Pretty Girl Gone (23 page)

I bristled at the word “goofy,” but decided to let it slide. After all, it was nice of her to let me tag along.

Mallinger was a quick, assertive driver with even less regard for traffic regulations than I had.

“Have you ever been given a ticket?” I asked her.

“Of course not. I’m a cop.”

Five minutes later we were walking under bright fluorescent lights through the bowels of the Victoria City Center, arms and legs moving in perfect synchronization, to a door labeled
RECORDS
. Along the way we passed Officer Andy.

“How’s it going?” I asked him.

“I sent off the paint chips to PDQ. My girlfriend said she’d try to expedite the search. We should get a hit right away.”

“Who the hell do you work for, Andy?” Mallinger wanted to know.

Andy looked from me to her like he wasn’t sure.

“Wait here,” Mallinger told me when we reached the door.

I waited.

And waited some more.

Finally, Mallinger reappeared.

“Let’s go,” she said as she brushed past me.

“Where?”

“To see Chief Bohlig.”

“Why?”

“The file on Elizabeth Rogers. It’s missing.”

Chief Bohlig was a tall man, creased like old leather and wearing a thermal shirt that was faded from frequent washings and threadbare along the collar and cuffs. We found him chopping wood in the backyard of his lake home with a double-bladed ax. There was a pile of logs sawed into eighteen-inch lengths on his right. One by one, he split them into halves and quarters and tossed them into an even more impressive pile
on his left. He chopped the logs on a thick, wide tree stump. The snow was trampled all around him and wood chips were littered everywhere.

Mallinger asked him why he didn’t hire someone younger to chop his wood.

“I’ve seen it before,” Bohlig said. “Seen it many times, how the soft life takes a man around the neck and slowly strangles him.”

He looked at me.

“What do you think?”

“I never argue with a man who’s holding an ax.”

“Good idea,” he said.

We watched him chop a few more logs. I grew impatient, yet said nothing. It was Mallinger’s play. Finally, she asked, “Chief, what happened to the file on Elizabeth Rogers?”

Bohlig kept chopping as if he hadn’t heard.

“Chief?”

“Why?” Bohlig asked in between swings.

“Josie Bloom is dead. Suicide or murder, we’re not sure yet. We think it’s connected to the Rogers killing.”

“The murder was over thirty years ago.”

“Where’s the file?”

“Gone. Destroyed. When I retired I purged a lot of old case files. I figured you could use the space.”

I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

“The only murder committed in the history of Victoria, Minnesota, and you destroyed the file?”

Bohlig ceased chopping.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I can’t believe you threw away the file,” Mallinger said.

Bohlig continued splitting logs.

“Probably shouldn’t have,” he said. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Really?” I said. “Some people might think you knew exactly how important it was and that’s why you destroyed it.”

That stopped Bohlig in midswing.

“McKenzie,” Mallinger called.

“McKenzie?” asked Bohlig. “Is that your name? McKenzie, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enlighten me. What was in the file you didn’t want anyone to see?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you destroy it?”

Bohlig didn’t answer.

“You covered it up, didn’t you?”

“You have no right to say that to me.”

“Why? Why did you do it?”

Bohlig continued to chop wood.

“Who killed Elizabeth?”

When he refused to answer, I stepped inside the arch of Bohlig’s swing, like a boxer getting close to an opponent. Bohlig could have split me in half if he had wanted to.

“Who killed Elizabeth?” I repeated.

“It’s in my report.”

“What report?” Mallinger asked. “The report you destroyed?”

Bohlig didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved me out of range. I nearly tripped on a log. Mallinger and I continued to watch him work. After a few moments he stopped and leaned on his ax.

“I don’t know who killed Beth Rogers,” he said without looking at either of us. “The town is better off for my not knowing. Look at it. Look at what it’s become.”

“You sonuvabitch.”

“McKenzie,” Mallinger said. “Enough.”

“You were a cop for forty years,” I told Bohlig, “and the one time you had a chance to get it right, you sold out.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“Then tell us.” I waved at Mallinger. “Give us the benefit of your wisdom.”

Bohlig continued to work on his woodpile.

“It’s in my report,” he said.

We drove back to town in silence. Not a sound emanated from the radio and for a moment I thought Mallinger might have switched it off. I had never heard a police radio so silent. But then we were in crime-free Victoria.

“I looked up to him when I was a kid,” Mallinger said eventually. “I wanted to be a cop partly because of him.”

I was too busy watching the trees whizzing past the window to reply. The sun was nearly down and the trees were like shadows.

“Did you have to accuse him like that?” she asked.

“Some days I just can’t remember if I’m the good twin or the bad twin.”

“Maybe the county attorney has a copy of the file,” Mallinger said.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it’s a moot point, anyway. Maybe Josie Bloom really did commit suicide.”

“Take me to my car,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later we stopped behind my Audi, parked across the street from Bloom’s house. There was yellow tape all around the house, but no officers keeping watch. I asked her if that was a good idea. Mallinger was more interested in my future plans.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”

“Are you going home?”

“Do you want me to go home?”

“Chaos, panic, murder—I’d say your work here was done.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get the answers I came for.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Mallinger waited until I started my car before driving off. I watched
her taillights disappear around a corner while the Audi warmed. A second car, a smaller one moving slow, turned the same corner and approached from the opposite direction. I paid little attention until it abruptly veered out of its lane and accelerated toward where I was parked.

I brought my hand up to shield my eyes from the bright glare of the headlights.

The car came closer.

It’s going to hit you,
my inner voice shouted.

I lunged across the stick shift, half my body settling in the bucket seat next to me, the other half still curled beneath the steering column.

Only the car didn’t hit me.

