Practice to Deceive (15 page)

“Fuckin’ racist cops,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“They didn’t cuff you.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody,” I reminded him.

A moment later he asked, “You OK?”

“Hell, no, I’m not OK,” I answered him loudly. He gestured with his head at the bloodstain on my thigh. “Oh,” I said, gently rubbing my leg. The stain covered an area the size of a softball. My jeans were torn in several places within the circle, the largest rip about three-quarters of an inch. “I think I have some glass in there. Hurts like a sonuvabitch.”

“Can we have some medical attention over here?” Freddie shouted.

An officer standing about ten yards behind us, watching us, his hands behind his back, shrugged and went right on watching. Freddie cursed him.

I tore my jeans another inch and with thumb and forefinger pulled a quarter-inch shard from my thigh, examining it carefully like I expected to see the manufacturer’s name stamped on it, then flicked it away.

“Tell me something,” I asked Freddie.

“Huh?”

“Why’d you do it?”

Freddie didn’t hesitate. He answered like he was waiting for the question. “Man was lookin’ to send you to the promised land.”

“No. I mean, why were you watching my back? You said you didn’t want the job.”

“Yeah, well, I had a change of heart.”

“Why?” I asked again.

“Why not?”

“Fuck, Freddie …”

“Shit, Taylor …”

A
NNE
S
CALASI WAS
angry. By the time she arrived, the medical examiner had already examined the body and was telling the wagon boys to load it up. Forensics had taken their photographs, the scene had been searched for physical evidence, and the homicide detectives were nearly finished taking statements from the brown baggers. Annie hated to be late for a killing.

She was speaking with McGaney and Casper, a salt-and-pepper team from Homicide, who had directed the investigation until she arrived. She asked brief questions, they provided long answers. McGaney held up a plastic bag containing Freddie’s Colt Commander and another containing the shooter’s cannon. He gestured toward us. Anne went ballistic.

“Separate the goddamn suspects!” she shouted. “It’s SOP, dammit!” She was striding quickly across the park to where we sat.

“Hi, Annie,” I said.

“Hi, Annie,” Freddie repeated.

Anne took Freddie by the lapels of his jacket and literally pulled his massive frame off the bench, up to her. She leaned in close. Her eyes were cold; her words were like icy fingers wrapped around your heart.

“In polite society, it is considered inappropriate to use an individual’s first name unless you’ve been properly introduced.”

She released his jacket, and Freddie fell back onto the bench.

“Anne, this is Sidney Fredricks,” I said. “Freddie, this is Lieutenant Anne Scalasi, chief of Homicide, St. Paul Police Department.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Freddie said.

“Get this asshole outta here,” Anne shouted to Casper and McGaney behind her back. They hustled him out fast.

Anne sat next to me. She sighed deeply. “I’m in a bad mood,” she said.

“Not something I did, I hope.”

The look in Anne’s eyes—man, I wasn’t going to wait for questions before supplying answers. “Yesterday, Freddie learned that a contract had been put out on my life. He doesn’t know who or why. I hired him to watch my back. This morning an attorney named Monica Adler invited me to lunch at the St. Paul Grill. When I arrived—” I aimed my chin at the wagon that was just pulling away—“this guy started shooting at me. Freddie killed him.”

“That’s real good, Taylor,” Anne said. “Now, what
aren’t
you telling me?”

I shrugged. The soul of innocence.

“Martin!” Anne shouted. McGaney hurried over. “Check the St. Paul Grill. See if reservations were made for a woman named Monica Adler. If she’s there, bring her out.”

McGaney took off.

“Casper!” Anne shouted again.

“Yes, Loo?” he answered after hustling over.

“What did the suspect say?”

Casper read from his notebook. “Yesterday, he heard that a contract had been put out on Taylor’s life. He doesn’t know who or why. Taylor hired him to watch his back. This morning an attorney named Monica Adler invited Taylor to lunch at the St. Paul Grill. When Taylor arrived, the assailant started shooting at him. The suspect killed the assailant.”

Anne closed her eyes, leaned back, and rested her head on the bench. “You guys have to separate the suspects before questioning,” she said quietly.

“Sorry,” Casper told her. Then he added, “Shooter’s name was Tom Storey. ID says he’s from Chicago. We ran him through NCIC. Mary Jane says the printout is taller than he was.”

