Unidentified Woman #15 (25 page)

“Like a real estate agent?” I asked. “Someone who’s invited into people’s homes?”

Both Mitch and Craig seemed confused.

“I suppose,” Mitch said.

You suppose?

“Anyway, El discovered what was going on,” Mitch said. “She found out before we did.”

“She’s the one who told us,” Craig said.

“She said that boosting overpriced iPods was one thing, but this was where she drew the line. She said if we didn’t stop, she’d rat out the entire operation.”

“We were upset, too,” Craig said. “It wasn’t what we signed up for, either. You should know that.”

Why should I know that? Are you trying to assuage your guilt?

“We confronted Kispert,” Mitch said.

About the blackmail or El?

“He told us he’d take care of it.”

“Take care of it,” Craig repeated.

“We convinced ourselves that he meant to frighten her. Make El rethink her position. When she disappeared, we figured his threats must have worked, that she took off. Maybe she went home, we thought. Only I have people up there who could check, and she never … After a while we thought the worst.”

“The worst,” Craig said.

“Now, we’re not so sure.”

“Why aren’t you sure?” I asked.

“Because a little while ago her friends, the rest of the crew, they disappeared, too,” Mitch said. “Without warning, poof, they were gone.”

“Along with our ability to replenish inventory,” Craig said.

“Then people started getting shot.”

“What people?” I asked.

Craig mentioned Karl Olson in Minneapolis.

“Olson worked for the Boss,” he added.

“Then Peter Troop was shot this morning,” Mitch said. “He was killed outside a church, do you believe that?”

“He also worked for the Boss,” Craig said. “Not us. We barely knew him.”

“The drive-by shootings Sunday in Woodbury and last night at the storage facility, we think that was her, too.”

“What about Oliver Braun?” I asked.

“Who’s he?”

“Are you talking about the kid in Highland Park?” Craig asked. “That has nothing to do with us.” Craig looked at his partner. “Does it?”

Mitch shrugged.

“You thinking that somehow a little girl done all that?” Herzog said. The way he said it, it was clear that he thought Mitch and Craig were the little girls.

“We don’t know for sure,” Craig said.

“The Boss thinks so,” Mitch said.

“The Boss, whom you never met,” I said.

“He sent us an e-mail. Sent it to Kispert and us after what happened to Troop. It said we should hire—we should approach you both with an offer.”

“The Boss sent you to hire us?”

“You and Mr. Herzog, yes.”

“How did the Boss know who we were?”

“We told him about our business arrangement, and then when this other thing happened…”

“That makes me very unhappy,” Herzog said.

“We had no choice,” Craig said. “We’re the ones holding the stick. If it all goes sideways, we’re the ones the cops are going to pin it on. If we try to make a deal, tell them about the Boss, put it all on him, the cops are going to laugh at us.”

“We have no real evidence,” Mitch said.

Serves you right for engaging in such a one-sided relationship,
my inner voice said.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Herzog said. “Why would this little girl try to whack you?”

“Revenge,” Craig said. “For what the Boss tried to do to her.”

“What did he try to do?” I knew, of course. I was merely seeking confirmation.

“Kispert wouldn’t tell us; made it sound like he was innocent in all this,” Mitch said. “An innocent bystander. But whatever it was, Olson and Troop, you can bet they were in on it.”

“Screwups,” Herzog said. He didn’t specify whom he was referring to; I was pretty sure it was an all-inclusive insult.

“Where does the Boss get the names of his blackmail victims?” I asked.

Mitch and Craig glanced at each other as if it were the first time the question came up.

“From our e-mail list, I guess,” Mitch said.

“You’re telling me he chooses them at random?”

“Not exactly. I mean—what happens, Kispert asks us to identify customers who purchase certain kinds of merchandise, who’re inclined to spend a lot of money…”

“That’s all we do,” Craig said. “Honest. Everything else, that’s on them.”

Sure it is,
my inner voice said.

“What about video evidence?” I asked aloud. “Do you get your customers on tape?”

“Why would we do that?” Mitch said. “That’d be evidence against us, too.”

“You haven’t said exactly what you want from us,” Herzog reminded everyone.

“Stop her,” Craig said.

“You mean kill her? Say it.”

Yet neither of them would.

