“She came in here Christmas Eve. I was getting ready to close.”
“Did she tell you her story?” asked Bernadette. “What did she say?”
He folded his big arms in front of him. “I’m not sure I should be telling tales out of school.”
“She was a minor, Lenny,” said Bernadette.
“Did you have written parental permission to give her that tatt?” asked Cahill.
“She told me she was eighteen. She had ID.”
“Did she look like she was eighteen?” asked Bernadette.
He unfolded his arms but didn’t answer.
Bernadette put her hands behind her back and walked back and forth in front of the counter. “You sold a tatt to a minor without parental permission. A misdemeanor under state statutes.”
“I didn’t know,” he said. “She had ID.”
Bernadette stopped pacing and pointed a finger at him. “On top of that, she was pregnant.”
He blanched. “Goddamn. I didn’t know. She looked chubby. I didn’t think she was—”
“What did she tell you?” asked Cahill.
He rubbed his chin. “She didn’t tell me anything.”
Bernadette was sure he was lying again. “Show me your records. You do keep records, don’t you?”
“For two years, on each and every person tattooed. I photocopy their driver’s license or ID, and then I have them fill out a form: name, address, phone, date of birth, and their signature. She signed for that tatt.”
“What name did she give you?” asked Bernadette.
“I … don’t remember her name.”
“Let’s see the records,” said Cahill.
“Don’t you need a search warrant or some such shit?”
“If I have to get one, I swear to God I’ll come back with a small army and rip this place apart,” said Bernadette. “It’ll take a month for you to get back to business.”
“Fuck. All that for a little girl? Did she kill someone or what?” His eyes widened. “She was the one who was killed. Son of a bitch. She’s the kid they found in the woods.”
“Are you looking to be named an accessory to murder, Lenny?” asked Cahill.
“Christ, no.”
“Where’re your files?” asked Bernadette.
He thumbed over his shoulder. “In the back.”
“Lead the way,” said Cahill.
“It’s really a mess,” said Navare. “Why don’t you two wait out here?”
“Lead the way,” Cahill repeated.
Bernadette liked double-teaming with the kid. When he wanted, he could be an intimidating prick.
The two agents followed the shop owner behind the counter and screen, and went past the work area. Puke and floral odors aside, it looked as pristine as a dentist’s lab. To the left of the table and tools was a door. Navare pushed it open and turned on the overhead light, a naked bulb mounted to the ceiling.
The walls of the ten-by-ten cube were tacked with motorcycle posters, nude centerfolds ripped out of magazines, and enlargements of tattooed people. Bernadette assumed they were past clients. A battered metal desk was shoved up against the wall opposite the door, and an ancient wooden file cabinet was crammed into a corner to the left of the desk. Navare went to the cabinet and pulled open the middle drawer. “Give me a minute,” he said, and started poking around the files. Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder at them. He seemed nervous as hell.
“If you can’t remember her name, how are you going to look her up?” asked Cahill.
Navare didn’t answer.
The two agents exchanged glances. Bernadette walked deeper inside. Between the desk and the cabinet stood a life-size cardboard cutout of Lucy Lawless as Xena, the warrior princess. That brought to mind another tough broad, and her tattoo of a snake swallowing its own tail. “Did you do Jordan Ashe’s tatt?”
“Nah,” Navare said. “She got that ink before she moved to Minnesota. She’s not from around here, you know.”
“I heard,” said Bernadette.
“Too bad she offed herself. Never would have pegged her to be the type. I’m not saying she was Little Miss Mary Sunshine or anything, but…” His voice trailed off as he continued digging.
Bernadette found it interesting that a suicide story was already being circulated around the towns.
Navare turned around. “How’d you know her? Was she part of this mess?”
Cahill nodded toward the cabinet. “Please. We’re on a tight schedule.”
He turned around and resumed his search. Bernadette kept running her eyes around the room. She eyed the space under his desk. There was something sitting on the floor next to the legs of the chair. It was lavender. This man didn’t look like a lavender sort of fellow.
