North of Nowhere (6 page)

It was a beautiful day in Sault Ste. Marie. For much of the year you couldn’t say that with a straight face. In the dead of winter, especially, it would be nothing but gallows humor. On this day, the day after the Fourth of July, Sault Ste. Marie was a better place to be than anywhere else I could think of.

The rest of the country was hot that day. I saw it on the weather map in the paper that morning, all the nineties and hundred-pluses throughout the South, the West, the Midwest, even the Northeast. It was ninety-three degrees in New York City that day. It was ninety-two in Detroit. I’ve been in that kind of heat in Detroit. I’ve done it wearing a police officer’s uniform and watching what it does to everybody else around me.

On this day in July, while the rest of the country stewed and simmered, it was eighty-one degrees in the Soo, with a constant breeze off Lake Superior. I didn’t feel like getting right back in my truck. I just couldn’t do it. The City-County building sits at the east end of Locks Park, so I took a walk along the St. Marys River. There was one freighter heading toward the locks, along with a few smaller boats and a couple of jet skis. The center of town was busy. It was a holiday week, and such a goddamned gorgeous day, I wasn’t surprised to see all the people. I suppose I couldn’t blame them for wanting to be here. I’d take the tourists any day over a man like Win Vargas, with his new-money dreams of condos and golf courses. The tourists came up here for a few days at a time, they stayed in one of the new hotels, they watched some ships go through the locks, bought T-shirts for their kids at the gift shops. Maybe they had their own boats on trailers, took them out on the lake for a few hours, caught a few whitefish. With the casinos up here now, maybe we had a few more tourists than we ever did before. But I could live with them. They come, they spend some money, they take some pictures, and then they go home.

I walked up Water Street, past the Ojibway Hotel. This was one of the original buildings in town, with a formal dining room overlooking the locks. All the new hotels, they were out on the Business Spur, close to the highway.

Vargas had said something about one of those hotels, about his wife being there with Swanson the lawyer. And his private investigator documenting every move. I thought about that and laughed out loud. Then I replayed my little meeting with Chief Maven and laughed out loud again.

Hell, I was in town anyway. I had to see for myself. Ashmun Street, the Chief said. His office had to be right here in town, with Ashmun running perpendicular to the river, through what passes as a business district and then across the old power canal. I didn’t figure it would be too hard to find. Hell, I knew it would be the only private investigator’s office in this part of the state, let alone this particular street.

I started at the intersection with Portage Street, and worked my way south. There were gift shops on either side of the street, where you could buy your postcards, your imitation Indian headdresses, and of course your little iron-ore freighter replicas, with “Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan” embossed on the side of the hull. There was an ice cream shop after that on one side, a bookstore on the other, another gift shop, this one specializing in crystal jewelry and those little ceramic figurines that people collect. A restaurant, one more gift shop, and then it crossed Spruce Street. I knew I was getting warmer, because I was seeing serious business going on now. A three-story bank on one side, an accounting office on the other, then a travel agency and a place where they’d make you a sign for your business in twenty-four hours.

I almost missed Leon’s door. It was set between the sign place and a car insurance office. The lettering on the door read “Prudell Investigations, Second Floor.”

I opened the door and went up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a small hallway at the top, with a couple of different offices that looked empty. I stood in front of the last door on the left, looking through the glass at my old partner Leon Prudell. He was sitting at his desk, looking out his window at the street below. He was the same man I knew, fifty pounds on the heavy side, and that hair, so red it was orange and pointing in every direction. He didn’t have his flannel shirt on, though, or his hunting boots. He was actually wearing a white shirt and tie. For a moment I just stood there watching him, remembering the night he had come out to Paradise and waited at the Glasgow Inn for me, drinking Jackie’s whiskey and working up the courage to fight me in the parking lot.

I had taken his job—or so he thought. He’d been doing some work for Lane Uttley, a lawyer here in town. Lane found out that I had been a cop once, that I had been shot and still had a bullet in my chest. He came to me and talked me into trying out the private investigations business. I was dumb enough to give it a shot, just long enough for some truly horrible things to happen. Leon was the odd man out. To this very day, as I stood in front of his office door watching him sitting at his desk, he still didn’t know what a great favor I had done him.

After that, being a private eye was the last thing in this world I wanted—or even worse, being a private eye and also Leon’s partner. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He started
acting
like my partner, and damned if he didn’t help me out of a couple of tight spots. He even saved my life. So I told him, okay, I’ll be your partner. Your
silent
partner. Your occasional, call me if you really, really need me partner. He helped me out of another tight spot, but this time I figured it was time for me to stop getting into tight spots in the first place. I asked him to take my name off the business, and off the Web site he had made up. No more Prudell-McKnight Investigations. No more business cards with the two guns pointed at each other. I hadn’t talked to him much since then. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about it.

It doesn’t take a hell of a lot to become a private investigator in the state of Michigan. All you need is either three years as a law enforcement officer, or a college degree in police administration. Leon went the college route, right here in town at Lake Superior State. He should have left, though. He should have gone south and started his business down by Detroit, or any other city downstate. Somewhere where there was enough business, somewhere where everybody didn’t remember him from school, that goofy fat kid with the glasses who always sat in the back row and got in trouble for reading the private eye novels during class.

I rapped my knuckle on the glass. Leon twirled around and looked at me. He looked puzzled for just one second, and then he smiled. “Come on in, Alex,” he said. “The door is open. What do you think of my office?”

I stepped in, looked around the place. It was small, maybe ten feet by twelve. There were some file cabinets, Leon’s desk. Two guest chairs in front of it. He had a calendar on one wall, with the Lake Superior State hockey team on it. “Go Lakers!” it said. There was a print on the other wall, the International Bridge shrouded in fog. And then the window, looking down at the street one story below. It looked exactly like what a private investigator’s office would look like, if somebody had gotten the crazy idea of putting such an office in Sault Ste. Marie. “It’s perfect,” I said. “It’s you.”

