Dead Boyfriends (3 page)

They served breakfast, lunch, and dinner on thick brown plastic thermal trays. Each meal was nutritionally balanced, and the portions were certified by a registered dietitian to provide each inmate with approximately 2,200 calories per day, along with all the daily requirements of whatever it was the Minnesota Department of Corrections deemed necessary to a healthy diet. The meals were all quite good, better than some restaurants I could name, and obviously prepared by someone who took pride in his work. There were five meals in all—which is how I kept track of time, by the number of meals.

No one spoke to me, and I refused to give the cops the satisfaction of hearing me ranting and raving and demanding my rights. Instead, I was determined to remain quiet and still, to lie on my mat and stare at the ceiling and do nothing but sing softly to myself.

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
Nobody knows my sorrow.
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.
Glory hallelujah!

I must have done that one thirty times. It seemed amusing at first.

My stomach was telling me that I was due for a sixth meal when the door swung open. I stayed on my back, staring at the ceiling, not moving until the officer announced, “You're free to go.” I rolled off the concrete bed without speaking, taking my time, acting as if the officer had just told me that the dentist was ready to see me now. The officer led me to a desk
in the booking station. The sergeant was leaning against the wall behind the desk. His name tag read
J. MOORHEAD
. I pretended not to see him.

The officer retrieved a large envelope and dumped the contents between us—my belongings. I slowly counted the cash. “It's all there,” he insisted, so I made a big production of counting it a second time.

“Now then, what lesson have we learned?” the sergeant asked.

“What's the name of the woman—the one your officer beat up?”

The sergeant pushed himself off the wall. “Be careful what you say,” he told me.

“Did you arrest her, too?”

Let it go.

The officer behind the desk handed me a clipboard holding a single sheet of paper. “Sign here,” he said.

I took the clipboard and flung it across the room.

I intended to say what I had to say quietly, only it came out loud. “I appreciate you standing up for your rookie, but I was doing you both a favor by keeping Baumbach from beating on a suspect—and you put me in jail for it? That's wrong. You should have checked me out first. You would have learned that I have eleven and a half years on the job with the St. Paul Police Department, five million bucks in the bank, and a bad attitude.”

The sergeant smirked like a guy who'd heard it all before.

“Some people need more than one lesson,” he said.

“Don't worry about it, Sarge. You're gonna get more than one.”

 

It was three in the morning with the moon not shining when I stepped out of the City of Anoka Public Safety Center. I might as well have stepped into my own backyard for all the light and noise I found. The redbrick building, which housed both the police and fire departments, had been built in a residential section of the city well off the main drag and was as quiet as any of the old Victorians and English Colonials surrounding
it. The only sound I heard was the scraping of my shoes on the concrete sidewalk as I skipped around a bronze statue of a child holding the hand of a benevolent police officer. I considered it yet another example of deceptive advertising.

I was just as lost as I had been the previous morning. Still, there were lights in the distance, and I followed them to East Main Street, which, surprisingly enough, actually was Anoka's main street. Unfortunately, nothing was open. No bars, restaurants, gas stations—ah, but a couple of blocks east I found the Anoka County Correctional Facility, which should not be confused with the City of Anoka Police Department. The Anoka County Correctional Facility—or jail, to use the politically incorrect term—is housed in the same building as the Anoka County Sheriff's Department and the Anoka County Court, the operative word being “County.” It was located in the “City” of Anoka just to confuse outsiders. Like me.

The guard at the gate was stunned to see me at that hour. He took one look at my two-day beard and rumpled clothes and probably thought I was looking to break out one of the inmates. I asked him where the county would have towed my vehicle. He gave me directions to a lot off Highway 169. I asked him what the chances were of getting a cab. He thought I was kidding him. He laughed even harder when I assured him that I wasn't.

It was nearly 5:00
A.M.
by the time I hoofed it to the lot. Naturally, it was closed. I waited. Rush hour traffic heading into the Cities was at its height when they finally got around to releasing my Audi—for about the price of a monthly payment—so you can imagine my frame of mind when I finally arrived home at eight forty-five.

Two editions of the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
were waiting on my porch along with a pile of day-old mail. I glanced through it while I listened to the eight messages left on my voice mail. The first was from Meyer, who wanted to know where in hell I was and did I still want the dining room set.

“You sorry bastard,” I yelled at the recording. “If you could get your directions straight. . .”

The next message cheered me somewhat. Bobby Dunston's daughters wanted to come over and feed the ducks. For the past several years I've had a family of ducks living in the pond in my backyard. They arrive in the spring, leave in the fall, and return the following year, probably because my neighbor Margot and I feed them. Originally there were seven, then nine, then five. This year there were eleven. I used to name them but stopped because I lost track of who was who. Except for Maureen. Maureen was named after my mother, and I always recognized her. The girls seemed to be able to tell them apart, though, and they were always welcome.

The next four messages were left by Nina Truhler.

“Hey, McKenzie. Are you taking me to dinner before we go to the ball? You know a girl can't subsist solely on hors d'oeuvres and vodka martinis. If I can't get you on your cell, call me.”

“McKenzie, you didn't forget we had a date, did you?”

“Dammit, McKenzie, where are you? If you stand me up—these tickets cost five hundred dollars a pop, and I bought a new dress.”

“Forget it. You're not the only guy I know who owns a tuxedo, and you're sure as hell not the only guy who finds me attractive.”

The Second Harvest Charity Ball. It had a James Bond theme that year. Nina bought the tickets. I had promised to take her. Only I had been unavoidably detained. Emphasis on “unavoidably.”

