Unidentified Woman #15 (13 page)

That’s the park where they shot Chopper in the back.

That’s the house where they raped and murdered Jamie Carlson.

That’s the fast-food joint where I killed Cleve Benjamn.

That’s where they snatched Victoria Dunston off the street.

That’s where we found her.

Someone had posted the customary three-inch wide yellow tape—
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
—but the way the cars were arranged, no one was going to get close anyway. I parked on the south side of the lot and walked over, afraid of what I would find. The temperature had climbed to thirty degrees; there was even some giddy talk on the radio that it might reach above freezing, yet I did not feel it. Officers and techs turned to look at me as I approached. I felt embarrassed by my appearance. I had been quick to leave my apartment after Bobby had called, and my teeth were unbrushed, my face unshaved, my bed-hair matted beneath a stocking hat, and I was wearing yesterday’s jeans.

Bobby juked between two squad cars and intercepted me. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

“It’s not her,” he said.

I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had been holding my breath. I stopped caring what I looked like.

Bobby led me under the tape and past several officers until we were close to the truck. He wanted me to get a good look at the young man slumped across the passenger side of the front seat. I had no idea who he was and said so.

“Take a good look.”

I did.

“According to his ID, his name is Oliver Braun,” Bobby said.

Oh, God, no.

“Student at the University of Minnesota, majoring in political science. Lived with his parents in Little Canada.”

No, no, no …

“The Taurus is in their name. Preliminary findings indicate he was killed between eight and twelve last night. I’m guessing closer to midnight because the arena was closed by then, no one around to see. That’s all we have so far.”

Tell him,
my inner voice said.

Wait, I told it.

Why?

Just wait
.

“You didn’t bring me here just to confirm the kid’s identity,” I said aloud. I nearly added “That’s not like you,” but didn’t.

“Jeannie,” Bobby said.

Jean Shipman stepped forward. She was young, beautiful, and smart as hell—at least that’s how Bobby once described her to me, although I didn’t see it. She had been Bobby’s partner before they made him a commander and remained his cohort of choice on those occasions when he stepped away from his role as a practicing bureaucrat and actually did some investigating.

“Hey, Jeannie,” I said.

“That’s Detective Shipman to you.”

Did I tell you—she didn’t care for me one bit.

Shipman was holding a clear-plastic evidence bag. She held it up for me to see. The bag contained a .38 Smith & Wesson wheel gun.

“Look familiar?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

I wasn’t answering her question, though. I was answering the one that formed in the back of my head the moment I learned the kid’s identity.
Is El responsible for this?

“It’s yours, all right,” Shipman said. “Serial number matches the S&W you told the Minneapolis cops was stolen from your house—assuming it was stolen.”

Dammit, El.

“Only it’s not the murder weapon,” Bobby said.

Wait. What?

“You seem surprised,” Shipman said.

“We found it on the floor of the car,” Bobby said. “It hasn’t been fired. The kid—he was killed with a knife.”

I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing.

“Again, you seem surprised,” Shipman said.

“Let’s chat, shall we,” Bobby said.

He led me back under the yellow tape and away from the crime scene. Shipman followed along. As we walked I heard someone say “Fucking McKenzie,” but I didn’t look to see who it was. I still had plenty of friends with the St. Paul Police Department, men and women I had worked with who didn’t seem to mind at all that I quit to take the reward on Teachwell. I also had plenty of enemies, cops who very much minded, who were upset that I had sold my badge for exactly $3,128,584.50. Then there were those who were convinced I had hit the lottery and wished they could do the same.

“Well?” Shipman asked.

“Well, what?”

“How did the gun get here?”

“Obviously, either Fifteen gave it to him or Braun took it from her.”

“So obvious we won’t even consider the possibility she held it on him while someone else gutted the kid with a knife.”

“Why leave the gun behind?”

“What’s your theory?”

I was surprised how much it distressed me to say it. “Fifteen’s lying in a ditch somewhere and a second party now has my guns.”

