EQMM, Jan. 2003, page 4
The old Vikings in their dragon ships would have felt right at home here. Sheltered harbor, towering trees to build their longhouses and repair their war boats. And easy plunder for the taking in any direction.
They could raid Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, Buffalo, or fifty ports on the Canadian shore. For a moment I pictured hard men in horned helmets storming the casinos at Windsor or Detroit. Come to think of it, swap the ships for motorcycles and they'd probably fit right in.
Back to business.
I hit Marv Kerabatsos's number on the speed dial. And actually got him. A rare thing.
“Marv, it's Ax. Quick question, does Monica Sorenson smoke?”
“You mean reefer?”
“I mean anything.”
Silence as Marv scanned his memory banks. “No. Definitely not. Monica's a health freak. Yogurt, granola, megavitamins, that whole trip. Not a smoker.”
“Amphetamines aren't exactly health food.”
“She was only popping them to stay slim. Probably thought of them as one more vitamin. Which they're not. Never used anything else, though. If a doobie came around at a party she wouldn't even toke it to be polite. Any luck so far?”
“Yeah. All bad. I'll be in touch.” I rang off. Then did a little thinking myself. Bottom line, if Monica wasn't here I had no idea where she might have gone. Maybe to stay with a friend her parents didn't know about. If so, I might be able to trace her through her credit cards eventually. Assuming she still had them.
The secondhand smoke at the cottage was bugging me. Not just because it was there, but because it was strong. Like the smoke in Finn's Waterfront. Coarse tobacco. Unfiltered. Not many Americans smoke unfiltered cigarettes. It's a European thing. Even if Monica tried smoking to settle her nerves, I couldn't see her starting out with ... Russian cigarettes?
Maybe that's why the stench had lingered. Or maybe my imagination was working overtime. Either way, I was getting a bad feeling about this.
Since I couldn't find the girl, I decided to try tracing her car.
I made a call to Monica's mother and caught a break. Since the car was a present, the Sorensons were still carrying Monica's Mercedes on their auto insurance policy. She said she'd find the paperwork and call me back.
I took a long last look at the lake. The silvered mist was drifting down from the north, darkening the swells with a sense of foreboding. Maybe there really were ghostly dragon ships lurking out there in the haze. I headed back to the warmth of my car.
Mrs. Sorenson called me back before I got there and gave me the model number, the year, and even the VIN number for Monica's Mercedes. When she asked why I needed it, I said I might be able to locate Monica by tracking down her car. Which wasn't entirely true.
Fetching my laptop computer out of the trunk, I found an Art Deco coffee shop with an Internet hookup, bought a tall (small) cup of mocha java, and went car shopping.
Pundits expected the Internet to revolutionize the world, and for a while it looked like it might. But for most of us it's basically e-mail, airline tickets, and a monster sheet of electronic want ads.
I keyed in the model and year of Monica's Benz and promptly got twenty-one hits. Only sixteen were for sale in the U.S. and five of those were in California. I left them for last. Instead, I started in the Midwest, beginning in Detroit, then on to Toledo, then Chicago.
Each time I'd phone the number given and chat up the seller, getting details, then I'd ask where the cars came from originally. One was from Alabama. Three were from Florida. But the first car listed in Chicago was from Michigan.
“No rust, though,” the salesman promised. “It's practically mint.”
“It's also possibly stolen. Can you check the VIN number for me, please?”
He did, muttering the whole time. “I knew the deal was too good to be true.” He read the VIN number off the title. They matched. Damn it.
“What do I do now?” he groaned.
“For openers, take it off the market. Since you bought it in good faith you're in the clear. I'm only interested in the guy who sold it to you. It was a guy, right? Not a young girl?”
“No, definitely a guy. Shoulda known it was hot by lookin’ at him.”
“What name did he give you?”
“Gary Danielson. It's bogus, right?”
“Probably. But Danielson used to quarterback the Detroit Lions and my suspect is a big Lions fan. What did he look like?”
“Like a Backstreet Boy on welfare. White kid, maybe twenty-five, ratty little bastard with skinny sideburns.”
“Was his left hand in a cast?”
