. Bobby, a man was murdered and a woman was raped and the FBI is protecting the guys who did it. Suddenly I’m in the way. What do you think is going to happen if I walk into the Federal Building with my hands up? Hey, guys. I hear you’re looking for me.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “I keep doing what I’m doing now.”

  “Or”—Bobby’s voice became softer, more cautious—“you could promise them you’ll be a good little citizen and do exactly what they tell you.”

  “Someone has to pay for Susan and Mr. Mosley.”

  “I figured you’d say that. Only, Mac, you’re trying to catch someone whose throat you can get your hands around. But it’s not one person. It’s a committee, an organization, a government.”

  “One man. You go high enough, you always find one man giving the orders.”

  “And what are your chances of finding that one man? What are your chances of getting to him if you do?”

  “What happens to me if I don’t? Besides, remember Bill Tierney, our history teacher in high school? Remember what he used to say about success?”

  “Half the battle is showing up.”

  “I’ll see you, Bobby.”

  “Wait.”

  “I can’t wait. If they’re looking hard for me, they’re probably also watching my friends. You could get into a lot of trouble just for calling me.”

  “What are you talking about? I called home to wish my lovely wife a good morning.”

  “You’d better talk to her, then, in case they wire you to a polygraph.” I handed the phone to Shelby and went into the living room. I dressed quickly. Shelby had just hung up the phone when I returned to the kitchen. She was standing in bare feet. The bright morning sun streaming through the kitchen windows surrounded her like the golden aura Renaissance artists painted behind angels and saints. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her forehead.

  “I gotta go.”

  5

  Twenty-five minutes later, I was ringing Margot’s doorbell.

  Disappear, I told myself. Take a page from Frank Crosetti’s playbook and vanish. The FBI couldn’t find me—and neither could Danny and his partner—if I didn’t exist, if I adopted a new identity, if I became someone else for a time. It’s not that difficult if you know how, if you know the right people, and if you have the money. Problem was, all my cash was locked in a safe in my basement, and the people I needed to deal with didn’t take checks. Which is what brought me to Margot’s at 7:00 A.M.

  I had worked my way around Falcon Heights, parked in the lot of the University of Minnesota golf course on Larpenteur Avenue about a quarter mile from my home, and strolled casually to Margot’s—just a neighbor taking his morning constitutional.

  Margot was wearing a short white terrycloth robe when she opened the door. If she had anything else on, I didn’t notice.

  “What do you want?” she asked, then said, “Let me rephrase that. Good morning, McKenzie. What brings you by so early?”

  “Remember that canary yellow swimsuit you wore the other day? I’d like you to put it on.”

  “Honestly, McKenzie, I wish you’d come back later. I’m much more fun after I’ve had a cup of coffee.”

  I gave Margot a head start, watching her carefully from her kitchen window, vowing not to leave her house until she disappeared around mine. She walked barefoot slowly across her lawn, careful not to spill a drop of coffee from her enormous mug. “C’mon, c’mon,” I heard myself mutter, at the same time regretting that I had suggested she carry the innocuous prop in the first place.

  Margot paused when she reached the pond and took a sip of coffee. She seemed fascinated first by the fountain and then by a silver 747 that arched across the cloudless sky, studying both as if they were new to her. She sipped her coffee some more.

  “Now you’re just trying to annoy me,” I whispered.

  Eventually she began moving again, slowly, leisurely, taking her own sweet time as she crossed my lawn and passed my garage. I had told her to behave casually, but for God’s sake! Finally she turned the corner of my house and vanished from view.

  I was off. I dashed from her back door and sprinted across the lawn. I rounded the pond and ran in a straight line toward my own back door, house key in hand—if I didn’t beat my personal best time in the 200-meter, I came damn close. I let myself in quickly and quietly. Cautiously I closed the door, took a knee, and waited to regain my breath. The house was still—I heard no sound and felt nothing to indicate that it was occupied. After a moment, I crept through the kitchen to the hallway, where I had a view of the front porch. Through lace window curtains, I could see Margot. She was leaning against the railing and glancing at the headlines in the St. Paul Pioneer Press that she held with one hand while sipping coffee from the oversized mug in the other.

