Highway 61 (32 page)

“Is he dead?” Big Joe asked. “Did you kill my brother?”

I went to check. I reached Little Joe just in time to see his eyes close and hear his last breath.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“You’re dead, McKenzie,” Big Joe said. His hand was pressed against his wound; blood seeped around his fingers. “Do you hear me? This doesn’t end here. I’m gonna get you. I’m gonna kill you real fucking slow. You’re gonna beg me to kill you before I’m done cuz you killed my brother. Think I’m goin’ to prison, asshole? On what charge? I didn’t shoot anyone. That was all you. Call it self-defense, I’ll call it felony assault with intent. Your word against mine. Who the fuck you think they gonna believe, huh? I’m the one who’s shot. My brother’s the one who’s dead. Think that little whore’s gonna back you up? Think she’s gonna testify? Not goin’ t’ happen. I know the law, man. Think I don’t? I know the law, and I ain’t goin’ to prison. You might, though. Yeah, yeah, you’re the one who’s goin’ to prison. I’m gonna fuck you up, man. I’m gonna tell ’em my story and they gonna put you in fuckin’ Stillwater, not me. And while you’re gone, man, while you’re gone I’m goin’ to find everyone you love. Your mama, your wife, girlfriend, sisters—whatever, asshole. I’m goin’ t’ find ’em, every one of ’em and I’m gonna take ’em and I’m gonna hurt ’em. I’m gonna hurt ’em bad. I’m gonna nail their hands and feet to the floor and rape ’em, rape their pussies, their mouths, their assholes. I’m gonna stick cattle prods up their cunts. I’m gonna burn them with an acetylene torch. I’m gonna git ’em all, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. And then when you git outta prison, I’m gonna git you, too.”

While Big Joe ranted, I looked deep into his eyes. They held all the humanity of a plastic doll.

“I believe you, Big Joe,” I said. “I believe every word you say.”

NINETEEN

It was night by the time I parked the Buick on the North Side of Minneapolis. I walked one block down and two blocks over to Bug’s house. I found Bug there, sitting on his stoop in the dark and playing with his lighter just as he had before. I stood outside his gate.

“Mr. Ritzer?” I said.

“Come ahead.”

I pushed the gate open and moved up the crumbling sidewalk to where he sat. Bug’s clothing, his hair, his face, his breath, those terrible bloodshot eyes were all the same as they had been the first time we met. You couldn’t prove to me that he had moved so much as an inch since then.

“Where did you park the car?” he asked.

“Exactly where you told me to,” I said.

“They in the trunk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They alive?”

“One is.”

“You gonna get the pigs off me?”

“Just like I promised.”

Bug reached out his hand. The prepaid cell phone I gave him was resting in his palm.

“You should get rid of this,” he said.

I took the phone, replacing it with Big Joe’s car keys.

“I will,” I said.

“I’ll be going to prison next week,” Bug said. “Probably die there. You won’t see me again.”

Fine with me,
my inner voice said.

“Good luck, Mr. Ritzer,” I said aloud.

I turned and left Bug’s yard without even a backward glance. Officers Dailey and Moulton were parked up the street, as I knew they would be. I walked slowly toward their unmarked car. When I reached it, I rested my hands against the sill of the driver’s side window and looked in.

“What was all that about?” Dailey asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think we mean?” Moulton asked. “That little conversation with Bug.”

“Did I have a conversation with Bug? I don’t remember.”

“Don’t mess with us, McKenzie,” Dailey said. “What did he give you? What did you give him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Moulton asked. “Sure looked like something to me.”

“Can you guys do me a favor?”

“What favor, McKenzie?” Dailey asked.

“Give me a lift to the Hotel Sofitel in Bloomington. I left my car in the parking lot.”

“Then how did you get here?” Moulton asked.

“I’m not here,” I said. “You never saw me.”

Dailey and Moulton looked at each other, then at me, then at each other again.

“What happened about the Joes?” Dailey asked.

“We’ve been waiting for your call all day,” Moulton said. “You never called.”

“So what happened?” Dailey asked.