At the last moment it straightened and came to an abrupt halt next to the Audi.

“Hey, McKenzie,” a muffled voice shouted.

I straightened in my seat and powered down the window. There were less than twenty inches between the two cars.

“How you doin’, pal?” the voice asked.

“Schroeder.”

“So,” he said, “are you scared yet?”

“I’m getting there.”

“Goin’ into that ditch this morning, I thought I lost you.”

“You saw it?”

“Oh, yeah. I called it in.” He gestured in the general direction of Josie Bloom’s house. “Now this. My, my, my, my, my.”

I studied him for a moment. The hard, cold wind set my teeth to chattering despite the warm air that the car heater spilled over my legs and torso.

“Did you kill Bloom, Greg? Did you try to kill me?”

“What kind of question is that?”

A gun appeared in his right hand that I recognized only as an automatic. He pointed it at me, letting it rest casually against the crook of his left elbow.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Bam, bam, bam, and I drive away. No muss, no fuss. As for Bloom, who the hell is Bloom and why should I care?”

I stared at the gun barrel. It seemed enormous.

After a moment it disappeared into the darkness of Schroeder’s car.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “See you around, McKenzie. Oh, hey. Nice car.”

A moment later, he sped off, driving at least one hundred yards on the wrong side of the street before returning to the proper lane. I watched his reflection recede in my rearview mirror. I closed the window and set the heat at full. It took a few minutes before my teeth stopped chattering.

Maybe I should go home, I told myself.

The job’s not done,
my inner voice replied.

What job?

You came here to protect Jack Barrett.

No, I didn’t. I came here to find out who sent an e-mail.

Have you?

Dammit.

I opened the glove compartment, slipped out my Beretta, chambered a round, engaged the safety, and set it on the bucket seat next to me. Next, I retrieved my cell phone and punched in a number I’ve known nearly my entire life.

A young girl answered.

“Hi, Katie. It’s McKenzie.”

“Thank you, McKenzie, for the sno-cone machine.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And the donut machine.”

“Kate?”

“And the popcorn machine. I’m supposed to say that.”

“You’re welcome, Katie. Is your dad around?”

“He’s watching basketball.”

“Let me talk to him, please.”

“But he’s watching basketball.”

“Katie.”

“Okay. Dad.”

There was a lot of fumbling before Bobby Dunston took the receiver from his daughter.

“I’m watching basketball,” he said.

“Why? It’s not the playoffs yet.”

“What do you want, McKenzie?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Why is it that whenever you agree to do these little favors for people, I end up doing all the work?”

“That’s the way I plan it.”

“What do you need?”

“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

“Thirty some years ago a young woman named Elizabeth Rogers was murdered here in Victoria. The autopsy was performed by the Nicholas County coroner. I need to know what’s in the report and I need to know right away. Can you help me out? Call the sheriff’s department? Take advantage of a little professional courtesy?”

“I can make a call, but thirty years? I don’t know, Mac.”

“Any help you can give me.”

“It’s getting late. If I can’t get hold of anyone tonight, I’ll try tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Where can you be reached?”

“You have my cell number.”

“I do. So, what’s happening, Mac?”

“They wrecked my car, Bobby.”

“No. The Audi?”

“They smashed it all up.”

“How?”

“Some jerk in a pickup with a plow blade ran me off the road.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but Bobby, they wrecked my new car.”

“What’s going on down there, McKenzie? What are you up to?”

“My neck, Bobby. I’m up to my neck.”

There was a sign on the door to the Korn Krib, the tavern attached to the Victoria Inn.
NO GUNS ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES
. Signs like that have been cropping up at public places, even churches, all across Minnesota ever since Governor Barrett and the state legislature deemed it essential that any Clint Eastwood wannabe over the age of twenty-one who completes seven hours of training be allowed to carry a concealed weapon. I ignored the sign, carrying my Beretta in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket. Once I saw the karaoke machine next to the door, I was glad I did. Granted, no one was using it, but the night was young.

The Korn Krib was filling slowly. A pair of attractive women in high heels and dresses too thin for the weather were drinking and smoking cigarettes at the bar. They appeared to be waiting for someone. They could have been hookers. Or they could have been elementary schoolteachers from South Dakota. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. In the corner booth a man and woman in their early forties held hands across the table and spoke intimately to each other. They both wore wedding rings. I hoped they were married to each other but I wouldn’t have given odds on it. Three guys, working stiffs who labored where a suit was the uniform of the day, shared a pitcher of beer at a nearby table. They kept glancing at the girls at the bar.

I found an empty table, slouched in a chair, and propped my feet on another. I waved at the waitress, ordered a Sam Adams from across the room. She stared at my feet on the chair cushion and frowned when she served the beer. Since she didn’t actually say anything, I left them where they were.

I felt gloomy. Not Charlie Parker gloomy. Or even Billie Holiday gloomy. I was way down there at the bottom of the well with Tom Waits. I glanced back at the couple in the booth. They were still holding hands. I adjusted my chair so I wouldn’t have to look at them.

I could have stayed in my room, but I wanted a drink, and drinking alone in a bar seemed less emotionally unsettling than drinking alone in front of a TV set, less like Josie Bloom. Besides, there was nothing on and I had run out of things to do. After I had checked back in—the desk clerk refused to speak a word to me that wasn’t business related—I had taken up my notebook and started playing with what little facts I had gleaned during my time in Victoria. I played with them the way a child works with a Lego set, putting pieces together, taking them apart, rearranging them. I kept at it until the process had begun to repeat itself, yielding the same combinations and conclusions. Afterward, I had showered, dressed in the same jeans and shirt I had worn for the past two days, and jogged down to the Korn Krib.