“Yeah, it was. Hey, do me a favor? If you see him, put his other damn hand in a cast for me.”
“It'll be a pleasure.”
* * *
I didn't go back to Finn's Waterfront. Gunnar was dealing openly there. All he lacked was a neon sign out front saying Friendly Local Dope Dealer Inside. Which meant he probably had some kind of an arrangement with the tavern owner. And maybe with the local law as well. Either way, the bar was no place to brace him. He had friends there and I didn't. And when I talked to Gunnar again, I didn't want any interruptions. Or any witnesses.
I parked a half block up the hill from Finn's Waterfront next to a small playground. No need to be subtle; Gunnar didn't know my car. I opened the coffee from the cafe and settled in to wait.
Not for long. Five minutes later someone rapped on my window. Sheriff Lofgren. I rolled it down.
“Hey, Axton. I thought you'd already be halfway back to Motown.”
“Probably will be, soon. Kinda hate to leave. I can see why the locals called it Viking heaven. What's that word again?”
“Valhalla.”
“Valhalla, right. I'll try to remember that.”
“You waiting for someone, Axton?”
“Nah, just enjoying the view.”
“The view's better down by the harbor.”
“I was there earlier. Got cold. Besides, I'm a city boy. I prefer seeing things from a car.”
“Suit yourself,” Lofgren said with a shrug. “Sun will be down before long, though. Then there won't be any view.”
“And I'll probably move on.”
“Pity. I was just getting used to having you around.” Lofgren smiled, aiming his finger at me like a pistol, dropping his thumb. Perfect shot, right through the head. He sauntered off, whistling along with an airborne carol.
I rolled my window up, watching him go. He didn't look back. Ten minutes later, Gunnar walked out of Finn's tavern. He scanned the street, then hurried toward me. Kept glancing over his shoulder, checking his backtrail. No need. The street was empty. Which suited me fine.
As he passed my Camaro, I kicked open the passenger door, sweeping him off his feet. I was on him before he could react, gave him a stiff-finger jab to the diaphragm, driving his wind out, doubling him over. Grabbing the front of his jacket, I tossed him into the Camaro's backseat like a sack of potatoes. Did a quick three-sixty check. No witnesses. No noise, unless you counted Perry Como crooning “God rest ye merry, gentlemen...” from a storefront speaker.
Cranking up the Camaro, I pulled out, heading south. Gunnar got his breath back before we cleared the city limits. “Man, are you nuts? This is kidnapping!”
“Shut up.”
“Listen, I got rights—”
I backhanded him, slamming him into the corner of the seat. He cowered there, blood running down his mouth. Good. I'd hit him harder than I'd intended, but not as hard as I wanted to. And I needed him afraid.
A few miles out of town I spotted a dirt road, turned off, and followed it till we disappeared into the woods. Then I jammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop, bouncing Gunnar off the seat back.
While the car was still rocking I popped my glove box, pulled out my Browning Hi-Power automatic, jacked a round into the chamber, then faced Gunnar.
“Here's how it is. You lied to me. That was a big mistake and you only get the one. I'm not the law, I don't run by their rules. You've got no rights, no lawyer, nothin’ comin’ to you. Lie to me again and I'll cap you right here, kick your carcass out, and scatter some black beauties around. Dope dealer whacked in a ripoff. Even your mama will believe it. You with me?”
“Okay, okay! I get it. Jesus, I'm dead anyway. What the hell do you want?”
“The same thing I asked before. Where's Monica?”
“I don't know—”
I cocked the hammer.
“Wait! I really don't!”
“You sold her car, Gunnar. I traced it to you.”
“The Swede told me to, he—”
“Swede?”
“The sheriff, Swede Lofgren. He told me to peddle the ride. Get rid of it. Said I could keep the money but no paperwork, no questions.”
“And you just went along? Didn't ask him where he got it?”
“Man, I wouldn't ask the Swede the time of day. I got crossways of him once. Never again, man! He's crazier than you!”
“How do you mean?”