“What are the highlights?” Anne asked.

Again, Casper consulted his notebook. “He was on the FBI’s detainer list—two capital murders, one in Detroit, one in Washington, D.C.”

“A capital in the capital,” I said.

Anne looked at me and shook her head.

“Had to be said,” I told her.

“What are you working on?” Anne asked.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“Try again,” Anne urged me.

“I’m not working,” I told her.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

Anne leaned in close. Her words came like an Arctic blast. “You will,” she said.

“I’
M AN ATTORNEY
,” Monica Adler announced when she was brought before Anne Scalasi.

“So?” Anne asked.

Monica didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Did you invite Mr. Taylor to lunch at the St. Paul Grill?”

Monica hesitated, then answered, “Yes.”

“Did you specify the time?”

“Noon,” Monica answered carefully.

“For what purpose?”

“A legal matter, involving one of my clients.”

“Your client’s name?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Monica insisted.

“Sure you are,” Anne told her.

Monica did not reply.

“Did your client know about your lunch date with Taylor?”

Monica remained quiet.

“Did he know what time you were meeting Taylor?”

Monica looked away.

“All right,” Anne said, rising to her feet. “You, you, and you,” she said, pointing to Freddie, Monica, and me. “Downtown.”

“We are downtown,” I reminded her.

She stared me in the eye while adding, “Separate vehicles, separate interrogation rooms.”

I
RODE WITH
Anne. She was in the front passenger seat. A uniform was driving. I was in the rear, my hands cuffed together behind my back.

“How are the kids?” I asked, referring to her two daughters and son.

“Kids are good,” she said. “My son wants to know when you’re going to take him to another basketball game.”

“First chance I get,” I replied.

Anne had been married to a St. Paul patrolman who rolled with the Midway Team. They divorced a few months back, and he hadn’t spent much time with his kids since. I don’t think it was because he didn’t like his kids; I think he was bitter. He was a five-year veteran when he married Anne. She was a schoolteacher. Fourteen years later, she was a lieutenant, chief of Homicide, and the highest ranking female officer in the State of Minnesota. And he was still a patrolman.

What’s more, I think he felt cheated. He had supported Anne every step of her career, encouraging her when she was down, helping her cram for tests, taking care of the kids when she was in Quantico being trained by the FBI to hunt serial killers and rapists. I guess he thought he’d be getting something out of it besides the satisfaction of seeing his wife reach the top of her profession. Something for himself. It might have been different if Anne had stayed with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension instead of joining the St. Paul PD. The differences in their ranks would not have been as pronounced, and he wouldn’t have had to listen to fellow officers who wondered aloud if he saluted her in bed. But, hell, he’d encouraged her to make that move, too.

Understand, I never liked the guy. In all the years I knew him, he never once called me by name. It was always “Detective.” But I guess I can’t blame him for that, either. I was Anne’s partner in homicide for over four years—I had a lot more of her time than he did.

“How’s the old man?” I asked.

“Ex-old man,” Anne corrected me. “I haven’t heard from him for a while. He was supposed to take the kids last weekend, but he never showed.”

“Sorry,” I said.

Anne looked out the side window. Then she asked, “How’s Cynthia?”

“She’s pissed off at me.”

“Why should she be different from the rest of us?”

“Y
OU EVER SEE
a gun like that?” I asked Anne. We were alone in an interrogation room. It was early evening.

“Sure,” she said. “Desert Eagle. Fifty caliber. The Israelis make it for a company here in Minnesota. Located in Fridley, I think. Schwarzenegger and Stallone wave ’em around in all their movies. Makes a helluva noise. A lot of ranges won’t allow them, especially indoors.”

“My ears are still ringing,” I admitted.

Back in the old days—1800, say—you wanted to shoot someone, you’d get out your custom-made dueling pistols, and you and your guy would have a slug of brandy and go at it. Everything was accomplished elegantly and subtly and courageously—there was actually some courage involved, even though standing in an open field letting someone shoot at you was dumber than tarpaper. But big, goddamn fifty-caliber handguns? Jesus Christ!

“Damn thing must be as heavy as Liz Taylor’s jewelry case,” I speculated.

