The Taking of Libbie, SD Read online

  “His account?”

  “An account with First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. That’s what the city and the other investors poured their money into.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Maybe if you had been here to tell everyone how dumb they were—”

  “No, no, that’s not it,” I said. “I meant that him abandoning his clothes and just taking off suggests panic. It suggests that he had learned that someone was onto him and it was time to leave. If that were true, though, why park his car at the lake where it would be easily found? Why not drive to Rapid City? There are plenty of attractions, tourists, plenty of places where he could park a car and walk away—the car might not be discovered for days. That would have bought him more time to make his getaway. Why take the risk of being seen in Libbie with his shill?”

  “Perhaps the shill didn’t trust him. Perhaps he wanted to be there when the Imposter made the transfer. Perhaps it was fixed so that the Imposter couldn’t make the transfer without the shill being there.”

  “Do you still have his possessions, what he left in the hotel?”

  “In the back. Do you want to take a look?”

  When he said “in the back,” the chief meant in the room next to his small office. The Imposter’s belongings had been packed away into his own suitcases, which we opened on top of a cafeteria-style table. There was nothing there that couldn’t be easily replaced: razor, toothbrush, hairbrush, gel—plenty of stuff that could be matched to his DNA if it came to that—and lots of clothes, most of it fairly new. What shocked me was that all of the pants and shirt measurements were the same as mine—waist, inseam, sleeve length, collar. We seemed to prefer the same colors and manufacturers, too. If you hung it all in my closet, I probably wouldn’t have known the difference. There was even a pair of black Florsheim slip-on dress shoes that retailed for about a hundred bucks that were identical to a pair I owned, down to the 10½ size.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “What?” the chief said.

  “Nothing.”

  I carefully examined every item, but it soon became apparent that the Imposter knew what he was doing. There was nothing unique in the suitcase, nothing that could be traced, nothing that could be used to help identify the owner.

  “Do you think he’s done this sort of thing before?” I said.

  “My experience, a guy doesn’t wake up one morning and decide to be an asshole. He works his way up to it.”

  “You think he has a record?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you have his fingerprints?”

  “Yep. Sent them off to the FBI last week, ran ’em through their automated fingerprint ID system. Nothing yet.”

  “If they don’t have a match in a couple of hours, you’re probably not going to get one.”

  “I figured, so I sent them to the South Dakota Division of Criminal Investigation, too.”

  “Let me guess. They didn’t get a hit, either.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  For a moment, the chief looked as if he actually had been keeping it in and decided not to bother anymore.

  “What about his car?” I said.

  “A rental, like I said. I went through it three, four times before we had it towed back to the rental agency. Nothing. Not a gas station receipt. Not even a cigarette butt in the ashtray.”

  Oh, well, my inner voice said. No one said it was going to be easy.

  “I don’t suppose any longtime residents have left in the past week or so,” I said. “Or announced that they were leaving.”

  “Nary a one.”

  “Would you know for sure?”

  “There isn’t much of a transient population. People move out—there’s been a lot of that these past few years. Not many people have been moving in. Everybody knows everybody. If you’re right, your accomplice is still here.”

  “With your permission, I’ll be hanging around for a few days.”

  “Permission granted. Just keep me in the loop.”

  “I’ll be asking a lot of people a lot of embarrassing questions. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure, Chief? You’ll be getting a lot of phone calls. These people pay your salary, after all.”

  “Way I look at it, McKenzie, you don’t help us find all that money, I’m going to be out of a job anyway.”

  The Tall Moon Tavern was far enough outside of Libbie that you couldn’t see the glow of the town’s lights from there. Or much of anything else, for that matter. There was a single fading arch light mounted on a high wooden pole to help patrons negotiate the gravel parking lot—and attract every winged insect in the known world. Yet beyond the yellow circle of light it cast, there was impenetrable darkness.

  I parked the Audi under the light, locked it with my remote control key chain, and made my way toward the front door; the brown stones crunched under my shoes. There was a neon sign on the door that advertised a beer I had never heard of—Ringneck Red Ale—that apparently had something to do with pheasants. Before I could reach it, the door flew open, and out stepped a thin, wiry man with a shaved head that reflected the arch light and a mustache that looked like something I tried to grow when I was a kid and gave up on after much ridicule. He moved quickly, and I had to hop to the side to avoid a collision.

  “I see you,” he shouted.

  He pointed more or less down the country road. I tried to follow his finger yet could see nothing beyond the circle of light.

  “I see you,” he repeated. “Bastard.”

  A moment later, a car engine turned over. Headlamps flared. A vehicle had been parked alongside the county road about two hundred yards from the Tall Moon’s parking lot. It moved forward, slowly at first, then with greater speed. The thin man kept pointing his finger, pointing it like a gun, as he followed the vehicle’s progress. It wasn’t until it passed the parking lot that I could see that it was a City of Libbie Police Department cruiser. A moment later, it disappeared into the night; not even its taillights were visible.