“He's got his own rules. Lets me move speed and weed but no hard stuff, no dealin’ to kids. Couple months back I peddle a couple pops to some downstate teenybopper. Who'd know, right? Next thing I know Swede kicks in my door, shoves my hand in the garbage disposal, turns it on! Look at it!” He waved the cast in my face. “I'll be screwed up for months. Swede says next time he'll grind my freakin’ arm off to the elbow. And I believe him, man!”
I could see that he did. “How is the Swede tied into Monica Sorenson's car?”
“I don't know, man! Swede said sell the car, I sold it. If he said fly to the moon I'd start flappin’ my arms! That's all I know!”
But it wasn't. He was lying. Had to be. A sheriff who maimed him for selling dope to a minor but didn't want a cut from a hot car? It didn't compute. There was something he wasn't telling me. But I'd only get one chance to ask him what it was.
Opening my door, I stepped out, keeping the gun centered on his chest.
“Get out.” He didn't move, paralyzed with fear. Reaching in, I grabbed his jacket collar and yanked him out over the seat, sending him sprawling in the snow.
“Get on your knees, Gunnar. I want this to look righteous.”
“Ax, don't, please—”
“I told you not to lie to me again. We're done. Now get on your knees or I'll pop you right where you are.”
“I'll pay you, man. I got money!” He was groveling, fumbling for his wallet, eyes wild.
“I'll pick you clean after.” Moving behind him, I pressed the muzzle against his neck. “Close your eyes. Unless you want to see it coming.”
“Please, man, don't!”
Leaning down, I whispered, “Last chance, Gunnar. The truth or you're gone.”
“What truth, man? What do you want?”
“Straight up, what's the Swede's hustle? What's he into?”
“He'll kill me!”
“Wrong answer.”
“Okay, okay! It's people, man. He's moving people!”
“What kind of people?”
“Illegal aliens. Russians. Russian mob guys, I think. Sometimes they buy dope from me, speed, weed, whatever. He uses the county patrol boat to smuggle ‘em in from Canada.”
“Then what happens to them?”
“I don't know. Sometimes their people pick ‘em up. Or the Swede delivers ‘em later on. Patrol car, patrol boat, he can take ‘em anywhere he wants. No questions asked.”
Except maybe one. Like, where did he stash them while they were waiting for their friends? Motel clerks would remember foreigners.... I felt sick to my stomach.
“What are you going to do with me?” Gunnar pleaded.
I didn't answer. He flinched when I slammed the car door. I left him kneeling by the side of the road, sniveling, waiting to get his head blown off. Not one of my prouder moments. But I could live with it.
I headed back to my starting point, the Sorenson cottage, lost in thought all the way.
The pathetic part was that I'd needed a loser like Gunnar to point out what was right under my nose. Burns Cove was in the middle of nowhere. But also in the middle of everywhere. By boat, car, or even a snowmobile when the lakes froze over, you could jump from any spot along the Canadian coastline to Chicago, Detroit, or Green Bay in a matter of hours. Anywhere at all.
Slipping across the mid-lake border would be a snap for the Swede. The Americans only patrol the invisible line hit and miss, the Canadians even less. And Lofgren would know their routines. Hell, they'd probably keep him posted as a professional courtesy.
For a Viking throwback raised in these waters, dodging the border patrols would be child's play. A boyhood game. No need for a dragon ship, a police launch would work even better.
Leif the Lucky? More like Swede the Smart. It was a beautiful scam. Foolproof. Almost.
Why risk arousing suspicion by checking the illegals into motels? When you have hundreds of vacant cottages, all neatly listed on an extended-surveillance sheet.
Clean up afterward and no one would even know they'd been there.
Unless a lovely young girl looking to shake a drug habit shows up at her family digs unexpectedly. And blunders into some Russian mobsters stoked to the gills on Gunnar's speed.
I didn't like thinking about what happened next. It didn't matter what I thought anyway. I couldn't prove any of it.
Unless I could manage to do what I'd been hired for in the first place. Find Monica.
At least I knew where to start. Parking my Camaro in front of the cottage, I began circling the house, widening my spiral by a few feet each time. Wasn't sure what I was looking for, exactly. A sign. Anything at all.
