The Taking of Libbie, SD (19 page)

I heard voices behind me.

“Goldarn air-conditioning,” one voice said.

“Can you give me a time of death?” said another.

“Goldarn air-conditioning,” the first voice repeated. “Until I get her back to the morgue, I can only guess.”

Her?
my inner voice said.

“I’ll take a guess.”

“I’m going to say she was killed between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m. Don’t hold me to it, though.”

She?

I spun to face the kitchen again. A knot of men, all wearing khaki and Sam Browne pistol belts and holsters, blocked my view from the kitchen into the living room. I kept staring until the group parted. Then I saw her. On the floor and facing the kitchen. Her arms and legs were spread apart as if she were making snow angels. She was dressed only in white lace panties and a man’s white dress shirt that was unbuttoned and hanging open, the sleeves rolled up. In the center of her chest, just above her breasts, was a small, nearly bloodless bullet hole.

Tracie Blake
.

“Oh no,” I said.

The two men who had been speaking turned to look at me.

“Oh no,” I repeated.

“Who are you?” said the one with the badge.

“This is McKenzie,” Chief Gustafson said. “I told you about him.”

“Sonuvabitch,” I said.

“Get him out of here,” the badge said.

The chief grabbed my arm with both hands and pulled me toward the door.

“Goddamn sonuvabitch.”

For the first time since I’d arrived in Libbie, I didn’t mind the heat. I pulled my arm out of the chief’s grasp as soon as we exited the kitchen. He called my name, but I ignored him, walking around to the front of the house and sitting on the lush green grass. I turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes, willing the sun to burn the image of Tracie Blake’s dead body from my brain. And Mike Randisi’s. And all the dead bodies that came before them. Most people didn’t have to deal with such things. Most people were luckier than I was. It was not something I often admitted. Most days I fought against conformity, resisted the ordinary—my greatest fear growing up was that I would one day discover that I was boring. That was most days. On this day I found myself wishing I were an accountant, or a plumber, or a poor, overworked bookstore owner, anything other than what I was so drearily—a cop. Even without a badge I was a cop.

Goddamn sonuvabitch!

I heard their footfalls on the grass before I heard their voices.

“McKenzie, this is Sheriff Balk,” the chief said.

I opened my eyes. Big Joe was standing in front of me, making a large hole in the sunlight. He looked like the guy that Jack met at the top of the beanstalk.

The sheriff smiled and extended his hand. His face was wide and full of smile wrinkles, and he had a loud, penetrating voice that made me think he was good with a joke. I reached to shake his hand without leaving my spot on the grass.

“How you doin’?” he said.

“I’ve been better.”

I released his hand and gazed across the highway, looking northeast toward Miller’s properties off in the distance.

“I’m sorry about your friends,” the sheriff said.

“I barely knew them,” I said.

“I understand.”

I glanced up at him again, this time squinting against the sun. He was younger than the chief, closer to my age, yet there was something in his face to suggest that he was wiser, that he had seen things and had learned from them.

“Chief Gustafson explained why you’re here,” the sheriff said. “He said you and Ms. Blake visited Mr. Randisi yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me?”

I knew the kind of information the sheriff wanted, and I gave it to him, explaining that Mike had been weary of threats, that he had met Tracie and me with a gun in his hand.

“That was his Colt on the floor?” the sheriff said.

“Yes. Last time I saw it, it was on the kitchen counter near the door.”

“There was no forced entry.”

“Mike knew who was knocking on his door or he wouldn’t have opened it. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“It was a pretty girl come to call.” I gestured with my head more or less up the hill toward the Quik-Time Foods van. “Mike liked pretty girls.”

“Do you believe Ms. Neske might have had something to do with this?” the sheriff said.

“I have no idea, but if she had knocked on my door, I probably would have opened it, too. Wouldn’t you?”

“Not if I had Ms. Blake in the bedroom. Certainly something to consider, though.”

“Tell me that you haven’t already considered it.”