“What’s in it for us?” Herzog asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” Mitch replied. “Is that fair?”

“But, but,” Craig said, “you know, maybe you won’t have to … I mean, if you could just get her to stop without … Then we can all just get back to business.”

“The price, though. Is it a fair price?”

“We have no quarrel with the price,” I said. “It’s a very fair price,”

“We want half up front,” Herzog said. “Old bills, nonsequential serial numbers.”

“Cash?” asked Craig.

“Fuck yeah, cash. What you think? We subscribe to PayPal?”

“Yes, of course, of course. It’s just—we’ve never done this before.”

“It’ll be a day or so before we can get the money together,” Mitch said.

“Take your time,” Herzog said. “Just so you know—we don’t even get up in the morning ’less we have cash in hand. Right?”

“Right,” I said.

“There might be another problem, though,” Craig said.

Mitch looked at his partner in a way that suggested he wanted him to remain quiet. Craig kept talking anyway.

“There’s someone else looking for El.”

“Who?” Herzog asked.

“Some guy named McKenzie.”

Herzog started laughing.

“Fuck you say,” he said.

“My sister called from Deer River, where El used to live,” Mitch said. “She warned us about him. Do you know McKenzie?”

“Yeah, I know ’em. Used t’ be a fuckin’ cop, now just pretends.”

“He claims to be El’s friend, that’s what my sister says. All I know is that he lives in an expensive condo in Minneapolis.”

“That sounds right.”

“Should we be worried about him?” Craig asked.

“McKenzie? Fuck no. He’s a pussy.”

*   *   *

We hung around, pumping Mitch and Craig for additional information, most of which I already knew. Afterward, Herzog and I walked to my Jeep Cherokee. Snow was falling; a half inch had already accumulated, and while there was plenty of traffic negotiating the crowded intersection, the weather muffled the noise.

“What’s going to happen when the clown patrol finds out you and Dyson are the same guy?” Herzog asked.

“Clown patrol—is that street?”

“How should I know what’s street? I don’t listen to rap.”

“The clown patrol doesn’t interest me. It’s the ringmaster I want words with.”

“The Boss. What kinda self-important asshole goes around calling hisself the Boss?”

I flashed on Donald Trump, yet let it slide.

“We’re gonna split the money, right?” Herzog said.

“Even though you called me a pussy, yeah, you can take half.”

“I was just keepin’ it real.”

“Thanks, Herzy. That makes it a lot better.”

“We’re not going to do anything to earn it, right? The twenty G’s? I mean, we’re not really going after that little girl, are we?”

“We?”

“You—unless you need help, then, yeah, we.”

“Herzy, my man. Yes, we’re going after El, but—like I said before, we’re trying to save the girl.”

“Seems to me those two pussies in there, they’re the ones need saving. Why should we interfere?”

“You could say we’re protecting El from herself. If they’re now recruiting professionals to kill her, the girl’s in way over her head. Besides, what she’s doing is wrong.”

“Who says?”

“If El killed these guys when they tried to hurt her, hell, we’d erect a statue in her honor and put it in Rice Park. Hunting them down six, seven weeks later, though—no. That’s not self-defense. That’s premeditated murder. She could have picked up a phone. She could have called the cops.”

“Call the cops?” Herzog thought the suggestion was amusing. “That’s not how it works where I come from.”

“I thought we came from the same place.”

“C’mon, McKenzie. We may be living in the same city in the same state in the same country, but no way we come from the same place.”

*   *   *

Nina was waiting up for me when I returned to the condominium, which wasn’t as noble as it sounds. She rarely goes to bed before two in the morning, even when she’s not working.

“That didn’t take long,” she said.

“After you conspire to commit murder, you don’t hang around for chitchat.”

“Murder?”

“They wanted to hire Dyson to find Fifteen and make her stop disrupting their business.”

“What did Dyson say?”

“Just what you’d expect him to say. The man has no scruples whatsoever. Besides, the money was very good. Twenty thousand dollars. I know guys who would do it for five.”

“Then Fifteen
is
responsible for the killings.”

The disappointment in Nina’s voice was startling. At least I was startled. I knew she cared about the girl; nevertheless … Her eyes closed and she became very still.

“They seem to think so,” I said. “I remain unconvinced.”

Nina’s eyes snapped open.