He wrestled a folder out of the tightly packed drawer. “Here she is. Heart girl.”
Bernadette ripped the file out of his hand and opened it. Two pages. The first was a photocopy of a driver’s license. It had Lydia’s mug shot and then a bunch of bullshit lifted off a Massachusetts ID, starting with the name Angela Schmidt. Bernadette had seen similar fake licenses a thousand times. She turned to the second page and saw that Lydia had carefully copied the fictitious information from the plastic. When the kid signed at the bottom of the form, however, she changed the spelling of the last name, going with
Schmitt
. Bernadette smiled sadly. Lydia was just a goofy kid.
“What’s up?” Navare asked.
“I’m keeping this,” she said, closing the folder.
“Uh … sure.” Navare shut the cabinet drawer.
“What else did she tell you? Did she say how long she’d been in town? Did she say where she was headed after your shop?” asked Cahill.
He shrugged. “I got the impression she’d just gotten to town. She asked a lot of questions.”
“About?” asked Cahill.
“Where she could crash for cheap. Where she could eat for cheap.”
“You didn’t think any of that was worth reporting to the police?” asked Bernadette.
“I didn’t know she was the dead kid,” he said.
“Even before that happened,” said Cahill. “Especially before that happened. Why didn’t you tell the police you had a pregnant minor in your shop? A girl who sounded like she was in trouble?”
“I told you, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t know.” Bernadette waved a hand toward the cutout. “And I’m Xena.”
“I get all sorts in here, lady. I can’t be calling the cops every time someone turns up with a story. No one would ever give me their business.”
“You could have contacted a social worker,” said Bernadette. “You could have called the hospital. You could have done something. She was vulnerable.”
“She looked like she could handle herself,” said Navare.
“She’s dead, so I guess she couldn’t handle shit,” said Cahill.
He hung his head. “I’m … sorry. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
“Where did you send her to eat or stay?” asked Bernadette.
“The restaurants were already closed for Christmas, and I told her that. Far as hotels go, I gave her a phone book so she could make some calls.”
“She had a cell?” asked Cahill.
“I told her she could use mine.”
Phone records would be invaluable, thought Bernadette. “So she took it and called?”
“No, but she did use the phone book to look up an address. Said she wanted to surprise them.”
“Them? It was plural?” asked Cahill.
Navare pursed his lips. “Uh … I’m not a hundred percent positive. Could have been a him or a her.”
“Were they friends, relatives?” asked Bernadette.
“She didn’t say.”
“Did she tell you where the person or persons lived?” asked Bernadette. “Think hard. Maybe she asked you how to get there.”
Navare shook his head.
“Were they in Walker? Did they live around here?” asked Cahill.
“Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”
“But she was checking a Walker phone book,” said Bernadette. “Where is the book?”
Navare lifted a few papers off his desk. Extracted a warped, mildewed phone book. “Here.”
Bernadette grabbed it and examined the cover. The thing covered multiple communities. She started flipping through it. “Did she fold a page or write something down out of this thing?”
“She had a pen in her hand, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Bernadette looked for taxi or bus listings in the immediate area and found none. The towns were too small. “How was she going to get there? Get to wherever she was going?”
“Haven’t a clue. Maybe she was going to thumb it.”
Bernadette, still riffling through the book: “After she left, in which direction did she go?”
Navare shook his head. “Sorry.”
She tucked the phone directory under her arm. “You just let her leave? You didn’t even offer to give her a—”
“I’m not a taxi service. I’m not the welfare office. I run a tatt shop. She came in, she got her ink, she … paid. She skedaddled.”
Bernadette sensed some hesitation in his voice about the paid part. “How’d she pay?”
Navare ran a hand across the buzz cut. “Well, she didn’t pay. Pisses me off.”
Bernadette couldn’t see this guy letting someone walk out of his shop with a freebie. “What did you do?”
“Did you do something to her?” asked Cahill.
Navare backed away from the two agents and raised his palms. “Now wait a minute. Don’t you be accusing me of nothing.”
