Dead Boyfriends (6 page)

“But you said to shut up, already. You said not to say anything.”

“To them,” G. K. shouted, finally losing it, waving her hand vaguely at the gray metal door as her words reverberated through the room.

“Sorry.” At first Merodie looked down at her gnarly fingers, a penitent schoolgirl, age thirty-five going on eight, then she perked up. “What about him?” she asked, pointing at me.

“He's on our side,” G. K. assured her.

“Are you, mister?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “You can call me McKenzie.”

“McKenzie? Do I know you?”

“We're close personal friends. Can I ask you a few questions?”

G. K. nodded.

“Do you play softball?”

“I do,” Merodie said. She smiled broadly as if the memory of it brought her joy. “I play for Dimmer's. Second base, sometimes short.”

“Can you hit?'

Merodie grinned at me. “I get my cuts.”

“What kind of bat do you use?”

“Lady Thumper.”

“Thirty-two ounces?”

“No, that's too heavy. Twenty-eight.”

“Ever hit Eli with it?”

“With the Thumper? No. Why would I use . . .?” She stopped speaking. For the first time she looked me in the eye. “No,” she said. “I never did.”

“Okay.”

She smiled, and for a moment she actually looked innocent. It didn't last.

“Who is Priscilla St. Ana?” I asked.

Merodie erupted the way a volcano might—ferociously. She didn't call me anything I hadn't heard before, but she fitted the obscenities, profanities, and vulgarities together in such interesting combinations and with such a thrill in her voice that I felt she was creating a new art form. During her diatribe two points were made: Priscilla was the best friend Merodie ever had, and I should not dare to involve her in this mess if I knew what was good for me.

“It's okay, it's okay,” G. K. said. She pulled Merodie back into her chair and patted her hand. “We won't bother her.”

“You better not,” Merodie said.

“It's okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Don't worry, Merodie.”

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“You'll have to stay in here for thirty days, but you'll be safe.”

And sober,
my inner voice said.

“Everything will work out,” G. K. said. “Only no more statements, okay, Merodie?”

Merodie nodded.

“I want you to promise not to talk to anyone except me and McKenzie here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

G. K. leaned back in the plastic chair and studied her client from across the small wooden table. Merodie refused to meet her gaze, looking at everything but G. K.'s face.

Merodie was hiding something, I decided. Something about Priscilla St. Ana. Maybe about everything. I wanted to learn what it was, but not now.
Let her get straight first,
I told myself. A few days of sobriety have been known to work miracles.

“What about Eli?” Merodie asked, breaking the silence.

“If the county had enough to charge you, they would have done so by now,” G. K. said. “Personally, I don't think they have much of a case,
at least not for murder. I know the county attorney, though, and he's a sneaky little prick and he's up for reelection, so . . .”

“No, I mean the funeral. Who's going to take care of Eli?”

G. K. said she didn't know but would check on it for her.

“Can I be there for the funeral? I have to be there.”

“I don't think they'll let you out.”

Merodie hung her head again, and for a moment I thought she would begin weeping. Instead, she said, “He was such a good-looking man.”

“I'm sure he was,” said G. K.

“We were going to be married. Did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Now he's gone. Like everyone else I've ever loved. Gone, gone, gone.”

“Did you kill him?” G. K. was testing her one last time.

“I don't think so,” Merodie replied.

G. K. slapped the table hard with the flat of her hand. The loud, unexpected noise not only startled the woman, it caused me to jump as well.

“Just say no,” G. K. shouted. The walls repeated her words.

Merodie rose slowly to her feet and looked straight at G. K. Her voice was firm. “No, I didn't kill him.” In a smaller voice she asked, “Why do these things always happen to me?”

 

G. K. fluffed her hair off the back of her neck with both hands, cooling it. We were both perspiring freely in the heat as we moved around the corner from the front door of the Anoka County Correctional Facility and made our way to the parking ramp. The weathergeeks said we could expect lows in the eighties and highs approaching a hundred degrees for the rest of the week without even a hint of rain. During winter, we actually long for this.

“About Priscilla St. Ana,” G. K. said.

“I'll look into it.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll also talk to Merodie's and Eli's families, friends, neighbors, coworkers; examine their paper, you know, insurance, wills; try to get a handle on their relationship—everything a proper semiprofessional private investigator would do. Can you get me into her house?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“I'll make some calls.”

We left the sidewalk and moved into the parking ramp. The shade didn't provide any comfort at all. G. K. had parked nose forward on the second level. We had just reached the Cruiser when another vehicle pulled up, blocking our way. It was a civilian car, a ‘93 Chevy Impala that looked like it had been left out in a hailstorm. Twice. City of Anoka Police Officer Boyd Baumbach, dressed in full uniform, was at the wheel.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you on the sidewalk,” Baumbach said. “You filing a complaint or somethin'?”

“You're blocking the way.”

He pointed his chin at G. K. “Who's she?”

“Why? You looking for another woman to beat up?”

“Watch your mouth.”

G. K. stepped around me. “Are you the police officer who assaulted my client?” she asked.

“Your client?”

“I'm G. K. Bonalay. I represent Merodie Davies. Does the county attorney know you assaulted my client, or do I have to tell him?”

“I didn't do nothing like that.”

“That's not what I heard.”

Baumbach looked hard at me. “I don't care what you heard,” he said.

“Are you saying it's not true?” G. K. said.

“I never touched that woman.”

“Will you testify to that under oath?”