“It’s being taken care of,” I said.

Both Dailey and Moulton looked away from me and studied Bug. He was still on his front steps, still playing with his lighter. I could almost hear the two officers thinking.

“We’ve wasted enough time watching this guy,” Dailey said.

“He’s going to prison for ten years,” Moulton said.

“Sentencing is Tuesday,” Dailey said. “In the morning.”

“How much trouble can he get in?” Moulton asked.

“Screw it,” Dailey said.

“Yeah, screw it,” said Moulton. “We’re not even getting overtime for this.”

“Where did you say you were parked, McKenzie?” Dailey asked.

I gave him directions as I hopped into the backseat. The car was started, and we drove off, passing Bug’s house as we did. Bug was smiling. It was a terrible smile.

*   *   *

Dailey and Moulton dropped me next to my Jeep Cherokee. The lights in the parking lot showed them the damage to the front end.

“You’ll want to get that headlight fixed,” Moulton said.

“We’d hate to give you a ticket,” Dailey said.

“I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow,” I said.

“You do that,” Dailey said.

We lingered there for a moment as if we had more to say to each other, yet couldn’t think of the words.

Finally Dailey said, “See you around, McKenzie.”

“Yeah,” Moulton said. “See you around.”

“Later,” I said. By then their vehicle was already heading to the driveway, and I doubt they heard me.

I turned back to the Cherokee and fished in my pocket for the key. I was inserting the key into the lock when a voice spoke to me from behind.

“McKenzie,” the voice said. “Turn around slowly. Make sure I can see your hands.”

I did what the voice told me.

John Brehmer stepped out of the shadows. He held his service weapon in his hand, yet he wasn’t threatening me with it.

“Detective Brehmer,” I said.

“I’m sorry about this, McKenzie,” he said. “I really am.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Rushmore McKenzie, you are under arrest.”

*   *   *

Brehmer installed me in the interrogation room of the Eden Prairie Police Department. While he handcuffed me to the stainless steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the room, I asked what it was all about.

“Suspicion of murder,” he said.

“Who did I kill?”

“Tony Rothman and Sean Koepke.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Witnesses place you at the scene with a gun in your hand. Your vehicle was photographed fleeing the scene by traffic cameras.”

“Did the witnesses see anyone else in the parking lot?” I asked. “Did they see me being shot? Did the cameras show another car chasing me? And the two men in it? Was there a report filed by a homeowner somewhere between France Avenue and Highway 100 claiming that a German sedan jumped the curb and crashed into a tree in his front yard?”

Brehmer didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Tell me something, John. Just between you and me—what is an Eden Prairie detective doing arresting a man in Bloomington for a crime that was committed in Edina?”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, either.

I told him that I had nothing more to say; that I refused to answer any questions without my attorney present, and that if I was forced to drag her down there, I would still refuse to answer any questions. Answering the questions police and prosecutors asked, whether you were guilty or not, would only get you into trouble. Anyone who watched
Law & Order
or
The Closer
on TV could tell you that.

Brehmer said he didn’t have any questions to ask. That was someone else’s call.

“You were a cop,” he said. “You know how it works.”

Brehmer left me alone in the interrogation room. Enough time passed for me to become alarmed if I hadn’t already known what was coming. Finally Brehmer reappeared. He was carrying a cell phone. He handed it to me without a word. I spoke into the microphone.

“This is McKenzie,” I said.

“Where are the files?” a voice asked. “Where is the girl?”

“Hello, Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“No names, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“Dammit, Mr. McKenzie.”

“Dammit, Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

Brehmer moved against the wall of the room and pretended that he wasn’t listening.

“I repeat,” Muehlenhaus said. “Where are—”

“The files are with Vicki,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Mr. McKenzie, there is no need for this rancor.”

“Says the man who isn’t sitting in jail,” I said. “You know, the black kids have a saying—don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“I would never be so foolish as to threaten you.”

“Mr. McKenzie, I was under the impression that we were on the same side in this affair.”

