Highway 61 (8 page)

“May.”

“When in May?”

“First week, second week, I don’t remember. Why?”

“The reservation for the room at the Chalet Motel was made May twenty-first.”

“I don’t know the exact date. I’m pretty sure I made my reservation before—oh, I get it.”

“What do you get?”

“The people who did this to me, they knew I was coming.”

“Seems like,” I said.

“What about—did you find out about the girl?”

“I don’t know about the girl. You tell me.”

“I don’t know her, I keep telling you.”

“You might not know her,” I said, “but she and her friends knew you.”

“She had friends?”

“At least one—the man who registered at the motel.”

“Then it’s what you said, a, what did you call it, a badger game?”

“All I know for sure is that there is no evidence that a girl was killed in room thirty-four of the Chalet Motel in Thunder Bay, Ontario, on or around the Fourth of July. Nor can we find evidence that anyone matching the girl’s description has gone missing in Ontario, Canada, or Minnesota since then.”

“What should I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When they call demanding more money. What should I do?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you’re not telling me.”

“Nothing, nothing at all, McKenzie. I’ve told you everything, I swear to God.”

I sincerely doubted that, only there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

“Well, then,” I said. “When they call you…”

“Yeah?”

“Tell them to do their worst.”

Truhler hesitated for a moment.

“I’m not sure I want to say that,” he said.

“Then say nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Good-bye, Jason.”

*   *   *

Daylight Saving Time had expired on the first Sunday in November, so even though it was only 5:00
P.M.
when I left the house, the trees were already black silhouettes against an orange-red sky. I took the Audi, leaving my Jeep Cherokee in the two-car garage, and worked my way out of the neighborhood. I’m a St. Paul boy, born and raised, and proud of it; I had no desire to live anywhere else. Unfortunately, after I came into my money, I moved to Falcon Heights, a first ring suburb. It was an accident. I thought I was buying a house in one of the more affluent St. Paul neighborhoods. It wasn’t until after I signed an offer sheet that I realized I was on the wrong side of Hoyt Avenue. I’ve been getting crap about it ever since from Bobby Dunston and some other friends.

I was on Highway 280 and heading for eastbound I-94 when my iPhone played the Ella Fitzgerald–Louis Armstrong cover of “Summertime.” I don’t like to talk on my cell and drive at the same time, so I let voice mail pick up the message. Ten minutes later, I parked in the lot outside Rickie’s. Before going inside, I checked my messages. There was a report from my private security firm. Someone had broken into my home.

*   *   *

There were two St. Anthony police cars and a cruiser from the security firm parked in front of my home when I arrived. There were also about a dozen of my neighbors standing around and shaking their heads. Not long ago they presented me with a petition bearing nearly fifty signatures demanding that I move. I can’t say I blamed them. I was a far cry from Benjamin Hoyt, the pioneer preacher the avenue was named after, and the kidnappings, murders, and shoot-outs that had occurred since I moved in certainly constituted a “detriment to the community,” as the petition suggested. Still, they seemed to be getting used to me. A couple of neighbors broke into sincere applause when I sprinted across my lawn toward the assembly of officials gathered in my driveway. One of them shouted, “Hey, McKenzie. Who did you shoot this time?”

Those kidders.

Sergeant Martin Sigford of the St. Anthony Police Department was the first to greet me.

“What the hell, McKenzie,” he said.

Falcon Heights didn’t have a police department. Instead it had a contract with the St. Anthony PD to provide services. Sigford had been to my house on several occasions.

“I coulda sent a couple of rookies,” he added. “Seeing it’s you, though, when the alarm sounded I hightailed it over here expecting gunplay, expecting who knows what? Instead, all I get is a simple break-in, and not even your house. It’s your garage. How disappointing.”

“Sorry ’bout that, Marty,” I said.

“Mr. McKenzie, your house seems locked up tight.” That came from a member of my security firm. “We must ask you to check the premises, of course,” he added—but then, he had a report to file. “In the meantime, if you would examine your garage.”