“I ain't testifying to nothin'.”

“We'll see.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're very nervous, Officer,” G. K. said. “Why are you nervous?”

“I ain't.”

“Sure you are you, Boyd,” I said. “I don't blame you, either. Sooner or later you'll have to answer questions under oath, and when you do, Ms. Bonalay is going to clean your clock. Then it'll be my turn.”

“You want a piece of me? You want a piece of me right now, asshole?”

Normally I would have been offended, except after what Merodie Davies had called me, Baumbach's epithet sounded like a compliment.

“Oh, yeah. I want a piece. Why don't you get out of your car and give me some.”

Baumbach came out of his car quickly. “Let's settle this like men,” he said.

I took G. K. by the elbow and pulled her behind me. Baumbach moved close, well within striking distance, his hands stiff at his side.

“Let's go,” he said.

I deliberately tucked my hands between my belt and the small of my back and leaned toward him.

“Take your best shot, woman-beater.”

Baumbach brought his hands up, his face red with anger. But he hesitated. He wasn't as dumb as he looked.

“Go 'head,” I told him. “The first one is free.”

He glanced from me to G. K. and back again.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“You chicken? C'mon.”

Baumbach stepped backward until his butt was pressed against his car door. I brought my arms out and folded them across my chest again.

“What's going on?” G. K. asked.

“Cameras,” I said.

“Cameras?”

I pointed at the boxes mounted high on the concrete walls at the top and bottom of the ramp.

“Security cameras. I provoke Boyd. He takes a shot. I bust his ass using the video as evidence, and he's the one who does time in a holding cell.”

“I like it.”

“You sonuvabitch,” Baumbach called me.

“Ah, well. It was worth a try.”

“You're trying to set me up,” Baumbach said. “You're trying to set me up because—you ain't a man. You have a problem, you should settle it like a man.”

“You're a bad cop, Boyd, and it's this childish notion of manhood you have that made you a bad cop. I'm going to take you off the board. It's my civic duty.”

Baumbach clenched like a man about to throw a punch. “This ain't over,” he said.

He flung a glance at G. K., pivoted, and climbed back into his Impala. The sound of his squealing tires echoed through the ramp.

G. K. grinned as she moved to the driver's door of her own car.

“Well, that was fun,” she said.

To say Nina Truhler was smart and sexy was like saying the world was big and round—mere words simply didn't do her justice. I would have told her so, too. If only she had been at Rickie's when I arrived.

It took G. K. twenty-five minutes to drive from Anoka to Minneapolis even though, like me, she considered the posted speed limit to be more of a guideline than a law. She dropped me off at the Dunn Bros, coffeehouse after giving me her business card. On it she had written her personal cell and home numbers, as well as her home address. She told me to call her anytime. I pressed the card between the pages of my notebook and dropped it on the bucket seat on the passenger side of my Audi.

By then it was already late. Most of the people who weren't hopelessly tangled in rush hour traffic were probably sitting down to dinner by the time I drove 1-94 from Minneapolis across the Mississippi River into St. Paul. Certainly, there were a great many people at Rickie's doing just that. The upstairs dining room, which featured live jazz starting at 9:00
P.M.
, was nearly filled with diners by the time I arrived, and most
of the sofas, stuffed chairs, and small tables in the downstairs lounge were occupied.

I searched for Nina. I wanted to see her before she left on her date. I wasn't sure what I was going to tell her. “Please don't go” came to mind. Only I couldn't find her.

The bartender waved me over. “Hi, McKenzie,” she said. “Looking for the boss?”

“I am.”

“She left a few minutes ago.”

“Did she go home?” I glanced at my watch. Maybe I still had time to intercept her.

“No, she left. . . Just a minute.” She went to the beer taps and poured a Summit Ale, my usual. She set it in front of me.

“You're going to bad-news me, aren't you, Jenness?” I said, pronouncing the name
Jen-ness,
as she once instructed me.

“Nina left five minutes ago with the guy who took her to the charity ball.”

I drank some of the beer.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I already knew she had a date.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Nina's been grumbling about you for two days now.”

“How bad has it been, her grumbling?”

“Pretty bad.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

“You mean about getting arrested?”

“She told you that, too?”

“When things are going well, Nina keeps her life pretty much private. When they're going bad, she kinda talks to herself out loud, if you know what I mean.”

“I know.”

I drank more beer.

“Did you meet this guy she's dating?” I asked.

“Daniel. Not Dan or Danny. Daniel. He's an architect. Has money if you go by his clothes and car.”

Snob,
my inner voice said.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“He's about your size, your height and weight,” Jenness said. “I figure he must work out because he's in good shape but, I don't know, he seems soft to me. Like he's never actually done any physical labor or played a contact sport.”

Wuss.

“And he wears glasses.”

Four-eyes.

“Where did they go?” I asked.

“I don't know. But if I did, McKenzie, I'd keep it to myself.”

“Why?”

“Why? So you won't go over there and slap the guy around. I gotta tell you, that's not the way to a girl's heart, if you know what I mean.”

“Jenness, would I do a thing like that?”

“I don't know. Would you?”

Good question.

I pushed the beer away.

“Bourbon,” I said. “No ice.”

Jenness frowned at me.

“Don't give up, McKenzie. So what if Nina dates this guy? It's a onetime deal. In a couple of days she'll cool off and the two of you will get back together.”

“You think so?”

“I'm betting on it.”

“Make it a double,” I said.