A Hard Ticket Home (10 page)

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Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Private Investigators

BOOK: A Hard Ticket Home
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Work. Fill the hours with work
, I told myself.
Concentrate on that
. I sat at the kitchen table and wrote notes to myself. I filled half a yellow tablet, gripping the pen so hard I bent it. I forced myself to record every detail since I met the Carlsons while they were still relatively fresh. I didn’t really think remembering would be a problem. Forgetting, now that was a different matter.
I had made Jamie the star of my sexual fantasies, dancing with her in my prepubescent imagination at the same time she was being raped and butchered. How could I get past that?
I took a long hot shower and climbed between my bed sheets. I don’t know why I bothered. Sleep was impossible. I gave it an hour before rolling out of bed, pulling on gym shorts and a T-shirt. I grabbed the plastic ice cream bucket filled with dried corn that I keep on my back porch and went to the pond. I called for the ducks. They came to me even in the darkness. I tossed them the corn and they ate happily although the smallest, Maureen, my favorite, insisted on feeding from my hand. That didn’t bode well for the long flight south, yet I fed her just the same.
Think
, I urged myself.
Think clearly.
Jamie was murdered just hours after I located her. There had to be a connection—life is a lot less random than we believe. Was Bradley Young the connection? Did he kill Jamie, and Katherine before her? Bobby would find out in a hurry. He was probably already talking to the Ramsey County ME.
Think.
Whether he killed her or not, there had to be a connection. Young came to my house because of Jamie. I knew it. Maybe he didn’t kill Jamie, but he tried to kill me
because
of her.
Think.
Bobby wouldn’t hesitate for a second to arrest me for obstruction if I even came within shouting distance of his investigation. So, I needed to be careful. But I was going to learn the connection between Young and Jamie. That was my a-gen-da, as Kirsten would put it. That’s what I’m going to do, screw Dunston.
And then there was Stacy. Oh God, did she die when Jamie died?
Think.
Did I have to kill Young? What if I had just stayed in the house and called the cops? What if I had left my gun in the drawer? What if I had been more forceful when I confronted him. What if …?
Kirsten was right. There is so much in my world that’s wrong.
“Are you okay?”
I had been concentrating on the ducks and my own thoughts and didn’t see her approach.
“Are you okay?” she repeated.
“Margot?”
Her white satin robe gleamed in the moonlight, seemed nearly as bright as the moon. She was standing in bare feet on her side of the pond, her arms folded under her ample bosom. Her reflection shimmering in the water reminded me of Galadriel, the ethereal elf in
The Lord of the Rings.
“As well as can be expected,” I told her.
“I heard what happened. I guess everyone in the neighborhood has heard what happened. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should know, Karl Olson is making noises about getting up a petition to force you to move.”
“Throw one dead body on the front yard and the whole place gets paranoid.”
“It is the suburbs.”
“Just barely,” I reminded her.
“I saw you from my bedroom window.” She gestured with her head at the large white house behind her. “I thought you might want to talk.”
“No. Thank you.”
Margot sat on her well-trimmed lawn, hugging her bare legs to her chest. She rested her chin on her knees. She seemed so young, although she was a half decade older than I was.
“How are the ducks?”
“They’ll be leaving soon, I think.”
“I’ll miss them.”
“Me, too.”
“I never thanked you.”
“For what?”
“For the ducks. For the pond. I had my misgivings when your father put it in, but now … It’s really quite lovely.”
“You spent a lot of time with my father when he was digging it. You brought him lemonade.”
“I only brought him lemonade once. After that it was Leinies.”
“Leinenkugel’s, brewed in Wisconsin. To my dad that’s an imported beer.”
“He liked them.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did he ever tell you what we talked about when I brought him the beers?”
“Dad? No. When you told Dad something, that’s as far as it went. He was the keeper of everyone’s secrets.”
“He was very proud of you. He said so. Many times. He thought you were a good man, only he didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You told me. At the funeral. I’ve always been grateful to you for that little bit of kindness.”