Sigford led the way toward the two-vehicle structure; there was also a portal for a boat and trailer, but I added that on a couple of years ago. The garage itself had been constructed long before society discovered that it was dangerous to put windows in. That’s how the thieves gained entrance—they broke the window of my side door and reached in to unlock it. From that instant, they had less than five minutes to take what they wanted before the St. Anthony Police Department responded to the alarm my security system broadcast. Guards from the security firm arrived moments later.

“No one was observed in the vicinity when we arrived,” Sigford said. “We checked with your neighbors. They didn’t see anyone, either. The unsups must have known they tripped your alarm as soon as they broke the glass, although, if they had known about the security system, why did they break in at all?”

Together, we stepped inside the garage. The light was already on.

“That was us,” Sigford said.

I searched quickly. Lawn mower, snow blower, bikes—everything seemed to be in its proper place, and that’s what I told the cops. I didn’t mention that the wheel carrier on the back of my Jeep Cherokee had been swung open and then closed, but not latched.

“What were they after, I wonder,” Sigford said.

“I have no idea,” I told him.

“Sure you’re not holding out on me, McKenzie?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Force of habit.”

SIX

Nina Truhler lounged behind her desk, her feet on the blotter, eating donuts. Her office, if you could call it that, was located just off the downstairs bar at the jazz club that she had named after her daughter. It was small and cramped and filled with enough cartons and boxes that it resembled a storage closet. The only thing that suggested someone actually spent time there was the twelve-inch-high trophy—a gold figure with sword extended mounted on a marble stand—that Erica had won at the St. Paul Academy Invitational Fencing Tournament last year and given her mother. I sat in the only other chair in the room. I was eating a donut as well.

“These are amazing,” Nina said. She was licking brown sugar off her fingers as she spoke.

“Ambrosia,” I said.

“At least one good thing has come of your helping Jason.”

“Two. The donuts—”

“And?”

“I scored a few points with Erica.”

“Rickie has always liked you.”

“I’m not altogether sure that’s true. I’m the guy courting her mother. How could she possibly approve of that?”

“Good question. Clearly you’re not good enough for me.”

“All my friends who have met you say that I outkicked my coverage.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I like the sound of it.”

Nina smiled around a mouthful of donut, her pale blue eyes bright and shiny, and glanced up toward the ceiling. Even after all the years I’ve known her, there are still ways she can sit, stand, turn, move, run her hand through her jet black hair, ways she can cock her head, that make me feel suddenly flushed and light-headed. Even the way she chewed her donut made me aware of just how much I adored this woman. If it hadn’t been for Jason Truhler we might have married long ago. Her experiences with him had soured Nina on the institution of marriage, leaving us in a committed relationship, yet living on different sides of the city, together but apart.

Nina swallowed her donut and reached back into the white carton.

“We should save a few for Rickie,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m sorry about the way I reacted when you said you were helping Jason.”

“I understand. No need to apologize.”

“I never told you much about our relationship.”

“You told me enough.”

“He was very abusive. Not physically abusive. It would have been easier, I think, to deal with that. Instead, he had a way of making me do things I didn’t want to do, of making all of our problems seem like they were my fault, of—he had a way of making me feel small. That was the worst of it. He made me feel like I was so much less than everyone else.”

“The two of you did a good job raising Erica, though. Anyway, that’s what Jason said.”

“He’s wrong. Rickie didn’t get nearly as much time and attention from either of us as she should have. Jason was never around except on holidays and the occasional weekend when he could tear himself away from his bimbos. Me? I spent more time building and running this place than I ever did with her. I had to prove that I wasn’t small, you see. Rickie suffered because of it. She grew up despite us.”

“I don’t believe that’s true. I bet Erica doesn’t, either.”

“Rickie treats me like a dense, dull old woman who just happens to pay the bills. We get along, I suppose, but we’re not as close as we should be. She keeps a lot to herself. It kills me that she doesn’t take me into her confidence.”