“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Bobby said.

“Where were you last night?” Shipman asked.

“Seriously, Detective, you’re asking me that question?”

“Where?”

“Deer River, Minnesota.”

“Witnesses?”

“Several.” I recited a few. “Plus, I used my credit card. You can check the times.”

“You know I will.”

“Stop it,” Bobby said.

“She started it,” I said.

“You think you’re so damn smart, McKenzie,” Shipman said.

“What can I say? They gave me tests. Rushmore, they said, you have a superior mind. It’s a burden I’ve been carrying ever since.”

“You two make me so sad,” Bobby said.

Because he actually sounded sad, Shipman and I stopped talking and just stood there glaring at each other.

“McKenzie, tell me something I don’t already know,” Bobby said.

“Fifteen’s real name is Ella Elbers, sometimes called El. She’s twenty-one or twenty-two, from Deer River. She moved down here a couple years ago with a few high school friends.”

I pulled out the napkin and recited the names and address Cyndy M had written there. Shipman read along over my shoulder, transcribing the names into a notebook.

“What else?” Bobby asked.

Time to come clean,
my inner voice said.

Instead, I told him El had a habit of bestowing expensive gifts on her BFFs, but that none of them knew where the money came from.

“She’s well loved up there,” I added. “Her friends are worried. They haven’t heard from her for over six weeks. Look, what about Doug Howard? What do you have on him?”

“Nothing,” Shipman said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing means nothing. Checking him out was a waste of valuable police resources. The reason he was parked on Washington Avenue near your overpriced condominium was because he was waiting for his wife, who works for the Spaghetti Factory, also located on Washington Avenue.”

“How do you know?”

“Straight-up solid police work, McKenzie. I asked him. And his wife.”

“My children behave better than you two,” Bobby said.

“He was wasting my time,” Shipman said.

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I thought—wait. If El didn’t know who Howard was, why would she have been afraid of him? Why would she have run?”

“She caught your paranoia. It’s contagious.”

“You think she’s hiding, then.”

“If Elbers had wanted to go into hiding, she would have taken one gun for protection and all of the money, all twenty-five grand. Instead, she took four guns and five thousand dollars. She took only what she thought she needed.”

“Needed for what?”

“Baby’s gone a-hunting.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“There’s something you should know,” Bobby said. “A call was made from the landline in your apartment. It was placed about fifteen, twenty minutes before Fifteen—Ella Elbers—took off. To Oliver Braun.”

At the sound of his name, we all turned to gaze on the crime scene.

“Do you want to explain that, McKenzie?” Shipman asked.

Tell them!

“Oliver Braun was El’s boyfriend,” I said aloud.

“McKenzie,” Bobby said, “you’re just telling us this now?”

“They might have broken up around Christmas. I was looking into it.”

“Dammit, McKenzie,” Shipman said. “That’s obstruction.”

“How do you know about the call anyway?” I asked. “Did you subpoena my phone records?”

“You’re a suspect in a homicide, you bastard.”

“Since when?”

Bobby sighed heavily and glared at Shipman.

“We checked the kid’s cell phone,” he said. “His call log captured your number and the time when the call was made. The call lasted three minutes.”

“You didn’t check my phone records?”

“Of course not.”

I glared at Shipman, too.

“Detective,” I said, “and I use the term loosely—you’re the reason there are so many bad cops on TV.”

“Says the bastard who’s withholding evidence,” Shipman said.

I lowered my voice and spoke to Bobby, not caring if Shipman heard of not.

“I think El meant it when she told me she wanted to change her life,” I said. “I think that’s precisely what she’s attempting to do. Fix today and tomorrow will take care of itself. One of the dumber things I’ve said.”

“Now you agree with us?” Shipman said.

“I don’t think El is responsible for this, if that’s what you mean.”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

No, you don’t,
my inner voice said.

On the other hand—“I don’t believe that she killed Oliver,” I said aloud. “If you want to change my mind, you had better come up with better evidence than you have now.”