“Your father was kind to me at a time when I needed kindness.”
“He was that way.”
“He never remarried after your mother died. He never even dated. Did he ever tell you why?”
I shook my head.
“He couldn’t. His love for your mother wouldn’t allow it. I wish I could find a man to love me that much. I’m three husbands down and I haven’t even come close.”
“They say the fourth time is the charm.”
“They say the third time is the charm, but never mind.”
She stood and wrapped her arms around herself like she was suddenly cold.
“Why don’t you come up to the house with me? We’ll have coffee.”
“It’s tempting, but …”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company, tonight. I have too much on my mind.”
“That’s why I’m offering.”
“A rain check?”
“Put it somewhere safe, where you won’t lose it.”
Margot turned then and drifted up her sloping lawn toward her house. I watched her until she disappeared into the darkness.
I showered for the third time in twenty-four hours, dressed quickly, fed the ducks again, skipped my own breakfast, and hurried out of the house. I didn’t want to hang around. I wanted to be out and doing. Ten minutes later I was standing in the City of St. Anthony Village municipal building—don’t ask me why it’s called both a
city
and a
village.
I was trying to get through the secured door that led to the cop shop, only the receptionist wouldn’t push the button that unlocked it until she was given the high sign by Chief Casey.
“I called,” he told me.
“I didn’t get the message until late.”
“Yesterday you killed a man. Want to know why?”
“You’re volunteering?” This was a first for me—a cop besides Bobby Dunston who freely gave me information.
What’s the catch?
I wondered.
Casey led me to his small, cluttered office. I told him he could do
better but he blew me off. “I have gold braid on my hat. I don’t need a corner office with a view.”
I liked him more and more.
There was a file folder in the upper corner of his desk under a small trophy with the words TO THE WORLD’S GREATEST DAD etched into its base. Casey sat behind his desk, snagged the folder, and opened it. He began to read.
“Wait, wait,” I implored as I took my notebook and pen from my jacket pocket. “Okay.”
“Bradley Young, AKA Emilio, AKA Billy the Kid …”
“Emilio? Billy?”
“Emilio Estevez starred as Billy the Kid in
Young Guns
. Apparently there was some resemblance.”
Casey slid a photograph of the dead man across the desk. I didn’t see any similarity between the white actor and black gangster, but I didn’t look very hard. I don’t like looking at photographs of the recently deceased, never have. I like to think there’s a dignity in human beings that transcends the life they live, that gives them value no matter how cheaply they died and you can see none of that in a photo taken at the scene.
The chief kept paraphrasing. I set the photograph aside and wrote quickly, trying to keep up.
“Born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, the only child of father Robert, mother Jo Jo. Both parents killed when the propane tank exploded in their mobile home, cause unknown.”
The chief tapped the file.
“This guy’s sheet is so long you could wrap it around a jury box, but only one conviction, second-degree burglary in Detroit. I spoke to the arresting officer, an old buddy. Two years ago he nabbed Young as he was entering an apartment building, a video recorder and a boom box under his arms, a pry bar, screwdriver, rubber gloves, and a stethoscope in his pockets. Search warrants were obtained. My guy found sixteen
stereos, eight VCRs, eight TVs, eleven ghetto blasters, four bikes, thirteen guns, some jewelry, and thirty-seven pawn shop tickets in Young’s crib. Young was arraigned in the Frank B. Murphy Hall of Justice, bail set at twenty thousand, trial date set for mid-October.
“Young couldn’t make bail and he didn’t want to sit in jail for a couple of months awaiting trial so he cuts a deal with the state attorney. He’ll cop to one count of second-degree if he can get help for his drug problem. The prosecutor figures what the hell, first conviction, Young will probably get probation and time served anyway, why waste the taxpayers’ money? So he goes for it, you know how it works.”
“Yeah.”
“Young pleads guilty and a hearing is scheduled, but rather than send him back to jail to await sentencing, the prosecutor asks the judge to release Young to a treatment center. The judge agrees and Young is given conditional release. As long as he reports for treatment he can come and go and …”
“I see it coming.”