“Thanks. It’s good to see you.”

“I was over seeing my old friend Chief Maven,” I said, sitting down in one of the guest chairs. “He told me you had an office now. I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Chief Maven, huh? I bet I know what the two of you were talking about.”

“Yeah, about this guy Vargas…”

“My client,” he said. “Winston Vargas.”

“Yeah, your client.”

“You were present at his residence last night,” he said. One of the things I’ve always loved about the guy is the fact that he’ll say I was “present” at a “residence,” instead of just being in a house.

“I was there,” I said. “He happened to mention that you were working for him. Something about his wife.”

“As long as he told you I was working for him, yes, I can confirm that.”

I looked at the ceiling. Confirm that, he says. “Leon, what’s the deal? Are you following his wife around, trying to catch her fooling around with the family lawyer? What was his name, Swanson?”

“My activities on his behalf are strictly confidential, Alex. You know that.”

“Leon, for God’s sake, it’s me, okay? I was your partner.”

“You
were
my partner, yes.”

“Look, I told you—”

“It’s okay, Alex. I don’t hold that against you. I’m just saying, you know I can’t discuss this with you.”

“Leon, I don’t care what—” I stopped, made myself slow down. Maven was right, it’s all in how you react to things. Leon’s putting on his one-man show, which always drives me nuts. So I should just stop letting it get to me. “I’m just making conversation,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask you to divulge any information that would jeopardize your relationship with your client.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Thank you.”

“But I was there last night, when you called him. He told us that you had followed them to a hotel. And then I think he was getting ready to accuse us of covering for Swanson. Or accuse Jackie and Bennett and Gill, anyway. I was just the innocent bystander. Me and Kenny.”

Leon took a manila folder off his desk and opened it. “Those were the five other players at his house last night.”

“Yes,” I said. “Until the men with the guns joined us.”

“I’ll ask Chief Maven for a copy of the police report. I understand you were the only man who could help them with physical descriptions.”

“I sort of figured Vargas would ask you to look into it,” I said. “I told Maven to expect to hear from you.”

“How did he react to that?”

“I don’t know. Maven doesn’t let himself react anymore. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Leon said. “I know you and Maven never hit it off.”

“I’m not on his Christmas card list, no. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m just wondering what Vargas is gonna ask you to do now. Is he thinking his wife and Swanson were behind this?”

Leon looked up at me.

“I know, I know,” I said. “You can’t share that information. I was just wondering, okay? It’s just natural human curiosity.”

“I understand,” he said. “I do. You were there. It’s natural.”

“He’s gonna have you running all over the place, isn’t he. Trying to get to the bottom of this.”

Leon just shrugged at that.

“I’ll save you some time,” I said. “I’m the guy you’re looking for. It was all my idea.”

“Come on, Alex. This isn’t a joke.”

“You’re not doing your other job anymore? The snowmobile thing? And the outboard motors in the summer?”

“I’m a private investigator, Alex. Full-time.”

“This office has to cost some money. Do you have any other clients besides Vargas? I mean, you don’t have to tell me any names…”

“Most of my time is going to Mr. Vargas right now,” he said. “He’s keeping me busy, believe me.”

“Leon, I hope he’s not going to ask you to do anything stupid, okay? That’s all I’m saying. He seems like the kind of guy who could do that.”

“You know I always play it straight, Alex. Straight down the middle.” Another thing that only Leon would say.

“What does your wife think about all this?”

“She’s letting me give it a shot,” he said. “She wasn’t so sure about it at first. But hey, she knows how much it means to me. I’m lucky to have her.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Kids are okay?”

“The kids are good.”

“Say hi to them for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Me too,” I said, getting up. I shook his hand. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“Alex,” he said. “You know that you’ll always be my friend, right?”

I looked at him. The late afternoon sun came in right over his shoulder, casting a long shadow across his desk. “Of course,” I said.

“You know my first priority has to be to my client,” he said. “And my second priority has to be the official channels of law enforcement.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He let that one hang. “That’s just the way it has to be,” he finally said. “You know that.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course. When you’re done with all this, give me a call. I’ll buy you a beer.”

He nodded and gave me a little smile. Then he turned and looked down at the street. I left his office, closing the door behind me. “What the hell was that about?” I said aloud as I walked down the stairs. Something was going on in Leon Prudell’s head, and as usual, I couldn’t even guess what it was.

I made my way back up Ashmun, cutting east behind the Coast Guard installation, back to the City-County building. I got in my truck and headed out of town.

Just for the hell of it, I stopped in at O’Dell’s place. It was a big wooden two-story building at the end of Bermuda Avenue, in a neighborhood they call “The Shallows.” The river narrows there, just before opening up into Whitefish Bay. I figured I’d have a quick one, and see how Bennett was doing.

I parked right in front of the place. It looked like it had been there for at least a hundred years. The cedar siding was weathered gray by the wind off the water. You’d have to pay a lot of money to get your house looking the same way. The “distressed” siding alone would kill you.

Bennett was pouring a draft behind the bar when I went in, looking just like the owner you’d expect—a big man who’d seen it all, rough around the edges, like the bar itself. He was looking up at the Tigers game on his big-screen TV. The place was pretty quiet for a late summer afternoon—I knew it would pick up around five o’clock, and stay busy until two in the morning.

“Alex McKnight!” he said when he saw me. “What brings you here? Where’s Jackie?”

“Last I heard, he was still in bed,” I said. “And while you’re pouring…”

“Coming right up,” he said. “Yeah, I don’t blame the guy for sleeping that one off. I was awake myself most of the night. You know what I mean? Just staring at the ceiling.”