She won't be angry once I explain,
I told myself. Nina and I had been involved for nearly two years now. We've even discussed the M word on occasion. She was a reasonable woman. I reached for the receiver, hesitated. Nina owned and operated a jazz joint in St. Paul called Rickie's—named after her daughter, Erica. The hours she kept were more nocturnal than those the rest of us lived by. No way she'd be up yet.
Besides, it'd be better if you go to the club and see her in person,
my inner voice told me.

Except she didn't agree.

The phone rang while I was still standing there.

“Where have you been, McKenzie?”

“Nina? I was just thinking of calling you.”

“Sure you were.”

“No lie. I wanted to explain about the other night.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm—”

“Were you in an accident or something?”

“Accident? No, nothing like that.”

“Did anyone shoot you?”

“No. What happened was—”

“Where were you? Did you forget about me?”

“Of course I didn't forget—”

“Then where were you?”

“I'm trying to explain.”

“Then explain. Who's stopping you?”

“I was in jail.”

“In jail?”

“I was in jail and they confiscated my phone.”

“Why were you in jail?”

“There was this woman—”

“I'm sure there was.”

“It wasn't like that, Nina.”

“There was this woman who needed help and so you helped her.”

“Okay, maybe it was like that.”

“It's always something with you, you know?”

I'm sorry.

“You're always sorry.”

“Nina, it wasn't—”

“And it's never your fault.”

“No, it's not. I mean, sometimes it is, but this time it really wasn't.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The Anoka cops threw me in jail.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Actually, it's kind of a funny story when you hear it.”

“I bet.”

“Tonight, let me come by and I'll—”

“I have a date tonight.”

“A date.”

“Yes.”

“You have a date.”

“Yes.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes.”

“You have a date tonight.”

“You're slow but sure, McKenzie.”

“With who?”

“With whom.”

“With whom do you have a date tonight?”

“The man who escorted me to the ball.”

“You went anyway?”

“Of course I went anyway. Why wouldn't I?”

“I just thought. . . No, it's good that you went. Was it fun?”

“You would have liked it, McKenzie. Free vodka martinis, shaken, not stirred. Strippers, too. Very tasteful. They danced to songs from the James Bond movies—
Goldfinger, Diamonds Are Forever, Goldeneye.
Cheryl Tiegs ran the auction.”

“Cheryl Tiegs the former supermodel?”

“She looked damned good for a woman her age. In fact, I'd say she looked damned good for a woman of any age. You would have liked her. You would have liked the purple dress I wore, too. But what is it you like to say? Oh, yeah—you snooze, you lose.”

“Nina—”

“Anyway, I have a date tonight. With the man who was kind enough
to drop everything and escort me to the ball—on very short notice, no less.”

“I don't blame you for wanting to punish me, but if you let me explain—”

“I'm not punishing you, McKenzie. I'm moving on.”

“Nina.”

“Good-bye, McKenzie.”

The
click
of the connection being severed sounded like a cannon going off in my ear. I kept calling Nina's name, even though I knew she was gone.

“This is not fair,” I shouted at the wall.

Can you blame her for being angry?
the wall replied.

“It's not my fault.”

Whose fault is it?

“Baumbach and the Anoka fucking Police Department.” I was still yelling.

I was too angry to sit, so I started stomping from one room to another, vengeance on my mind. I thought about it as I went into the “family room,” slipped a Toots Thielemans CD on the machine, and listened to his jazz harmonica from nineteen speakers strategically placed in eight rooms and my basement. I thought about it as I ate a dish of leftover beef lo mein in the kitchen. I thought about it as I paced the empty living room and the dining room—at least it will be a dining room once I buy a table and a few chairs.

It occurred to me that I hadn't thrown a single dinner party in the past two years without inviting Nina.

“Dammit, I'm going to get those guys.”

How?

I knew I couldn't bring myself to sue them. I couldn't sue cops—I used to be a cop. I couldn't file a complaint with the Justice Department for the same reason.
Besides,
my inner voice reminded me,
you and the FBI aren't exactly like this.

I crossed fingers on two hands and held them up—and shook my head.

“Keep talking to yourself this way, the next thing you know you'll be collecting cats.”

You could call the ACLU.

“Nah. I support most of what they do, but sometimes I just want to smack ‘em upside the head. Dammit, stop talking to yourself.”

Here, kitty, kitty.

“Arrgggggg!”

I was getting close to slapping myself silly when I decided to sleep it off. I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. The dream came quickly.

The glass door of the convenience store swung open. The suspect didn't see me. I tucked the recoil pad of the shotgun against my shoulder and sighted down the barrel.

“Police. Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air.”

The suspect turned toward me. He was holding a paper bag in his left hand and an S&W .38 in his right.

“For God's sake drop the gun.”

The suspect raised his hands.

I fired once.

I was wide-awake when the phone rang.

It's Nina, calling to forgive you.

“Nina,” I said into the receiver.

There was a slight pause, followed by a woman's voice I didn't recognize.

“Rushmore McKenzie?”

“Who's calling, please?” I was expecting a sales pitch.

“Mr. McKenzie, my name is G. K. Bonalay. I'm an attorney representing Merodie Davies.”

“Who?”

The air conditioner was working hard, but my hair and pillow were matted with sweat. I swung my legs off the bed and sat on the edge.

“Merodie Davies,” the voice said. “I understand you were present when the police arrived at Ms. Davies's home the other day.”

“I didn't know her name. You are who, again?”

“G. K. Bonalay, her attorney. Were you present?”

“I was there.”

“I understand you attempted to intervene when Officer Baumbach assaulted Ms. Davies.”

“I wouldn't say ‘assault' exactly, but, yeah, I did that.”