“What a bastard you are, pretending you’re still a cop,” Shipman said.

“Stop calling me that.”

“You two know that I love you both,” Bobby said. “Right?”

Bobby returned to the crime scene, Shipman and I watching his back as he walked away.

Yeah, but he loves you more,
my inner voice said.

*   *   *

Let me explain how things work. The cops in St. Paul and Minneapolis might labor in separate jurisdictions, yet they are more than willing to help each other out; happy to search for a suspect or a car, check out an address, gather intel and report back to the other agency. But that didn’t mean a detective was welcome to cross the river and flash her badge anytime she damn well pleased. If Shipman—I assumed it would be Shipman—wanted to interview the kids living at the address I had supplied, protocol dictated that she first notify the Minneapolis Police Department and, if the case was hot enough, arrange for one of its officers to accompany her. This wouldn’t be a problem. It would take time, however. Which gave me a head start.

*   *   *

The duplex was smartly located on Thirteenth Street between Hennepin and Como, two bustling avenues with active bus lines. It was about a twenty-minute walk from Dinkytown, a retail community bordering the University of Minnesota that catered mostly to students; five minutes by bike if you rode with reckless abandon, which almost no one ever did in winter. There were two mailboxes flanking the front door. The one with the “1/2” added to the address featured six names including Ella Elbers and Tim Foley, the latter name crossed out.

The door was unlocked. I stepped past it into a foyer. There was a door to my right that led to the downstairs apartment. Someone had attached a wicker vase to the jamb and filled it with artificial flowers so lifelike that they gave off a pleasant, almost sweet aroma. In front of me was a narrow staircase that spiraled upward. While climbing it, I thought it must be a bitch getting furniture up and down.

I knocked on the door at the top of the staircase, waited for a response that did not come, and knocked some more. When that also went unanswered, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily.

Who leaves their door unlocked these days?
my inner voice asked.

Small-town kids who don’t know any better.

I don’t believe it.

Neither do I.

I opened the door and called out. Silence followed. I touched my right hip where my gun would have been if I had thought to bring it. Asshole or not, sometimes it pays to carry a concealed weapon.

I stepped inside the living room. A place gives off a kind of empty vibe when there’s no one home; I moved cautiously just the same. I found furniture—sofas and tables, plus shades on the windows, paintings on the walls and rugs on the floor. Yet there were no TVs, laptops, CD players, books; no clothes strewn across the floor, no discarded pizza boxes. Five kids couldn’t possibly be this neat, I told myself.

I called out again.

There were four doorways leading out of the living room. I checked each one in turn. The first three led to bedrooms. Each contained mattresses without sheets, and closets and bureaus without apparel of any kind. The fourth door led to the kitchen. There were no glasses, plates or bowls in the cupboards and no silverware in the drawers. I checked the refrigerator. It had been cleaned out but not turned off—there was ice in the trays in the freezer.

A door in the kitchen led to a bathroom that also was empty. I examined the medicine cabinet and linen closet. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen.

Clearly the kids had moved, I told myself. But where? When?

I went back through all the rooms, this time checking wastebaskets. They were empty as well, except for the larger basket in the kitchen. There I found discarded bags, wrappers, and paper cups from several fast-food meals that couldn’t have been more than a couple of days old. Under the debris I discovered a sheaf of flyers. There were ten colored copies advertising a winter garage sale in Arden Hills on Saturday and an equal number of flyers promoting a garage sale in Woodbury on Sunday. I took one copy of each and stuffed them into my inside coat pocket. I left the rest for Detective Shipman.

I stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, searching for something that I might have missed. That’s when I heard the creak of a floorboard behind me. I tried to spin around. Hard metal hit me above the right ear. An explosion that sounded like fireworks from a long way off filled my head; red and white lights blinded me. I went to my knees thinking, You didn’t lock the door behind you, you dumb sonuvabitch. A wave of nausea filled my stomach and tried to force its way out of my throat. I was able to push it back down.