Penance (24 page)

Amy Lamb. I closed my eyes and there she was. I tried to see her as the young woman eating Vietnamese and talking about Starbuck. Instead, it was her blood-splattered body that I saw, her hands clenched in fear and rage and pain, her fingernails cutting bloody half moons into the palms. I shook my head, but the image would not disappear.

“A couple of things that are not in this file,” McGaney said as the elevator doors slid open. “Thoreau and Brown were not killed by the same gun; Thoreau was shot with a twenty-five and Brown with a nine. So far there is no evidence to suggest they were companions except your girl’s message.”

“When was Thoreau killed?” I asked.

“Between nine and midnight Friday night.”

“Friday night? Are you sure?”

McGaney shrugged. It wasn’t his job to fix postmortem intervals.

He continued. “We speculate he was entertaining; we found female pubic hair and secretions in his bedroom and on his genitals; the lab is working them. No suspects. The neighbors claim they saw no women going in or out, claim they saw nothing and heard nothing.”

“You sound surprised,” I told him.

“When I was a kid, the neighbors saw and heard everything. My parents always knew what I did on a Saturday night two hours before I got home.”

“Yeah, the same with me,” I said. “Now no one wants to get involved. Twenty-five years ago you couldn’t stop them. How ’bout Brown?”

“A single shot, close range, like this,” McGaney said and poked a finger in my ear.

“Had to be someone he knew to get that close,” I volunteered.

“Not necessarily,” McGaney said. “He was bombed; toxicology report says his blood alcohol content was point-two-one. The assailant could have walked up to him carrying a bazooka and he wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Witnesses?”

“A gas station attendant remembers a man matching Joseph Sherman’s description coming in around midnight. The man asked to use the john, and the attendant lent him the key.”

I let “That fits” slip out and McGaney jumped all over it.

“What do you mean, ‘That fits’? That fits what?”

I didn’t answer and McGaney pushed me up against the wall of the corridor.

“Let’s get something straight,” he said, jabbing a finger at my face. “I ain’t your buddy, I ain’t your pal, I ain’t your expartner. I don’t give a damn if you’re sleepin’ with some college kid or playin’ poker till dawn …” He noted my surprise at the last statement and added, “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No, I never …”

“I’m cooperating with you because I think you might be able to help me. And the lieutenant. If you can’t or won’t, I’ll cut you off at the knees. Got it?”

“What do you mean, help the lieutenant?”

“Something’s bothering her. Originally, I figured it was her old man. But that remark you made about obstructing justice, it has to be something else.”

“You don’t miss much, do you, Detective?”

“Not a helluva lot, no,” McGaney admitted.

I appraised him for a moment, realizing for the first time that he closely resembled one of my favorite actors, Paul Winfield—when Winfield was thin—even down to the smile that he wasn’t using just then. He let me look.

“There are an awful lot of cops who get their pensions without ever leaving this building,” I told him. “They work nine to five for twenty years and figure they’ve accomplished something with their lives. And then there are cops with a fire in their belly and a …”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard the speech when I was a rookie. Get to the point,” McGaney said.

“A
real
cop, you tell him a certain thing and he might feel he has to do something about it; he can’t just let it slide. He’ll tell himself he has to do something because it’s his job, because it’s important. So maybe, you don’t tell him …”

Now it was McGaney’s turn to study me; I wondered if I reminded him of a favorite actor. Probably not.

“So, where does that leave us?” he asked after coming to a decision he preferred not to share.

“I give you my word of honor: If I uncover any tangible evidence that identifies the killer of Thoreau or Brown or Amy Lamb, I’ll give it to you, no matter who it implicates.”

“Your word of honor doesn’t mean jack shit to me,” McGaney said and jabbed his finger at my face again. “I’ll be watching. I’ll be watching real close.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

“One more thing. If I have to bust the lieutenant I will,” he said. “I won’t like it, but I’ll do it and I won’t lose any sleep over it later.”

Sergeant Alexander Mankamyer, the St. Paul Police Department’s forensic firearms expert, was sitting on a stool at a high workbench and examining the disassembled parts of a sawed-off 16-gauge shotgun with a cut-down stock. He did not look up when we entered the cluttered room. He did not say “Hello” or “What do you want?” or “Who are you?” or “Get lost.” Instead he said, “Had a gang shoot-out last night and a couple of uniforms took this off a juvvie. Now the CA wants to know if it can be fired. Shut the door.”

I did.

“Can it be fired?” I asked him.

“What? You the CA?”

“You brought it up,” I reminded him, leaning on the edge of the bench. Mankamyer frowned at me. “Sorry,” I said and pushed myself upright.

How Mankamyer functioned in this laboratory of violent death was a mystery to me. There were hundreds of firearms hanging from hooks along two walls, and plastic envelopes containing bits and pieces of evidence stacked on desks and tables and shelves all around.

“You guys slumming?” he asked.

McGaney gave Mankamyer the bullet. “What kind of slug is that?” he asked.

“It’s not a slug,” Mankamyer told him. “It’s a bullet. A slug is round and flat and has a hole in it and kids use them to rob vending machines.”

“Bullet, then.”

“Probably a nine; I’ll weigh it to be sure.”

“I need to know if the weapon …”

“Gun, gun,” Mankamyer repeated, obviously annoyed. “Anything can be a weapon. A can of whipped cream can be a weapon. Remember the woman with the Pine-Sol?”

McGaney took a deep breath. “I need this bullet checked against the bullets taken in the Brown and Lamb cases; I need to know if they were fired from the same gun.”

“How much time do I have?”

“Lieutenant Scalasi wants it right away.”

“You still a cop, Taylor?”

