Highway 61 (6 page)

“I think Mr. Truhler is trying to make himself out to be more innocent than he really is.”

“Let’s have a chat with Mr. Khawaja. I’ll do the talking this time.”

*   *   *

Standing in black leather boots with two-inch heels before the registration desk, Wojtowick looked like she could have played small forward for the Timberwolves, and God knows Minnesota’s NBA franchise could use one. Daniel was obviously intimidated more by her height than he was by the credentials that she showed him. Not me. I like tall women. ’Course, I’ve always been ambitious.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Daniel said. He said it several times. “I do not know why McKenzie says these things about me.”

“Would you relax?” I said. “You act like we’re accusing you of murder or something.”

“Outrageous,” Daniel said.

“Mr. Khawaja,” Wojtowick said. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Khawaja, we are interested in room thirty-four. Now, I understand that you replaced the carpet in the room immediately following the Thunder Bay Blues Festival.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Did you replace the carpet?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I am replacing the carpet in all of the rooms. I did ten rooms last year and ten this year, and I’ll do the rest next year and the year after.”

“How many rooms do you have?”

“Forty.”

“Why only ten at a time?”

“It is all I can afford.”

“Mr. Khawaja,” she said, “are you replacing the carpet according to any pattern?”

“I replace the carpets that are most worn first. Why are you asking me this?”

“Is there any particular reason why you replaced the carpet in thirty-four?”

“It was badly damaged. Too damaged to clean.”

“Damaged by what?” I asked.

“Vomit,” Daniel said. “Vomit and wine. Someone dumped an entire bottle of red wine on the carpet. What is this about? You must tell me. Do I need a lawyer?”

“What happened to the carpet?” Wojtowick asked.

“The workmen took it away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They put it in the back of a truck and carted it off.”

“Then you didn’t replace the carpet yourself.”

“No,” Daniel said. “Please, Constable…”

Wojtowick turned toward me. She made a “come here” gesture with the fingers of her hand. I gave her the envelope. She opened it, removed the photo, and slid it across the counter to Daniel. I didn’t think it was possible for a man with his dark complexion to turn white, yet he nearly managed it. He backed away from the photo until his spine was pressed hard against the wall behind him.

“What, what?” he chanted.

“This photograph was taken in your room thirty-four,” Wojtowick said. “We believe it is a phony, but we must be sure.”

“Phony?” Daniel spoke the word as if he didn’t know what it meant.

“Fake, fraud, hoax,” I said. “Unless—you didn’t find any dead girls in your room and try to cover it up, did you?”

“Cover up?” They seemed to be additional words that Daniel didn’t know.

“Mr. Khawaja?” Wojtowick said.

“I do not know what is happening.”

“Please look closely at the photograph. Mr. Khawaja? Please.”

Daniel stepped forward reluctantly.

“Is this room thirty-four?” Wojtowick asked.

“It, it could be. Half of the rooms have the same layout, and the other half, it is the same layout only reversed, with the door on the other side.”

“You said the carpet was damaged by red wine.”

“I thought it was wine, there, where she…” He pointed at the girl. “It was red wine. I have seen spills before. I was sure it was red wine. The smell. It was red wine. I am sure.”

“It probably was red wine,” Wojtowick said. “Mr. Khawaja? It probably was red wine. We believe the photograph is a fake. We believe that you are a victim of a hoax.”

“Hoax?” Daniel asked.

“We do?” I asked.

Wojtowick drove the tip of her elbow into my rib cage. Yeah, she could play pro ball, I told myself as I fought to regain my breath.

“Mr. Khawaja, do you recognize the girl?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Mr. Khawaja, I would like to see the registration form of the person who rented room thirty-four just before you replaced the carpet. Can you give that to me?”

Daniel nodded and went to his file. He produced the card and set it in front of Wojtowick. It was identical to the card I had filled out. I read it over Wojtowick’s shoulder. It listed the name James Linck on Maryland Avenue in St. Paul. Truhler lived in Eden Prairie, I reminded myself. There was a handwritten notation in the corner of the card: 5/21. I asked Daniel about it.

“That is when the reservation was made,” he said. “It was made by telephone. The caller, I told him he was lucky because usually I am full for the festival by then.”