  “What was that about?” I said.

  “Bastard’s trying to ruin my business,” the man said. “He parks out there, scaring my customers, making ’em think he’ll bust ’em for DUI if they drink here.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why?” The man turned to me. His eyes were bright and shiny in the light. “Cuz his fucking brother-in-law owns a joint down the road, that’s why.”

  “Does Chief Gustafson know about this?”

  “That was Chief Gustafson. I saw him cruise past just before you arrived. I don’t know why he’s doing me like this. I’ve been competing with his brother-in-law for years, and there’s never been no, whatjacallit, animosity. Last few weeks, though, I see ’im out here a lot. I gotta figure a way to take care of this.”

  “That wouldn’t be smart, messing with cops.”

  “How the fuck would you know? You a cop?”

  “Me? Hell no.”

  I followed him inside the Tall Moon. He slipped behind a bar that looked as if it had been there since the invention of alcohol. Wooden booths with worn cushions bordered the near wall, and a regulation pool table, bumper pool table, foosball table, and plastic dart board were arrayed near the far wall. Between them were half a dozen tables and chairs. Someone had used folded napkins and cardboard to shim the legs of nearly all of the tables to keep them from tilting. That’s because the wooden floor had become so badly warped over the years that it resembled the most treacherous putting green I had ever seen—drop a golf ball and there’d be no telling where it would roll. There was a dance floor, also warped, facing a small stage that was empty save for a handwritten sign propped on a chair that promised live music every other Saturday night. In the meantime, Hank Williams was playing on a jukebox that looked like it still accepted nickels.

  Behind the bar I saw assorted bottles of liquor, spigots for tap beer, coolers for bott
led beer, pig’s feet in a jar, a pizza oven, beef jerky, bags of chips and pretzels, clear plastic bins filled with pull tabs, and a mirror that was badly in need of resilvering. Tracie Blake was sitting on a stool at the crowded bar. She was chatting with a bartender who seemed to only have eyes for her. I approached from behind.

  “Hello, Tracie.”

  She turned to look at me. The expression on her face went from bored to surprised just like that.

  “McKenzie, my God,” she said.

  I sat on the stool next to hers without asking permission. The owner hustled over as if he expected trouble.

  “I got it, Jeff,” he said.

  He took the much taller bartender’s elbow and literally pulled him away. Jeff frowned but began serving other customers without an argument.

  “He bothering you, Tracie?” the owner asked.

  I wondered how often men attempted to sit next to Tracie without permission and what the small man was prepared to do about it. Tracie removed the threat.

  “No, Wayne,” she said. “This is McKenzie I told you about.”

  “The real McKenzie?”

  “’Fraid so,” I said.

  “You’re the one who fucked up Church. Well, hell, that deserves a beverage on the house. What’ll ya have?”

  “What can you tell me about Ringneck Red Ale?”

  Wayne shrugged. “It’s pretty good. Brewed down in Sioux Falls.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  When the bartender left, I glanced over at Tracie. She was smiling.

  “It doesn’t take much to become a hero in this town, does it?” I said.

  “I knew you’d come back.”

  “You knew nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh, yes, I knew. It’s your eyes. Even when you demanded a rental car I could see it. You have tenacious eyes.”

  “Are you sure you’re talking about me and not the other guy?”

  Before she could answer, Wayne reappeared with my order. It turned out that the Ringneck was a medium-bodied ale. It poured a clear red, smelled slightly of caramel, and tasted of roasted malts on top followed by oak and chocolate at the finish.

  “What do you think?” Wayne said.

  “Nice,” I said. “Very smooth.”

  “Better than anything you’ll get in North Dakota, that’s for sure.”

  “Heady praise, indeed.”

  “All they have up there is churches, more churches per capita than anywhere else in the country.”

  “Don’t forget the missile silos,” Tracie said.

  “Blow themselves off the face of the earth and who would notice?” Wayne said.

  He gave me a look as if he expected a challenge to his claim.

  “I think much the same way about Iowa,” I said.

  “Iowa is the fucking Garden of Eden compared to North Dakota.”

  I wasn’t prepared to go that far but let the argument lapse just the same. Instead, I spun on the stool and faced the rest of the bar. Most of the patrons were male, and nearly half of them were watching me.

  “You don’t get many strangers in Libbie, do you?” I said.

  “They’re all waiting to see what I do about you sitting here,” Tracie said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “If I tell you to get lost and you don’t, half of them will jump to my defense.”

  “You have a lot of big brothers.”

  “No, just a lot of men who think they should be sitting here instead of you.” Tracie turned to face the audience as I had done. “Hey, guys. This is McKenzie.”

  “The one who beat up Church?” someone said.

  “I heard he sucker-punched him,” said someone else.

  “Chickenshit,” said a third man.

  “Glory is so fleeting,” I said.

  “It is, indeed,” Tracie said.