Bernadette went over to the desk, bent down, and pulled out the lavender object that was hiding underneath. She held it up. A girl’s backpack, decorated with heart decals. “What the fuck is this?”
Navare’s mouth dropped open.
“Son of a bitch,” said Cahill.
Navare spun around and sprinted through the office door.
Bernadette was on his heels. “Stop!”
Navare tripped over his own equipment, knocking a tray of needles and ink to the floor with a clatter. He pushed a table toward Bernadette and she shoved it out of her way. Cahill bounded past her and went after the big man. “Stop, now!”
Navare went around the screen and tipped it onto Cahill. Bernadette dodged Cahill and the falling screen and jumped on Navare’s back as he was clambering over the front counter. They both fell to the floor, with Bernadette riding Navare’s back. “Bitch!” he hollered, and bucked her off. Scrambled to his feet and climbed over the counter.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” she hollered, getting on her feet with her Glock between her hands.
Navare was almost to the door. He looked behind him and saw the gun. Threw up his hands and froze. “I didn’t,” he said over his shoulder.
“Don’t move!” snapped Bernadette, coming around the counter.
“Didn’t kill anyone, swear to God!” Navare yelled to the glass door.
Behind her, Cahill was on his cell.
“Why’d you do it?” she asked. “Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t!”
Keeping her gun trained on his back, she itched to put a bullet in him. “Then why’d you run, huh? Why’d you run, Lenny? Tell me. I’d really like to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
W
harten and his deputies were first on the scene, and the sheriff personally loaded the handcuffed shop owner into the back of a squad. “You’re in a world of trouble now, Lenny,” said Wharten, his hand on the open door of the car.
“I didn’t do nothing!” Navare said. “I was holding the stuff until she came back with the money she owed me, that’s all. I was holding it!”
Wharten slammed the door and watched the squad as it pulled away. “Dumbass,” said the sheriff.
Navare had run for a very good reason. In addition to Lydia’s backpack, he was keeping a pile of jewelry the girl had taken from her parents. Bernadette didn’t think he’d killed anyone—he could prove that he was out of town when Lydia was murdered—but he’d sat on a backpack filled with stunning information. What angered Bernadette even more was that he could have summoned the authorities while Lydia was in his shop and prevented her from falling into the hands that eventually killed her.
Cahill joined Wharten on the sidewalk. “Thanks for the assist, sir.”
Wharten slapped the agent on the back. “Good work, young man.”
Bernadette was sitting on a bench behind them, talking to Tuckert. He’d come by to bag the backpack and its contents: dirty clothes, toiletries, letters.
The letters.
The boyfriend hadn’t been lying. Lydia had uncovered an ugly secret when she found those papers.
“From reading them, it sure is hard to figure out what they’ve got over the senator,” said Tuckert.
“Whatever it is, they think it’s worth a fortune,” Bernadette said.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “That was a good catch on that missing statue in the barn.”
Kudos from other agents were rare. “Thanks,” she said with a small smile.
“Thank
you.”
Tuckert got up off the bench and left with his booty. There’d be DNA tests to run and handwriting to be analyzed.
Her phone rang, and she checked the screen. Garcia. “Yeah.”
Garcia: “Agent Saint Clare?”
The formal stuff. He wasn’t alone. “Want me to pick you up out front?” she asked evenly.
“You need to come inside,” Garcia said.
“Why?”
“Are you still on the line, Agent Saint Clare? You’re breaking up. Can you hear me?”
He was telling her to pay attention. “I’m here, sir,” she said.
“I want you to review the case with the senator and his wife, Agent Saint Clare. We’d like to
see
you here as soon as possible.”
Garcia had something she needed to see. “Yes, sir.”
“How long will it take for you to get here?” he asked. “Where are you right now?”
“Agent Cahill is with me, sir.” She snagged B.K.’s jacket and pulled him down onto the bench. “Do I have time to get rid of him first, or should I bring him along?”
Silence on Garcia’s end. Then: “He can wait in the truck. This won’t take long.”