  I heard his voice before I saw him.

  “Miss?”

  Margot looked startled. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Wilson,” the man said. He appeared on the porch next to her. He was holding his credentials for Margot to see. “FBI.”

  Hey, I know this guy, I reminded myself. He owes me a favor. Trying to collect it at that moment didn’t seem like the wisest of actions. Instead, I slid silently back into the kitchen, out of sight of the porch, opened the basement door, and descended the staircase. I was moving quickly. I figured Margot was sexy enough to distract anyone who might be watching my house—male or female—especially in that yellow swimsuit. Only I had no idea how much time I had before someone caught on and said, “Hey, wait a minute …” ’Course, knowing it was Wilson made me feel better about the ruse. Seven months earlier I had helped him and an ATF agent named Bullert bust a gunrunning operation. He liked attractive women.

  I rolled back a rug and removed four reinforced tiles. Beneath the tiles was a safe. I spun the combination too quickly and had to try again before it would open. I started pulling out items. First my handguns. There were three—a Heckler & Koch 9 mm, a Beretta 9 mm, and a Beretta .380. Then I dug out all the paper I had stashed in there—my last three tax returns, investment reports, mortgage information on my house and lake property, titles to the Jeep Cherokee and my boat, a life insurance policy, my last will and testament, passport, birth certificate, and $19,200 in cash in twenties and fifties. The money was what was left of $25,000 I had hoarded after I collected the price on Teachwell—that was the name of the embezzler I had captured.

  “Mad money,” I had called it.

  “If you don’t put it in a bank, you are nuts,” my dad told me.

  Only I sometimes had expenses that didn’t bear scrutiny.

  I returned the weapons to the safe. If I was going to shoot an FBI agent, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be with my own guns. I found a shoe box on a shelf in my workroom and stuffed the paper inside it. I also added my wallet and cell phone. It all fit easily, my entire life, I thought past, present, and future. Cremate me, and you could probably also find room for my ashes. I flashed first on an old Peggy Lee tune—Is that all there is?—and then on a line my father used to recite.

  You don’t deserve to own anything that you can’t take care of.

  For no particular reason except habit, I checked my voice mail while I was in the basement. It had recorded a message from Ivy Flynn.

  “
Mr. McKenzie, I am so sorry about Mr. Mosley. If there is anything I can do … I’m calling because I presume you wanted me to continue checking soil samples. I discovered that the Sevin XLR Plus originated just west of the property where the man shot at me. It’s being used to control crop pests in a grove of hybrid poplar trees. Apparently, wind currents carried it to some nearby flowers favored by honeybees. That is how Mr. Mosley’s hives were contaminated. Please call me and I will tell you more. I hope this helps.”

  I couldn’t believe it. All this because of some poplar trees? Mr. Mosley dead, Susan Tillman raped, me on the run because some jerk was sloppy in spraying his goddamn poplar trees? It seemed so pointless. But it’s not because of the trees, is it? I told myself. It’s something else. Something worse.

  I erased the message and crept back upstairs.

  “Officer,” I heard Margot say.

  “Special Agent,” Wilson corrected her.

  “Special Agent Wilson—I like the way that sounds.” Wilson smiled as if he did, too. “Special Agent Wilson, I don’t know how many ways I can tell you the same thing. McKenzie called early this morning. He said he was leaving town for a while. He asked me to collect his newspapers and mail until he came back. He didn’t say where he was going, and he didn’t say how long he would be away. That’s all I can tell you.”

  I took one last look around. It was a big house. I had eight rooms not including bathrooms and the basement, but only four were furnished—my bedroom, my dad’s old bedroom, the kitchen stocked with every culinary gadget available to civilized man, and what my father called “the family room.” That’s where I kept my PC, a big-screen TV, VHS and DVD players, my CD player, and about a thousand books, some of them even stacked on the shelves. Would I miss my house? I wondered. Would I be upset if I never saw it again? And the pond? And the ducks? And Nina and Margot and Bobby? What if I never saw Shelby again?

  From the porch, I heard Wilson say, “If you hear from Mr. McKenzie, please contact me.”

  “Of course, Special Agent.”