The sheriff’s smile was faint, and it didn’t last long.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. Big Joe Balk was a crime dog, Icould tell.

“How well did Ms. Blake and Mr. Randisi know each other, can you tell me?” the sheriff said.

“As far as I know, they spoke for the first time yesterday afternoon.”

“Didn’t take long for them to hook up.”

“They were both lonely people.”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around. Do you believe that Mr. Randisi was involved with your Imposter?”

“He said he wasn’t, and I believed him. Of course, I’ve been lied to before.”

“Haven’t we all.”

I was surprised when the sheriff sat on the grass next to me.

“Let me run this by you,” he said. “Mr. Randisi is in on the scam. His accomplice discovers that you went to see him. The accomplice becomes nervous. He goes to Mr. Randisi’s house to discuss it. They quarrel. One or the other grabs the gun. It goes off, killing Mr. Randisi. Ms. Blake hears the commotion, goes to the kitchen to see what it’s about. She’s shot simply because she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I never liked that phrase—in the wrong place at the wrong time. It implies that the vic put herself in danger, that she was at least partially responsible for her own murder.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“As for the rest, it’s all speculation until your people go over the crime scene.”

“Very true, but I’d like to get a head start if I could. Any suggestions?”

I had to take a good hard look at the sheriff’s face. It’s not often that cops, even my friends, seek advice from civilians.

“Are you asking me?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I do have one suggestion. Your ME said the murders took place between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m.?”

“That’s his preliminary estimate.”

I pointed across the highway. Sheriff Balk followed my finger to Grandma Miller’s bar and grill.

“When is closing time in South Dakota?” I asked.

“Two.”

“I’d start there. Look for someone who was drinking alone.”

“Good idea.”

“Something else. Chief?”

Chief Gustafson was standing behind us. He now moved to where we both could see him.

“Chief,” I said, “how did you know that Tracie and I came out here to see Mike?”

The chief answered in a flat, nearly monotone voice as if he were expecting the question and had already prepared an answer.

“She told me last night around dinnertime. I called to ask about your progress looking for the Imposter—”

“Why not call me?”

“She reported on everything you did.”

“Chief?”

The chief said, “I know your next question, McKenzie.” He was looking at the sheriff when he answered it. “Yes, Tracie and I had been seeing each other. Our affair ended a couple of weeks ago. I am the one who ended it. I ended it when my wife, Nancy, learned about the affair. We spoke about it again at some length last night or, I should say, early this morning, after she came home from work. She came home at about two fifteen, and we talked until sunrise. Nancy said she expected better from me, and I promised that she would get it. I suspect you might have had something to do with that, McKenzie, encouraging her to speak up.”

God, I hope so
, I thought but didn’t say.

The sheriff grabbed a couple of tufts of grass, tossed them into the air, and watched the wind take them like a golfer contemplating his next shot. I had no idea what he was thinking, which was probably the way he wanted it. He stood, brushing his uniform pants with both hands.

“Well, I have work to do,” he said. “In the meantime—”

“You’re not really going to tell me not to leave town, are you, Sheriff?” I said.

“Nah. Being an ex-cop and all, you know I have no legal right to say that. On the other hand…”

“Yes?”

“You don’t want to go anywhere it’ll trouble me to find you.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“One more thing. You can prove you were in the Libbie Medical Clinic all last night, right?”

“From about nine thirty until well after eleven this morning.”

“How convenient.”

“Wasn’t it, though?”

Sheriff Balk turned and started walking back toward the house. He called over his shoulder, “Chief, a word?” Chief Gustafson scurried after him, leaving me alone on the grass with thoughts of Tracie Blake and Mike Randisi swirling in my head.

Sonuvabitch
.