“Doesn’t every mother say that about her daughter?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, that’s the thing. She’s grown up. She’s starting to make decisions that will affect the rest of her life. I’m not saying she can’t make smart decisions. She’s never done anything stupid; she’s never been in any real trouble. It’s just that she’s always pushing her luck. She rarely does anything until the last possible moment. She’s been working as a tutor for a couple of years and hasn’t saved a dime. She stays up too late, never picks up after herself, spends all her free time on her laptop or her cell phone, won’t eat unless you make her. She never dates the same guy more than twice. Well, I don’t mind that so much. I married at twenty-one. If I have my way, Rickie won’t marry until she’s thirty. It’s just—she drives too fast, if you know what I mean.”

“Erica has a perfect four-point-oh grade point average,” I said. “She’s a champion fencer, does charitable work, looks you in the eye when she speaks, and always finds a way to get home before midnight.” I pointed at the trophy. “I was there when she gave you that. ‘Thank you, Mom,’ she said, and since she didn’t say exactly what she was thanking you for, I presume it was everything. Sounds to me like you must have done something right.”

Nina stared thoughtfully at the trophy for a few moments. The metal plate at the bottom read
CHAMPION WOMEN
’
S ÉPÉE
.

“Maybe,” she said. She slid her legs off the desktop and sat straight in her chair. “I presume you mean
I
did something right, not her father.”

“Of course.”

“You’re done with him, aren’t you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“How much trouble was Jason in?”

I thought about the girl in the motel room. I thought about the telephone next to the bed.

“Without going into detail,” I said, “all he had to do was pick up a phone. If he had done that, all of his problems probably would have gone away. He didn’t. He was afraid. Everything escalated from there.”

“He was never one for taking responsibility.”

I would have agreed with her, except I didn’t get the chance. Nina’s chef, a temperamental young woman named Monica Meyer, who once worked for Wolfgang Puck, walked into the office without knocking, looked down at the carton of donuts, looked up at us eating the donuts, and said, “What are you two doing?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” I said.

“I have beef tenderloin with truffle potato puree and red wine demi and you’re eating donuts?”

I gestured up and down with my hands as if they were the business ends of a scale.

“Your cooking—donuts; your cooking—donuts; your cooking—ahh, donuts win.”

“Are you insane?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Stop it, McKenzie,” Nina said. “Monica’s cooking is superb. Profits have gone up nearly twenty-five percent since she took over the kitchen.”

“Don’t tell her that. She’ll ask for a raise.”

“Nina gave me a raise yesterday, smart guy,” Monica said. “Plus profit sharing.”

“At least we both agree that I’m a smart guy.”

“Sarcasm is wasted on you.”

“Do I have to put up with this every time you two are in the same room?” Nina asked.

Monica pointed at the white carton.

“He brought donuts,” she said.

“The world’s greatest donuts,” I said.

“Puhleez.”

“Try one.”

“Not a chance.”

“Seriously, try one.”

Monica looked at Nina as if she were seeking help. Nina shrugged. Monica sighed deeply.

“Fine,” she said.

She reached for a glazed donut, took a small bite, and chewed carefully. Then she took a bigger bite. Then another.

“Where did you get these?”

“World’s Greatest Donuts,” I said.

“Can’t you answer a simple question without trying to be funny?”

“I’m not kidding. That’s the name of the bakery. The World’s Greatest Donuts. It’s in Grand Marais.”

Monica looked at Nina. “Really?”

Nina nodded.

“Isn’t that like three hundred miles from here?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Monica took a second donut from the carton and held it up as if it were the apple Eve gave to Adam. She studied it carefully.

“I bet I can make donuts just as good as these,” she said.

“Fifty bucks,” I said.

“What?”

“Fifty bucks says you can’t.”

“You’re on.”

Monica spun slowly toward the door, still holding the donut in her outstretched hand.

“Monica?” Nina said.

Monica looked back.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you come into my office? Did you want something?”