Wojtowick continued to question Daniel while I made a call.

“Did you contact Mr. Linck concerning the damage of your property?” she asked.

“I tried,” Daniel said. “I could not get through. The phone number he gave me—it was not in service.”

“What about his credit card?”

“It was false as well.”

“You didn’t know that when he registered?”

“He gave me the card number to hold the room when he registered over the phone. When he arrived, he paid in cash, so there was no need to check the card. I only ran it after I saw the damage.” Daniel glanced at the photograph again and stepped back. “That is why now I ask to see credit card as well as photo ID. McKenzie knows.”

“Do you remember anything about this man? What he looked like?”

Daniel shook his head. “I get many guests.”

“Could he have been black?” I asked.

Daniel shook his head again.

“Do you have security cameras?” Wojtowick asked.

“We never saw the need.”

My call went through.

“Bobby,” I said.

“Hey, McKenzie, what’s going on?”

“The guys were wondering where you were Friday night. They think you’d rather spend time rubbing shoulders with felons and miscreants than play hockey with us.”

“What are you talking about? Half the guys in the locker room are felons and miscreants.”

“True, very true. So, Bobby, I was wondering if I could ask you to run a Minnesota license plate number for me.”

“McKenzie, the St. Paul Police Department does not exist for your personal convenience. If you want to run a license plate number, I suggest you contact Minnesota Driver and Vehicle Services. It’ll cost you all of nine dollars and fifty cents.”

“I don’t have the time.”

“That distresses me terribly. Honestly, it does.”

“Bobby, I am standing next to Detective Constable Aire Wojtowick of the Thunder Bay Police Service in Ontario, Canada. You’d like her. She’d like you. You should talk.”

I handed the phone to Wojtowick. She looked at it, then at me, then pressed the receiver to her ear.

“This is Detective Constable Wojtowick,” she said. “I’m sorry I do not recall your name … Commander Dunston, we have a situation here … Is that so?” She looked at me again. “He has not committed any crimes that I am aware of, but I am sure I can think of something to hold him on … I would much rather have him deported.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“Was he really a police officer?” Wojtowick said. “Still, it does make me question your professional standards … You are most kind.” Wojtowick recited the license plate number that Linck had written on his registration card. “Thank you.”

About a minute passed.

“Yes, Commander,” Wojtowick said. She wrote whatever Bobby told her into her notebook. “Thank you, Commander … So I have been told from time to time.” She laughed heartily at whatever Bobby told her. “Is that right?… I’ll keep it in mind. Good-bye, Commander … You, too.”

She handed the phone back to me.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“The license plate number is registered to a sixty-seven-year-old female who lives in your city of Bemidji.”

“No, I meant what did he say that made you laugh?”

Wojtowick turned toward Daniel, showing me her back.

“Mr. Khawaja, do you check the license plate numbers people write on the forms against their motor vehicles?”

He shook his head.

“Start.”

He nodded.

“If it is not too much trouble, I require the name of the firm that replaced your carpet. Can you give that to me now?”

“Yes, of course.” Daniel went to his Rolodex and produced a business card that he handed to the detective. “Dooley Brothers. It is a reputable firm.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Wojtowick slid the photograph back into the envelope and held it up for me to see.

“I’m going to keep this,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

“We’re done here.”

“We are? Don’t you want to go up to room thirty-four?”

“To look at what? Mr. Khawaja, I apologize for the inconvenience we have caused you.”

“What about this?” Daniel pointed at the envelope.

“I will contact Dooley Brothers to see if we can find the old carpet. At the moment this is the only evidence that suggests a crime has been committed in your motel, and I do not trust it. I believe you are a victim of an elaborate hoax, as I said earlier. A hoax”—she turned toward me—“that originated in the United States.” Daniel was visibly relieved by what Wojtowick told him. “If you are telling me the truth about all this, there is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“I am,” Daniel said. “I am telling the truth.”

“Then I apologize for alarming you.”

“Yeah, Daniel, I’m sorry, too,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find another motel.”

Daniel waved his hand in front of his face as if he were scattering smoke. Or maybe it was a bad odor.