I was surprised to see the white van in my rearview mirror. Even more surprised to see that it was gaining on me. I had pushed the Audi up to ninety miles an hour, cruising the long, flat highway, my windows down, trying to blow the heat and all bad thoughts out of the car. I recognized the van almost immediately. It belonged to Quik-Time Foods. I slowed to seventy. The van soon reached my back bumper. I could see Dawn Neske behind the steering wheel. She leaned on her horn, and I pulled to the shoulder of the highway and stopped. Dawn halted behind me. She sat in the van, probably waiting for me to join her. When I didn’t, she came to me. I made sure both of her hands were empty as she approached. I left the Audi in gear, my left foot depressing the clutch, just the same.

“Nice car, McKenzie,” Dawn said. She placed both of her hands on the driver’s side door, which was fine with me—it made it easier to keep track of them.

“Thanks,” I said.

“How much does a car like this go for?”

“About fifty grand.”

“Must be tough.”

“It can be.”

She grinned at that.

“That was something else, huh?” Dawn said. “Two dead bodies. Wow. You don’t see that every day.”

“You don’t seem too upset about Tracie Blake.”

“It’s not like we were friends or anything.”

“How well did you know Mike Randisi?”

“I didn’t. He was just a customer.”

“You knew he had agoraphobia.”

“That’s why he used the service, because he didn’t like to leave his place.”

“He never invited you in for a cup of coffee? You never spent time with him?”

“The company doesn’t like employees fraternizing with customers. Get in and out, that’s what the company says.”

“Of course you always do what the company says.”

“Of course. Geezus, McKenzie. You sound like the cops.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, but forget that. The reason I chased after you—you were really driving fast. The van started to shake and shimmy, scared the hell outta me.”

“Why did you chase me?”

“I was wondering about Nick Hendel. You know, the Imposter. Have you found him yet?”

“Not yet.”

Dawn seemed genuinely disappointed.

“Do you have any leads at all?” she said.

“I think he might be from Chicago.”

“Nothing else?”

“Dawn, don’t worry. I’m working on it.”

I waited until Dawn’s van was just a white speck on the highway before I activated my cell phone. I was surprised I still had coverage. The bars had been pretty low in Libbie, and out here they were nearly nonexistent. As it was, it took about five minutes before I finally negotiated my way past Greg Schroeder’s secretaries.

“What the hell, Greg,” I said. “Do you get paid by the hour?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said.

“I mean, how many Nicholas Hendels can there be?”

“From coast to coast, about a thousand.”

“Really? How many in Chicago?”

“Seventeen. If you include all of Chicagoland, it’s sixty-eight.”

“Swell.”

“The Imposter is your age, right?”

“Thereabouts.”

“We’re trimming the list according to age and race. I should have something for you soon.”

“When you do, send a fax to the Pioneer Hotel.”

“Okay.”

“Sooner would be better than later.”

“McKenzie, don’t worry. I’m working on it.”

This time when Sharren Nuffer came around the desk to hug me, I hugged her back. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears, and as I embraced her she began crying again. I led her to a chair in the lobby, the same one she used when we had shared a drink just last Monday. I asked her if she wanted a drink now, and she said she did, which gave me a chance to escape her grief. Truth be told, I felt a little like weeping myself, but it wasn’t something I did or wanted to do.

I cut through the dining room to the bar in back. Evan was on duty. His only patrons were four older men sitting together at a table and playing hearts, wearing work shirts and baseball-style caps that promoted everything from farm implements to the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

“McKenzie,” he said. A good bartender always remembers the names of his customers.

I stood between two stools, setting both hands on the bar top. For a moment, I forgot why I was there.

“I take it you heard,” Evan said. He ran his fingers through his blond hair just like he did the last time I saw him. I could see how that might get annoying after a while.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Helluva thing,”

“Helluva thing,” I repeated.

“There hasn’t been a murder in Libbie, or the whole county for that matter, since, I don’t know, forever.”

For reasons I didn’t fully understand, I flashed on a verse of poetry from a long-forgotten college English class, William Dunbar’s “Lament for the Makers”:

The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sary,
Now dansand mirry,
Now like to die—

“Helluva thing,” I said again.