“Need me to bring over anything additional for the meeting, sir? I could call the Minneapolis crew and have them come by with it.”
“No. Just you. Make it quick, Agent. I don’t want to keep the senator and his people waiting.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and closed the phone.
“What’s going on?” asked Cahill.
“Come on.” Bernadette ran to the truck, with B.K. trailing after her.
“What’s going on?” he repeated.
She threw open the door and got behind the wheel. “Garcia wants me. He’s got something I need to see.”
Cahill jumped into the front passenger seat. “Is he in trouble?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.” She reached inside her jacket, took her Glock out of its holster, checked it, and put it back.
“That looks more like a
yes.”
“Better to be prepared.” She started up the truck and squealed out of the parking lot.
“I thought he was meeting with the Duntons.”
“He is.” She put the pedal to the floor.
Cahill fumbled with his phone. “Should I call for backup?”
“I gave him the opportunity to signal for more troops and he declined.” As they came up on a red light, she quickly scouted for other cars and blew through the intersection.
“If he’s in hot water, why wouldn’t he want more bodies?”
“Like I said, I don’t know that he’s got a problem. He might not be sure he’s got a problem. Plus, it would not help our relationship with Dunton if the entire Minneapolis Division descended on his pal’s place with guns drawn.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“I did indicate to him that you would be outside if we needed you.”
“So I’m the backup.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He put away his cell and reached inside his jacket for his gun. Took it out and checked it. “I’ve never fired this thing, except on the range.”
B.K. was as pale as the snowbanks. Once again, she was dragging the young techie into a dicey situation. The poor kid was going to turn gray by the time she finished with him. “Word around the campfire is you’re an excellent shot.”
He stared at the gun. “Which fucked-up campfire did you get that information from?”
“Carson, you were a great help in that tatt shop. Played it just right.”
“You’re the one who made the tackle. I was along for the ride, like now.” He holstered his Glock. “What did Garcia say, exactly? What did he find?”
“I’m not as worried about what
he
found,” she said. “I’m more worried about what
we
found.”
“They wouldn’t do anything to Garcia.” A pause. “Would they? How could they?”
“Those letters tell me the Duntons are in a jam, and people in a jam do crazy things.”
As Bernadette pulled the truck up the circular drive, Cahill gawked at the massive lake home. “Lincoln Logs on steroids.”
When she dropped Garcia off that morning, she’d hardly taken notice of the mansion’s log construction. The north woods were littered with log homes, large and small. It never occurred to her that this one might contain the trophy room from her vision. She suspected that Garcia wanted her to see the interior of the home, to determine if it contained at least one of the rooms she’d observed with her sight.
Bernadette parked the truck just past the steps leading to the front door and turned off the engine. “He told me to have you wait in the truck.”
“Which was code for …”
“Having you wait in the truck.”
“At least let me get out and walk around outside.” He pulled his gloves tighter over his hands. “Do we have a plan? I’d like to know the plan.”
“You don’t need to know everything, Carson.”
“I don’t know anything. Nobody ever tells me stuff. I’m always operating in a fog.”
“The sooner you find peace with that, the better off you’ll be. Don’t ask questions. Don’t worry about what anybody else is doing. Stay where I put you. Shoot when I tell you. Maintain your inner calm and go with the flow.”
“What the heck is that, FBI Zen?” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Too bad we didn’t have time to pull some equipment together to monitor this deal. That’s what I’m good at. Could have slapped a couple of mikes and a transmitter on Garcia before his meeting. Could have wired you.”
“That would have been overkill for this situation.” Even as she said that, she didn’t know if it was true. The letters changed everything.
Since they were expected, there was no sneaking up on the house. Nevertheless, she wanted to get the lay of the land. The Lexus and the Escalade were parked in the driveway, in front of the garage doors. She took down their license numbers. If necessary, she could run the plates later, but she figured they belonged to Dunton and his entourage. Through the truck’s rear and side mirrors, she studied the front of the house. Stickers plastered on the windows indicated that the place had alarms, but she didn’t see any security cameras. Maybe those were deemed excessive since the homes were already behind gates.