“He boogies. A warrant is issued for his arrest, but c’mon. A property crime? No one exactly broke their hump looking for him.”
“How long had he been in Minnesota?”
“DMV issued a driver’s license fourteen months ago.”
“Where did he live?”
“Nine hundred South Fifth Street in Minneapolis.”
“Ahh, Chief. That’s the address of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome.”
“Hmm,” he grunted. “Serves me right for not being a sports fan. But it makes sense. He worked a concession stand at the Metrodome for two months before he was fired for employee theft.”
“But not prosecuted. Big surprise.”
“There’s more, but the way the intel came to me makes me nervous.”
“In what way?”
“I was checking on a possible gang connection. Gangs and Guns Unit in Ramsey County, Minneapolis Police Gang Unit, the BCA—no one knew anything. Suddenly, I get a phone call from an officer who works armed robbery in Minneapolis, some guy I never heard of, says he heard about my problem, says I should call ATF.”
“Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? Why?”
“Why, indeed? But gift horses, right? I call ATF in Minneapolis. The receptionist hands me off to an agent named Bullert.”
“Did he know anything?”
“He knew plenty.”
“And he told you? When did the ATF become so forthcoming?”
“Since nine-eleven, I guess. Anyway, turns out that Bradley Young was a leading member of a street gang called The Family Boyz.”
“Never heard of it.”
“According to Bullert, this particular group is very tight, very small, and far less visible than Young Boys, Inc. or Pony Down or the Crips, Bloods, Gangster Disciples, El Rukns, White Knights, Vice Lords, Lower-town Gangstaz, Bogus Boyz—who have I missed?”
“Brown for Life, Vatos Locos, Surenos Thirteen,” I offered.
“The new kids on the block. Only these A-holes are much better organized from top to bottom than the other gangs. They operate like a corporation, what we call a CEO—a covert entrepreneurial organization. Very security conscious. They don’t wear gold chains or beepers, nothing to draw attention to themselves. More likely they wear ratty clothes and drive beaters. Family Boyz was one of the first gangs to stop wearing colors. They laugh at the gangs that still wear jackets and flags and tattoos. Something else. They have a very limited presence in the drug trade. Drugs fuel nearly every gang in the country, but not these guys.”
“What are they into?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does ATF say?”
“They don’t.”
“Is ATF investigating them?”
“I asked. Bullert wouldn’t confirm.”
I had to think about it. When I finished, I said, “If the Family Boyz is active in the Cities, I know a guy who can tell us all about it.”
“Cop?”
“Hardly.”
“Keep me informed.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“The very least,” the chief said. “There’s one thing you should know, however. For what it’s worth, Bullert gave me the package like the file was open on his desk and he was waiting for me to call.”
 
 
I thanked the chief and headed for the door. Before I reached it, he stopped me.
“Are you busy, McKenzie?” Here it comes, I warned myself. The reason he had been so forthcoming. “Have a cup of coffee with me.”
To get the coffee, the chief led me through the maze that was the City of St. Anthony Village police department. I had a good look at dispatch, booking, the holding cells, squad room, even the garage, stopping for the coffee at the offices of the investigation unit, then out the back door. It was like he was giving me the grand tour but not once did he introduce me to anyone or say, “Look at this.”
Outside, he gestured at the impressive baseball, football, and soccer fields, the skateboard course, the park, the tennis courts, and, up on the hill, the St. Anthony High School and Middle School—all of it in the shadow of a huge, white water tower painted with the community’s name and logo.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Bart. It’s the suburbs.”
“I love this town,” Casey said.
“You’re from Detroit,” I told him. “If I had been from Detroit, I’d love the suburbs, too.”
Casey seemed surprised that I knew where he was from.
“Earlier you said Young’s arresting officer was an old buddy,” I reminded him.