On the third loop, I found it. A discolored, dime-sized stain a few yards from the back deck, sheltered by an overhanging shrub. In the open, the snow was several inches deep. Here, only a light dusting.
Kneeling, I brushed the area clear with my fingertips. A cigarette butt. Unfiltered. Un-American. The brand was marked with a single Cyrillic letter. Russian. Damn.
So some of Swede's illegals had been here. And Monica must have walked in on them. And afterward the Swede told Gunnar to peddle her car. No paperwork, no trace. Which meant she wasn't coming back. So where was she?
One obvious place was in the deep water below. But it would be a long, slippery climb down to the beach toting a corpse, and I doubted they'd risk throwing a body down to the surf. Lake tides are tricky. Floaters can turn up at inconvenient times and places.
Smarter to bury the body in the woods. With luck, the snow would cover their handiwork and she wouldn't be found until spring. Or never.
But counting on a blanket of snow to cover a corpse isn't risk-free, either. Unless the body is deep-frozen, decomposition begins almost immediately and soon generates enough interior heat to make the process of decay self-sustaining. Only sub-zero temperatures will stop it completely. And it hadn't been that cold yet.
If the grave wasn't deep, I wouldn't need to find footprints or a trail of cigarette butts. Only a low spot in the snow.
After fetching the army-surplus foxhole shovel I keep in the Camaro's trunk, I continued my spiral search. Made three false starts—dips in the snow caused by the wind or uneven ground. But in each case, a few scrapes of the shovel revealed undisturbed earth below.
But on the fourth...
The spot looked likely, hidden behind a copse of pines. And as I scraped away more surface snow, I knew. Churned earth. The topsoil along the shore is only a thin layer of mulch bonded to the sand cliffs by beach grass and the root systems of juniper and jack pines. They'd tried to camouflage the grave by spreading the earth around evenly, but the beach sand mixed in with the topsoil was ... a dead giveaway.
Still, I had to be certain. Shedding my leather coat, I scraped the area clear of snow, revealing a disturbed patch of ground roughly three feet by six. Grave size. Damn it!
Beginning at what I hoped was the foot of the hole, I began scooping out the soil one shallow shovelful at a time, working carefully in an eighteen-inch square, trying to disturb the site as little as possible.
A little over a foot down, I bumped something. The sole of a shoe. Tossing the shovel aside, I knelt and began scraping the earth away with my hands. I didn't intend to uncover the body, just enough to be sure.
But the more I probed, the less sure I was. The sole was too damned big. It wasn't a woman's boot at all. It was a man's. What the hell?
Baffled, I started burrowing in the dirt like a coyote at a rabbit hole. Quickly pawed the leg clear. And discovered a second limb below it. An arm. Of another man. Both of them decomposing. The humid stench of decay welled up from the grave, gagging me.
I rose unsteadily, staring stupidly at the bodies in the earth, trying to make sense of it. And realized that I wasn't alone. Sheriff Swede Lofgren had eased out of the pines, watching me, the twelve-gauge shotgun cradled in his arm. He shook his head.
“That face of yours fooled me, Axton. I figured you for hired muscle.”
“Sometimes I am.”
“But not all the time. You're smarter than you look.”
“Considering my looks, that's not saying much. I was listening for your car. That wasn't smart.”
“Not very. I told you I've been prowling these woods since I was a kid. Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Try to reach that shovel. Or pull your weapon.” He shifted the shotgun muzzle slightly, centering it on my midsection. “You'll lose.”
“Looks like I've lost already. What the hell happened here?”
“Bad judgment all around. My daughter has cerebral palsy and a county sheriff doesn't make much. A million Mexicans jump the Texas border every year. I figured if a few Russians want to buy their way in from Canada, what's the harm?”
“Even if they're mobsters?”
“That was my big mistake. I should have been choosier about my clients. Their mistake was killing that girl and expecting me to cover for them.”
“Monica?”
“She showed up at the wrong place, wrong time. The Sorenson cottage is on my surveillance list, closed for the season. What was she doing here this time of year?”
“Had a fight with her boyfriend, needed a place to think. She was pregnant.”