“Mr. Muehlenhaus—oh, wait, I used your name again. Mr. Muehlenhaus, I found the girl as promised. I delivered your message as promised. As for being on the same side, that ended when your thugs shot me in the back. Luckily, I was wearing body armor at the time. Still, you can imagine my—what was the word you used? Rancor?”

“I did not know. In any case, they were not my thugs, as you say. They were not in my employ.”

“Of course they were. They followed me from the party where we met. After that you supplied them to your good friend Roberta. You said something could be arranged for her, and the suits were that something. She didn’t have access to that kind of talent on her own or she would never have hired the Joes.”

“I am dreadfully sorry for your trouble, Mr. McKenzie. You must believe that. Yet whether you do or do not has no effect on our current impasse. I need Ms. Walsh’s files, if not Ms. Walsh herself. If you promise to deliver them into my hands—”

“No.”

“Mr. McKenzie, this affair might yet come to an amicable conclusion.”

“I don’t think it will.”

“Mr. McKenzie, it is true that the evidence against you will not bear up under close scrutiny. However, you and I both know that people have been convicted and sent to prison with far less. No doubt you are putting your trust in your extremely competent and resourceful criminal defense attorney. That would be a mistake, as I am sure she will inform you. If you wish to see yourself clear of this situation, I would strongly encourage you to cooperate.”

I thought about it for a good ten seconds, I really did. It would have been so much easier for me if I had simply gone along with the old man, but I had had enough. Too many people had been killed to protect the interests of Mr. Muehlenhaus’s acquaintances. As rotten as Vicki Walsh’s behavior had been—and it had been very rotten indeed as far as I was concerned—theirs was far worse.

“Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing,” I said.

“Mr. McKenzie—”

I deactivated the phone. Brehmer came off the wall of the interrogation room and walked toward me. He reached out his hand for the cell. I cradled it against my chest.

“C’mon, McKenzie,” he said.

“John, I get the impression that you don’t want to be involved in any of this.”

“You know I don’t. But what am I going to do? You used to be a cop. You know…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I haven’t actually been charged yet, have I?”

“There’s an assistant county attorney on the way that’s going to do the honors. He’s probably like me. He had his instructions, too.”

“I understand that you’re being squeezed, John. Both you and the ACA. I understand that there’s nothing you can do about it unless someone comes along who can squeeze harder.”

“What are you telling me, McKenzie?”

I handed the cell back to Brehmer.

“I need my iPhone,” I said. “Can you get it for me?”

Brehmer gave me a hard look for about five long seconds.

“Yeah, I can,” he said. Brehmer left the interrogation room. He returned about two minutes later. He handed the iPhone to me. “Is this what you want?”

I activated the device and searched for a number in the cell’s memory.

“Are you calling your attorney?” Brehmer asked.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I listened intently as the phone rang one, two, three, four, five times. For a moment I was frightened that it would go unanswered. Finally, in the middle of the sixth ring, a woman’s voice said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I said. “Lindsey? This is McKenzie.”

“Hey, McKenzie. What’s going on?”

“Same old, same old. Say, Zee, may I speak to the governor? I need a favor.”

*   *   *

One of the things about pulling strings is that the pullers usually don’t want anyone to see them doing it. Which is why it took several hours before I was released from the Eden Prairie cop shop with no paper or electronic record left behind to prove that I was ever there. I collected my belongings, and John Brehmer was kind enough to drive me back to my vehicle.

“You have a lot of friends in high places,” he said.

“Unfortunately, I now owe them all favors, and nothing good can come of that,” I said.

“If it makes you feel any better, I figure we’re square.”

“You’re a good man, John.”

“I try to be.”

So do you,
my inner voice told me,
and yet you fail so often.

I waited until I was safely ensconced in the Jeep Cherokee and Brehmer was nowhere in sight before I used my iPhone to access Vicki Walsh’s Facebook page again. I found Drew Hernick’s name and contact information. I called him.

He answered on the third ring. “Yes?”

“Drew Hernick?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

“A mutual friend asked me to deliver a message. SNAFU.”

“Could you repeat that, please?”