“Very good, McKenzie. Yeah, I’m from Motown, did seventeen years there, six in homicide. After seventeen years, nothing bothered me. Fourteen-year-old boy rapes and kills an eight-year-old girl, then torches her apartment house killing four more. Didn’t bother me. We take a drug dealer out of his place, his kids are standing there in diapers that haven’t been changed in three days. Didn’t bother me. Three black teenagers rape an elderly white woman to death then hire a high-buck activist lawyer to scream racism when we take them down. Didn’t bother me. Pretty soon my own kids are in trouble in school and that doesn’t bother me. My wife is threatening divorce, that doesn’t bother me.
“Then one day I’m doing shooters in this joint near the Renaissance Center and I realize something better start bothering me pretty damn quick or I’m gonna end up flushing my whole life down the toilet. That evening I saw an ad in the trades for a police chief in St. Anthony Village, Minnesota. Never heard of the place, but I apply—anything to get out of Detroit. They jumped me through some hoops, did the dog and pony show for the city council, gave me the job. That was twenty-seven months ago. Now my life is ordinary and predictable. My kids are happy. My wife is happy. And everything bothers me. I’m telling you this because I know you’ve been there. I checked you out and I know you’ve been there.”
“You checked me out?”
“Of course I did. After the shooting, you know I did. You used to be a pretty good cop.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
“You should have been promoted to sergeant. You should have been in
plain clothes. You would have been, too. You were first in line. Only you killed that kid in the convenience store and that ruined everything. Righteous shoot is what they tell me. The store’s security cameras filmed it all. The whole world could see the suspect waving his piece, could see what you did about it. Textbook stuff. Only—shotguns are controversial.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Shotguns are messy and citizens don’t like a mess. There was a lot of loud talk about excessive force that would have been only a whisper if you had used your Glock. Glocks are nice and clean.”
“Except I don’t like the grip.”
“Using the shotgun knocked you to the bottom of the promotion list—SPPD didn’t want to look like it was rewarding an officer accused of using excessive force. I’m guessing you figured that your career was over and that’s why you took the price on Teachwell.”
“Do you have a point here, Chief, or are you just auditioning for Peter Graves’s job on
Biography
?”
“Ever think of going back?” he asked.
“Going back?”
“Your arrest record is outstanding. The Ranking Officer’s Association made you Police Officer of the Year. You were given the citizen’s medal for that Minh Ha thing …”
“Are you offering me a job?”
“I have a budget for twenty officers, but I only have fifteen, including a one-man investigative unit that should be as least three, four guys. There hasn’t been a single day since I arrived here that I haven’t been shorthanded. I hire an officer, he puts in a few years learning the trade, next thing I know he’s taking a better paying job in St. Paul or Minneapolis or somewhere else. Small suburban departments like St. Anthony Village have become little more than training grounds for other, wealthier departments. My senior sergeant—you met him yesterday—suddenly he announces he’s taking a job in Brainerd, wherever the hell that is.”
“Central Minnesota. Great hunting and fishing up there.”
“Whatever. I’m having trouble keeping officers. Worse, I’m having trouble keeping veterans. I understand it. There are just so many slots in a small department like this. You could be here for twenty years and not move up. The only chance you have for promotion is if someone retires. Which brings me to you.”
“You are offering me a job.”
“I would bring you in through a lateral entry program I’ve installed. Which means you’d get credit for your experience. Eleven years and eight months in St. Paul makes you a sergeant in St. Anthony Village. Something else, and this is between you and me. The lieutenant running my investigative unit assures me he’s pulling the pin the day after he puts in his full thirty—at least he had the decency to warn me. If you sign up, I’ll give you a shot at the job. Chief of Detectives.”
Supervising a unit numbering only four—assuming it was at full strength—wasn’t all that impressive. Still, I immediately fell in love with the sound of those three words: Chief of Detectives.
“You don’t have to make a decision right away,” the chief assured me. “Think about it. We’ll have to wait and see what the county attorney does about the Young shooting, anyway—wait to hear what the grand jury has to say. And make no mistake, McKenzie. This isn’t a slam-dunk. I insist you go through a mini-academy, make sure the tools are still there. But think about it.”

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