  We both spun back on our stools to face the fading mirror.

  “Do you mind knowing that so many men are, what’s the word—interested—in you?” I said.

  “I’m used to it.”

  “How many of them”—I paused to choose my words carefully—“have you let sit here?”

  “Damn few.”

  She waved her glass when she spoke, and some of the golden liquid spilled out. It was only then that I realized that Tracie was smashed.

  “How long has your husband been in the jar?” I said.

  “Ex-husband. It’s been about five years. Why?”

  “I was just thinking—that’s a long time to be without somebody.”

  “Oh, there’s been a lot of somebodies, McKenzie, but I’m holding out for that someone. How ’bout you? Is there a someone in your life?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So,” I said, “do you come here often?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Chief Gustafson knew where I could find you.”

  “Eric always knows where he can find me, day or night.”

  Tracie emptied her glass and waved it at Wayne, who had been watching intently out of the corner of his eye while pretending not to. A moment later, he refilled the glass. Tracie was drinking amaretto and 7UP, and Wayne was being generous with the amaretto.

  “What’s the plan, McKenzie? Do we have a plan?”

  “Tomorrow after breakfast, if you’re up to it, I want you to introduce me to every man, woman, and child that the Imposter knew in this town. Everyone involved in the phony mall. We’ll see if we can cut his trail.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight, I’m going back to my room at the Pioneer Hotel.”

  “No, no, don’t do that, McKenzie. You don’t want to go back to Sharren Nuffer. Stay with me. I have plenty of room.”

  I wondered briefly if Tracie had made the same offer to the Imposter who called himself Rushmore McKenzie, but I let the question slide.

  “I don’t think my girl would appreciate that,” I said.

  “Do you have a girl, McKenzie?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “Did you? I forgot. What’s her name?”

  “Nina.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Isn’t that—that’s a great feeling, isn’t it? Being in love.”

  I told her that it was. I don’t think she heard me, though. Instead, Tracie finished her drink and beckoned to Wayne for another. This time he gave her only a splash of amaretto to go with the 7UP. He glared as if daring me to challenge his pour and set the drink in front of her.

  “On the house,” he said.

  “You’re always so nice to me, Wayne,” she said.

  “Are you good to drive home?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Hey,” Wayne said. “You don’t need to hang around. We have it covered.”

  “See, McKenzie,” Tracie said. “I have someone, too.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I woke early, a common occurrence when I sleep in a bed that’s not my own. I wasn’t in any hurry, though, so I lay on my back and stared at the hotel room ceiling, waiting for the alarm clock to catch up to me. Bright sunlight slipped through the cracks between the window and the frilly shade. Still, it wasn’t the sunlight that caused me finally to go to the window and look out. It was the silence. Even in my residential neighborhood in St. Paul there was noise: the distant murmur of traffic; neighbors opening and closing doors to houses, garages, and cars; a dog yapping. Yet Libbie woke quietly. There were few vehicles on First Street and even fewer people, who all seemed to move on tiptoes as if they were afraid of disturbing the peace. For a moment, I flashed on the old SF movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Show emotion and you die. I quickly shook the image from my head.

  “Get a grip, McKenzie,” I said aloud.

  I decided to go for a walk. Usually I run in the morning, only this was more a journey of exploration than exercise. After putting myself together, I hurried down the three flights of steps and out the front
entrance of the Pioneer. I hung a left and followed First, my back to the sun. On the other side of the hotel’s driveway, there was a shop that sold collectibles. It was next to a store that sold discount items—damned if I could tell the difference between the two. There was an American Family Insurance office and an H&R Block office with an alley between them that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Farther down the street was the Munoz Emporium I had visited on Monday, and next to that was a senior center. The senior center was actually open, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to visit, so I kept moving.

  I followed First Street until I reached a sprawling grain elevator located at the western edge of the town. The name Miller was painted in black across a row of corrugated steel bins and on a sign over an office building in front of them. Beyond the elevator, there were green-brown fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. It was an impressive vista, just not something that could hold my attention for long. I preferred people in my landscapes.

  I scanned the gravel parking lot. There were several cars, SUVs, and pickups but no drivers. I was about to walk away when a door marked authorized personnel only opened and Church stepped out. He was limping slightly, and his right hand was encased in a plaster cast except for his fingertips. He stopped, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. That’s when he saw me. I gave him what Victoria Dunston called a microwave—holding my hand up and moving my fingers a fraction of an inch. He abruptly turned for the door. He slipped on his bad leg, and I thought he would go down until he managed to catch the door handle and steady himself. He gave me a hard look, spit the cigarette onto the gravel, and stepped back inside the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Chief Gustafson’s words floated back to me. Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful.

  I kept walking, heading north, until I discovered a set of railroad tracks that served the elevator. The tracks seemed to divide Libbie in half between north and south, and I wondered which side was the wrong side. There’s always a wrong side of the tracks.