“No, I left about …”

“At least the bullet is clean. I remember once they took a thirty-eight out of this guy’s brain and stuck it in a plastic bag. Only thing, no one bothered to clean it and the guy’s bodily fluids destroyed most of the markings. Later, they bring me the gun and ask for a match. Yeah, sure. Amateurs, I’m telling you. Amateurs. That Scalasi, though, she knows her forensics.”

“How long?” McGaney asked.

“How long what?”

“How long before I get a report?”

“What is this, takeout? Do I look like I’m frying chicken here? These things take time. I remember once we had this bullet from an S and W …”

“Mankamyer, how ’bout I start putting goldfish in your firing tank again?”

“You were the one who did that? You sonuvabitch.”

“Mankamyer!”

“Friday, end of the day,” Mankamyer promised and then shook his head. “You people must think I live for this.”

McGaney and I started for the door.

“Taylor, what are you doing here?” Mankamyer suddenly asked. “I thought you pulled the pin months ago.”

TWENTY-ONE

L
OUISE TURNED HER
head abruptly away and pretended not to see me pass quickly through the campaign headquarters to the office in back. Marion Senske was not happy about my presence, either. She was sitting behind her desk, observing while an image consultant instructed C. C.

The consultant was tall, with shoulder-length auburn hair. She was wearing a conservative two-piece, double-breasted blue suit with gold earrings and a thin gold chain around her throat. She looked like she should be running for governor.

“As I said, there are two things to remember,” she told C. C. “Use the right grip—two firm pumps, yes?—and maintain a pleasant facial expression. It’s important that you look interested. I know that will be difficult. You shake, what, a hundred hands each day?”

“More,” C. C. said, rolling her eyes.

“That makes it even more crucial that you leave a positive impression. Most of us make assumptions about a person’s level of success, trustworthiness, credibility, economic standing, education, social position and sophistication based on that first meeting—within seconds in fact. And consider: The vast majority of the people you meet during the course of a campaign will never shake your hand again. Therefore, the first impression you make is the one they will carry with them, quite possibly forever.”

I was leaning against the doorframe watching the show, when the image consultant noticed me and decided I would make a good prop.

“Smile when you approach the voter,” she instructed as she moved toward me. “Extend your hand.” She did. So did I. “One hand. No limp-fisted fish, no bone crushers, no two-handed sandwiches.” She took my hand and, true to her word, gave it two firm pumps. “Hi, I’m Deborah Dixon.”

“Will you marry me, Debbie?” I asked. C. C. giggled. Even Marion cracked a smile. Deborah was not amused.

“You will occasionally have to deal with inappropriate behavior,” she told C. C., turning her back on me.

“Ms. Dixon, could you and Carol Catherine continue your instruction in the next room, please? I must speak to Mr. Taylor.”

Deborah agreed and moved past me. C. C. extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Carol Catherine Monroe and I would be happy to marry you,” she said smiling broadly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Monroe. My heart belongs to Debbie. It was the first impression that did it.”

C. C. giggled some more and followed Deborah outside.

“Close the door,” Marion told me. I did. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I had a rather disagreeable encounter with an associate of yours last night,” I told her.

“I know. He called me.”

“Did you have a pleasant conversation?”

“We did not.”

“Pity.”

Marion did not waste any time. “I could see to it that you lose your license, that you never work as a private investigator again,” she said.

“Is that what you told Freddie?”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do and if you and C. C. had already won the election I’d be plenty worried. But since you haven’t and since I’m in a position to help see that you don’t …” I shrugged.

Marion pursed her lips and tapped her toe. “How?” she asked.

“There’s something you should know about Freddie,” I replied. “He’d
love
to see his name in the newspaper.”

Marion leaned back; the chair creaked under her bulk and I wondered what advice Deborah would give her.

“All right, how much?”

“There you go,” I told her, “making assumptions based on a first impression. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Goddamn it, Taylor! How much?”

I’ve never had a lot of money, so it’s easy for me to get along without it, easy for me to put my hands behind my head and say, “Marion, I’m for rent, but I’m not for sale.”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Marion bid.

I shook my head knowing full well that, like everyone else, I probably did have a price. I just didn’t know how high it was …

“Fifteen,” Marion said.

And I didn’t want to find out. “I don’t want your money,” I told her.

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“What information?” Marion asked, obviously preferring to give me money instead.

“Where were you and C. C. Friday night between nine and midnight?”

“Mankato,” she answered without hesitation.

“Witnesses?”

“About twenty-five hundred, not counting those who saw us on TV.”

“Mankato is an hour’s drive,” I said, thinking out loud.

“More like an hour and a half,” Marion volunteered. “Galen Pivec drove us there and back in the Buick. Why?” she asked, then answered herself. “That’s when Thoreau was shot, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

Marion smiled. I smiled back.

“Of course, we have no idea where Freddie was, do we?”

“Mr. Taylor. If I had wanted to kill Dennis Thoreau or have him killed for the videotape, I would have the videotape. I certainly would not have called you or …”

“Your friend in the police department,” I volunteered.

“Exactly.”

“You never spoke with Dennis Thoreau yourself, did you?”

“What are you suggesting?” Marion asked.

“Nothing much,” I shrugged. Then I added, “You told me that Joseph Sherman never contacted C. C.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s what you said,” I repeated. “Only I know for a fact that Sherman spoke with C. C. on Thursday.”

Marion opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Didn’t she tell you?”

Again Marion had nothing to say.

“You once told me that you were in charge around her,” I said as I rose from the chair. “I’m beginning to doubt it. I’ll be seeing you, Marion.”

I was halfway to the door when I had another thought. “Why didn’t you have Freddie deliver the money to Thoreau?”