“Four pounds,” Anne said, then added, “Everybody goes home tonight. The assistant county attorney says to cut you loose.”

“Nice of him,”I said.

“It’s only temporary,” Anne warned me. “After the grand jury hears that lame story of yours, I have no doubt you and Fredricks will be back.”

She pulled out a worn black pocket calendar and dropped it in front of me. “We found this on Storey’s body,” she said. “Looks like he was a gambler. Not a very good one, either. Almost every single day has a notation for how much he wagered, how much he won or lost—mostly lost. The last couple days are the most telling.”

She opened the calendar and quickly found her place. I read over her shoulder, surprised she didn’t shoo me away. Muscle memory, I guessed; when we worked together I was always reading over her shoulder.

MONDAY—Paid Mike $150. Still owe 6G. $100 on 6ers. 479

TUESDAY—6ers lost, fucking pussies. $50 on Rangers. $50 on Devils. 821

WEDNESDAY—Won 1, lost 1. $500 on Celtics. 901

THURSDAY—Lost ass again. Owe Mike $6,500. He has deal. Guy in Minneapolis has job. Pays 10G. I keep 4, pay Mike 6, call it even. Leave Friday. 476

Anne said, “Friday is blank.”

“Looks like he lost his ass again,” I said.

“What do you think these numbers represent?” she asked, pointing at the three digits following each notation.

“Daily lottery,” I guessed. “Illinois Pick Three, probably. Looks like he was keeping track.”

“Maybe,” Anne said, not willing to commit. She closed the calendar.

“Chicago PD helping you find this Mike?” I asked.

“So they say.”

“Think it’ll do any good?”

Anne shrugged then smiled. “Are you going to tell me what you’re working on now?”

“Like I said before, I have no paying clients,” I assured her.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she told me.

When I didn’t say anything more, Anne sighed heavily. It was her I-don’t-believe-a-word-that-you’re-telling-me-but-I’m-going-to-let-it-slide-for-now sigh. Then she added, “Interesting company you’ve been keeping,” she said.

“Freddie?”

“He’s having a wonderful time; was positively gleeful when he told the assistant county attorney how he pumped four rounds into the victim. ‘Saved Taylor’s worthless fuckin’ life.’ Must have said it twenty times.”

“He’s a helluva guy,” I admitted. “They should carve his face on a mountain.”

“He’s an asshole,” Anne told me, then watched my face to see how I would react. I wasn’t sure myself. A few hours ago I would have agreed with her. But now? I said nothing.

“We confiscated his gun,” Anne added.

“Probably a wise precaution. Wouldn’t want him saving my life again.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Just don’t have lunch with Monica Adler.”

“I won’t.”

“Or Levering Field,” Anne oh so casually tossed out.

“Hmm? What?”

“Levering Field. Surely you remember Mr. Field. The Ramsey County court was moved to issue a restraining order forbidding you to have any contact with him.”

“And I haven’t,” I lied.

“Monica Adler is his attorney.”

“You don’t say?”

Anne did not reply. She looked away, preferring not to look me in the eye when she said without emotion, “I would cry if something happened to you, Taylor. I would be so upset, I’d have to recuse myself from the case and let Casper and McGaney work it. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No,” I admitted. Especially the part about her crying.

T
HE SIGNS AROUND
Como Lake were identical and spaced about one hundred feet apart. They demanded that pet owners pick up after their animals. Apparently, pet owners in St. Paul take such signs seriously. It took me over an hour to find enough dog droppings to fill a grocery bag a quarter full. Then I double-bagged the droppings so the fire would burn longer. Leaving it on Levering Field’s doorstep, I lit the bag, rang the doorbell and dashed to my Monza. I reached it, hid behind it, just as Levering’s front door opened and he stepped out. He looked at the bag, hesitated a moment, then stomped on it.

“Aww, shit!” he yelled.

I
THOUGHT IT
all was just so damn funny that I had to tell Cynthia, describing the expression on Levering’s face in exquisite detail. “When it comes to pranks, you just can’t beat the classics,” I told her. But Cynthia was not amused; I should have guessed. Instead she chose to linger over what had happened earlier in the day.

“It scares me, what you do for a living,” she said.

“Scares me, too,” I said. “That’s what makes it interesting.”