“It is all right, Mr. McKenzie. You may stay.”

“Thank you.”

He waved his hand some more. I took that as a sign that I was to get out of his sight.

*   *   *

It was only five thirty, yet already night had fallen, as had the temperature. I could see our breath in the light of the streetlamps as the cars whizzed past the motel parking lot.

“Did you get what you’re looking for?” Wojtowick asked.

“No.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“The girl, I suppose. If she’s dead, then it’s murder, and I will personally deliver Jason Truhler into your hands to do with as you please. If the girl is alive, than it’s extortion pure and simple, and she’ll be the one who’s in trouble. I’m hoping she’s alive. When I get back home, I’ll check some more missing persons reports.”

“I’m sure your friend Commander Dunston will enjoy that.”

I crossed my fingers and held them up for Detective Constable Wojtowick to see.

“We’re like this,” I said.

“He said you are tenacious, your Commander Dunston did.”

“One of my lesser virtues,” I said.

“When are you leaving?”

“First thing in the morning.”

Wojtowick slipped a business card from the pocket of her coat and put it in my hand. I returned the favor by giving her my cell phone number, which she jotted down in her notebook.

“I’ll check with the fraud unit tomorrow to see if they’ve had any complaints similar to the one you’re investigating,” she said. “I will also attempt to locate the carpet. I will inform you if we learn anything. In the meantime, please let me know what you discover on your end. I do hope you find the girl.”

“Thank you.”

“When you find her, you might mention that the Thunder Bay Police Service would like to have a word.”

“Can you arrest her if Jason Truhler refuses to sign a complaint?”

“This is Canada, mister, and Truhler isn’t the only victim. There’s also Daniel Khawaja and the Chalet Motel.”

“Tell me something—what makes you think the scam originated in the States?”

“You tell me,” Wojtowick said.

“The reservation. It was made from Minnesota. It was made seven weeks before Truhler got here, which means they were expecting him.”

“They were expecting someone, anyway. It didn’t necessarily have to be him. Any mark might have done just as well.”

“There’s one way to check his story.”

“How?”

“Contact someone at the Prince Arthur Hotel. Find out when Truhler made his reservation there and for how many guests.”

“Good idea. I’ll do that.”

Wojtowick gave me a nod and started moving across the parking lot toward her car. I called to her.

“Are there any good restaurants in town?”

“A few.”

“I’d be happy to buy you dinner.”

She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head.

“Commander Dunston was right about you,” she said. “You are an incorrigible flirt.”

A few moments later she drove off. I watched her taillights receding into the darkness.

*   *   *

I heard a woman’s voice. It was loud and distinct. “I’m lost,” it said. A second voice replied. It was mine. My voice said, “Where are you?” The first voice said, “How the hell should I know—I’m lost.” “Who are you?” I asked. The voice said, “Oh, for God’s sake, who do you think?” Then I woke up. It wasn’t a particularly satisfying ghost moment, but there you are. Still, I discovered that the sheets were soggy with perspiration and my heart was beating fast. I wondered what had been going on in my dream before the voices woke me. I listened hard, only there was nothing more to be heard.

I flipped the pillow to the dry side and closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come, and I didn’t think it would, at least not for a while. If I were at home I’d saunter down to the kitchen for a glass of milk—that was usually enough to tire me out. In room 34 of the Chalet Motel, where a young woman might or might not have been brutally murdered, I reached for the TV remote. It was on the nightstand next to the bed; the sliver of streetlight that peeked through a crack in the drapes gave me enough to find it. I had used the remote to turn off TSN–Canada’s Sports Leader—just hours before. There was no ESPN in Canada, the barbarians. I turned on the TV and switched to the Weather Network, a poor cousin of our own Weather Channel. The crawl at the bottom told me it was 3:14
A.M.
It also told me that it was minus 3.3° Celsius in the City of Thunder Bay, Ontario. I did the math in my head just the way I was taught in high school: −3.3 multiplied by 9, divided by 5, plus 32 equals 26.1° Fahrenheit. That made it seem warmer, but not by much, so I used the equation for converting Celsius to Kelvin and came up with 269.85°. Toasty.