Highway 61, page 6
Who?
It had to be Daniel Khawaja.
If it is, then he’s a moron.
Given that I already had expressed my reason for coming to Thunder Bay to a detective constable of the police service and that nothing had come of it, to call the cops now—anonymously or not—and report that I was transporting drugs would have been silly. It would be like hanging out a sign announcing that I was on the right track. ’Course, criminals have done dumber things. Except, if it was a setup, why hadn’t I been arrested when I claimed the Cherokee or when I drove out of the parking lot? Unless the call had been made to the Ontario Provincial Police and they were waiting to jump me when I left the city and headed for the border.
Ahh, the border. Customs.
I slipped the cocaine out of the pouch, broke open the plastic bag, dumped it over the drain, and used the power hose to flush it, vinyl pouch, plastic bag, electrical tape, and all. Afterward, I searched the Cherokee as if my life depended on it. When I discovered nothing more, I cleaned the vehicle inside and out. By the time I was finished, it sparkled just like it had the day I drove it off the lot. All that was missing was the new car smell.
* * *
I approached the Pigeon River Border Crossing as if I were driving up to a parking lot ticket booth—that is, I was trying real hard to act casually. I powered down my window and handed the border agent my passport. Icy air slapped me in the face. I was sure that was what made me shiver.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning,” the agent said.
He took my passport and examined it. It seemed to me that he examined it for a very long time. Meanwhile, a second border agent appeared out of nowhere and approached the rear of the Cherokee. In front of the vehicle and off to the right a third agent stood. It seemed to me that his hand was resting awfully close to his gun.
“Open the tailgate, sir,” the agent in the booth said.
“Certainly.”
I opened my car door.
The agent said, “Stay in your car, please.”
The snap of his voice startled me, and I quickly closed the door. I had no intention of leaving the Cherokee. I opened the door to merely make it easier to reach the release lever on the floor between the door and my seat. I pulled the lever. The agent in back of the Cherokee swung the wheel carrier out of the way, opened the rear hatch, and peered inside. The agent in the booth started asking the obligatory questions. “Do you have anything to declare?” I answered directly and succinctly. You do not joke with border guards. You do not behave rudely. You do not complain about the wait, question the procedures, dispute the legality of a search, debate border policy, or demand your rights as a citizen no matter how intrusive the guards might be. You do not rant about the government. You do not wear LEGALIZE MARIJUANA T-shirts. If you are smart you speak only when you are spoken to. For the most part, fear of terrorism has made border guards virtually untouchable. No matter which nation they hail from, they are tiny gods on earth with the power to ruin your vacation or your life with little provocation. So I sat there, with my mouth shut, waiting and watching, until the agent in back of the Cherokee closed the tailgate and returned the wheel carrier to its proper position, the guard in front of the car strolled away, and the agent in the booth returned my passport.
“Welcome home,” he said.
My heart leapt in my chest, and I felt a kind of warm tingling throughout my body. The same sensation had overcome me only once before and under similar circumstances. It was the first time I had left the country, flying down to Jamaica for a couple of weeks. When I returned, a female customs agent at Miami International Airport said the same thing—“Welcome home”—and I felt a moment of almost overwhelming euphoria, even though I hadn’t missed being home at all.
“Thank you,” I said.
I let my breath out. I had been holding it in for a while without realizing it. A few moments later, I was heading south on Highway 61, the border crossing receding in my rearview mirror.
“That went well,” I said.
Then I thought about the cocaine.
“What the hell?”
* * *
Five hours later, I parked the Cherokee inside my garage next to the Audi. I gave the wheel carrier a shake before I left, as if I were daring something to happen. Nothing did. Once inside the house, I set my overnight bag and the carton of donuts on the kitchen table. I gazed out the window to see if the ducks had flown south while I was gone. They hadn’t. The sight of them filled me with both pleasure and disappointment. I was glad that the ducks had seen fit to adopt me. On the other hand, hanging around so late in the year, they were pushing their luck. In Minnesota, winter was always just around the corner.
The clock above my sink read three fifteen. I was anxious to get Jason Truhler off my plate before I saw Nina, so I went to my home office and started making phone calls, although my first call had nothing to do with him.
“For cryin’ out loud,” Clausen said. “They’re ducks. You don’t think they know when to fly south?”
Doug Clausen worked for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. I had known him since college.
“You said they’d be leaving any day now,” I said. “That was a week ago.”
“It was four days ago, and nothing’s changed. Dang, McKenzie. How come I only hear from you when you’re worried about your dang ducks?”
“I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
“Yeah, you and all the dang duck hunters. I told you, the unusually mild weather has stalled the duck and goose migration from Manitoba all the way to Mississippi. It’s that simple.”
“But what’s caused the mild weather? Is it global warming?”
“I don’t know from global warming. It’s an evolving science, and it’s in its infancy. I do know that it’s an El Niño year, when there’s a warming of the central and eastern tropical Pacific waters, which brings rain to the Southwest and warmer winter weather to the northern states.”
“Still…”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, there’s a change in the weather approaching. The migration forecast is for a major movement of dabbling ducks. Want my advice? Watch the Weather Channel.”
* * *
It had been about six years since I put in my papers at the St. Paul Police Department, and I still had plenty of friends there. One of them was a sergeant working in the missing persons unit named Billy Turner, the only black man that I knew personally who played hockey. He gave me about half an hour of his time, meticulously combing his databases, including his lists of unclaimed and unidentified bodies. Nothing matched the description of the dead girl in Thunder Bay.
I had sources across the river, too. Unfortunately, the Minneapolis Police Department was suffering through one of its periodic scandals—this one revolving around members of the SWAT team who were moonlighting as armed bank robbers—and paranoia had set in. That made it tougher to find someone who would sell me unauthorized information. However, a little groveling and the promise of a couple of unmarked fifties bought exactly what Billy Turner had given me for free—nothing.
Next I tried the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Unlike the local cops, the BCA had a Missing Person Clearinghouse, a Web site that requested the public’s help in identifying and locating missing persons. The site listed twenty-eight missing persons, another eighteen that were considered runaways, two nonfamily abductions, and three unidentified bodies. One of the unidentified bodies, tagged Female 004, came close to matching the description of the girl in Thunder Bay, but the dates were wrong. Female 004 had been found naked in a drainage ditch four months before the blues festival.
* * *
I called Truhler.
“Who knew you were going to the Thunder Bay Blues Festival?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question. Who knew that you were—”
“I don’t know,” Truhler said. “A lot of people, I guess. It wasn’t a secret.”
“When did you decide that you were going?”
“I had always planned on it.”
“When did you make your reservation at the Prince Arthur Hotel?”
“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.”