She wondered if she could get away with having B.K. posted near a door. The trophy room she’d observed through her special sight had a patio door with a view of the frozen lake, and Garcia knew that. He’d try to steer the meeting to that room so she could check it out. That being the case, Cahill would be closest to them if he hung around in back of the house.
“Let’s go,” she said, opening her door.
They hopped out, walked up the drive, and stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the front door. “Where?” he asked.
“Let’s go around back.” She motioned toward a shoveled path that peeled off from the walk and looped around toward the back of the two-story house. “I’ll go with you and get you situated.”
They hiked along the side of the cabin with the stone chimney. Smoke was pouring out of the top, and she could smell the burning wood. Someone was having an afternoon fire. She ran her eyes over that side of the house. The shades were up, but she didn’t see any movement in any of the windows. They got to the far corner of the house and stayed there, surveying like a couple of confused meter readers wondering where the utility box was located.
A gradual slope led to the shore. She looked down the hill toward the frozen body of water. Like the lake she’d observed through her sight, it was dotted with fishing shacks and snowmobiles. Certainly every other cabin in northern Minnesota enjoyed such a view.
Scanning the back of the house, she saw that the sprawling deck ran the entire width, with steps at each end leading up to it from the backyard. Beneath the deck, firewood was stacked against the house. She also saw a couple of snowmobiles covered with canvas, and a wheelbarrow. The basement windows that faced the storage area were dark.
Topside, three sets of patio doors opened onto the deck. The sliders closest to them led to a kitchen or dining area, she deduced, because a massive grill anchored that end of the deck. If this was indeed the correct house, the middle patio doors or the ones on the opposite end led to the trophy room.
“Where should I park my ass?” Cahill asked impatiently.
“My guess is we’re going to be meeting in one of the rooms with the patio doors. Not the sliders that open to the grill but one of the other two.”
“That’s a pretty specific guess,” he said.
“I’ll step close to the window and look out, so you’ll know for sure which one.”
“What if they notice me?”
“I hope they do.” If Cahill was spotted skulking around, it would give the impression that she and Garcia had the rest of the bureau watching their backs. At the same time, a lone agent couldn’t possibly piss off the senator.
“Do you want me to go up on the deck?”
“First make a show of strolling around and checking out the backyard. Then come up on the deck. Walk back and forth. Keep your eyes on my window.” She thought of something that would rattle the folks in the room. “Every so often, put your right hand inside your jacket. Just the right, so it’s obvious you’re not trying to keep your mitts warm.”
“They’ll think I’ve got a gun in my pocket.”
“That’s the point.”
“When should I make a move?”
“Only if all hell breaks loose.”
“Define.”
“A
thug slams me into the window. A body crashes through the glass and lands at your feet. The back half of the house blows up. You hear gunshots. You see or hear anything like that, call for backup and kick down a door. Come inside with your weapon drawn.”
“Otherwise my main job is to hang around outside and look vaguely threatening.”
“Pretty much.”
“I feel like that guy in
The Godfather
. The baker who goes to the hospital with flowers for the Don. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember. Enzo? Mario? Something ending with an
o.”
“That poor chump. He goes to the hospital with flowers for the Don, and Michael has him stand outside with his hands in his pockets, acting all tough like he has a gun. Pretending the little baker dude is one of the Godfather’s bodyguards.”
She was impressed. B.K. had actually figured it out. That was his role exactly. “There’s one big difference between you and the baker dude.”
“Yeah?”
“You really do have a gun.”
Bernadette returned to the front of the house. Before ascending the steps, she ran her eyes around. All the shades on that side were down. As Bernadette mounted the steps, she put her hand over her gun. The only person she could trust inside the house was her boss, and for all she knew he had a pistol jammed into his side. Her backup was a scared kid who’d never fired a weapon under duress. This case was turning out to be even more fun than she’d hoped.