“We’re dumping it all on Fifteen because she’s gone missing,” I added. “That’s not evidence. That’s conjecture.”

“What about the gun in Oliver Braun’s car?”

“I’m gonna go talk to someone about that tomorrow. In the meantime, instead of chasing her, maybe there’s a way we can get Fifteen to come to us.”

“How are you going to manage that?”

“Did you reply to Mitch’s e-mail?”

“No.”

“Do it now.”

“What am I supposed to write?”

“Ask him—does this mean I’m not going to get my pearls?”

Nina went to the computer. She called up Mitch’s e-mail, wrote a reply, and hit
SEND.

“Now what?” she asked.

“We wait. I don’t expect to wait long. They’ll be concerned about income now that their business has gone dark. I think the boys’ll jump at the chance to make some easy cash.”

I was correct. Mitch responded as we were getting ready for bed. Nina read the e-mail aloud.

“He says, ‘As luck would have it, I have come into possession of an eighteen-inch Japanese Akoya pearl necklace with an eighteen-karat white gold clasp that I can let you have for four thousand dollars.’”

“You’re kidding me,” I said. “I paid only thirty-seven hundred for that sucker. The man is trying to rip you off.”

Nina stared like I was the one with criminal intent.

“What should I tell him?” she asked.

“Ask him where he got the necklace.”

Nina did. Mitch must have been waiting for her reply, because his response came quickly.

“He says he doesn’t ask questions of his suppliers,” Nina said.

“Tell him, in that case, neither will you.”

Nina typed in the message and hit
SEND
. The reply came in less than a minute.

“He said his schedule is up in the air right now,” she told me. “Can he contact me tomorrow to arrange a meeting?”

“Write that you look forward to hearing from him.”

She did.

FOURTEEN

The media hadn’t paid much attention to the first two killings. The
St. Paul Pioneer Press
gave Oliver Braun only four paragraphs under the headline
OFFICERS INVESTIGATE HOMICIDE IN HIGHLAND PARK
and didn’t even identify the victim, referring to him instead as “a Little Canada man.” Karl Olson’s murder was summed up in six paragraphs in the
Minneapolis Star Tribune
under the headline:
POLICE SEARCH FOR SNIPER NEAR UNIV. CAMPUS
, and the article dealt more with the manhunt involving eight squads, one ambulance, and one fire truck than the actual shooting. KARE-11, the only TV station to cover the crime, used the same hook. Over sixty seconds of its ninety-second piece were devoted to neighbors telling the camera how surprised they were by the police presence.

However, the murder of a man in the parking lot of a church during a funeral, coupled with allegations that the victim might himself be a murderer? Now that’s something a news organization could get excited about.

The
Pioneer Press
announced on its front page:

LITTLE CANADA MURDER VICTIM

LINKED TO ST. PAUL HOMICIDE

SUSPECT WAS SHOT AT FUNERAL OF ALLEGED VICTIM

The
Star Tribune
proclaimed on the cover of its local section:

HOMICIDE SUSPECT KILLED

WHILE IN POLICE CUSTODY

As for the local TV stations that actually broadcast the news, each gave the shooting as much as two and a half minutes of airtime.

Still, all of the stories were appallingly inaccurate, probably because journalists were only able to quote unnamed authorities and “sources close to the investigation.” No one who had been sitting in the conference room at the Griffin Building was identified, including Bobby and myself—which pleased me no end.

Nor did anyone mention the name of Ramsey County Commissioner Merle Mattson.

Which, I thought, gave me leverage.

*   *   *

I bought two hours of time from a meter in front of the St. Paul Public Library. I could have rented a stall in a parking garage and walked to the courthouse using the city’s elaborate skyway system, a network of second-story boulevards and enclosed pedestrian bridges that connect public buildings to one another, yet thought better of it. The purpose of the skyway was to allow people to travel between buildings without forcing them to brave the elements, be it the snow and freezing temperatures of Minnesota’s winters or the heat and humidity of its summers. It had reached the point where often people would go to and from work without actually stepping outside; the skyway allowed them to commute from their attached garages to one of downtown’s many enclosed parking ramps in nothing more than shirtsleeves. Given the overall brutality of our winter, who could blame them? Yet at 10:00
A.M.
the temperature was a giddy forty-five degrees, and I was reveling in it.