Jelly's Gold (29 page)

“I have a hypothetical situation I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Hang on a sec.” I heard the shuffling of paper and the phone being switched from one ear to the other. “Okay, shoot.”

I explained the circumstances as accurately as I could. G. K. asked a few questions and I answered them without embellishment—I had learned a long time ago, when you’re talking to an attorney, be precise. When I finished, I asked, “What do you think?”

“You’re cutting it awfully thin, McKenzie.”

“I know. Can you help me?”

“You mean, can I help your friend,” G. K. said.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“Yes.”

That was all I needed to hear.

True to his word, Bobby Dunston refused to admit me to the offices of the St. Paul Police Department homicide unit. We met outside instead. The James S. Griffin Building was on the east side of the sprawling police campus. The Ramsey County Law Enforcement Center anchored the west side. Between them were the Adult Detention Center and the East Metro Firearms Range. Bobby found me waiting for him next to the tall poles flying the American and Minnesotan flags.

Instead of saying hello, I gave Bobby the carton filled with Kathryn’s letters along with the envelopes they came in complete with post office markings so he wouldn’t think I had been holding out on him. What I didn’t tell him was that I had just spent an hour at Kinko’s making
copies of each letter and stashed them in a manila envelope in my trunk.

“So this is what the fuss is all about,” Bobby said.

“The stuff dreams are made of,” I said.

“You read them?”

“Of course.”

“Do any of the letters indicate where the gold was hidden?”

“Nope.”

“A lot of trouble for nothing.”

“Oh, it gets better.”

I told him about Allen and the gun. Bobby said that he had already received a call from Sergeant Sigford.

“It’s the wrong caliber,” Bobby said. “Berglund was killed with a .25. Nice try, though.”

“Maybe you’ll have better luck with these,” I said. I gave him Ted and Wally’s guns and explained how I came to have them. Bobby examined each. Neither was a .25, but he slipped them into his jacket pockets just the same. He pressed his hand against the small of his back and spoke between clenched teeth.

“I don’t have a quarrel with either of them as long as they don’t shoot you in my jurisdiction,” he said.

“I don’t know what alibi they had for Berglund’s murder—”

“C’mon, McKenzie.”

“But I think you’re obligated to check them out—”

“McKenzie—”

“Considering the trouble they went through to get the letters from me.”

“I know my job.”

“I know you do. I’m counting on it.”

Bobby sighed deeply. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, McKenzie,” he said. “Maybe I would do the same thing if I were in your position, but it won’t work. You have to know that.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Is there anything else you feel compelled to tell me?”

“I expect that you’ll get another visit from Kelly Bressandes,” I said. “She’ll probably want to know why you’re granting favorable treatment to a prominent suspect in the killing of Berglund.”

“What prominent suspect?”

“Timothy Dahlin.”

Bobby made a kind of moaning sound as he stretched the way he had the night Berglund was killed—I don’t know if it was me or his spine that troubled him.

“Did you hurt your back?” I asked.

“Just wrenched it a little bit playing soccer with the girls.”

“Maybe you should see a therapist or chiropractor or something.”

“I’ll be fine.” ’Course, he said the same thing when we were kids and he broke his wrist diving for a line drive.

“I know a guy,” I said.

“I’m not surprised. Seriously, I’m all right.”

I stood in front of him, looking for an excuse not to do what I was about to do.

“Something else, McKenzie?”

You ’re not a cop anymore,
my inner voice reminded me.

Bobby must have seen something in my eyes because he dropped his voice half a dozen octaves. “McKenzie?” he said.

Yeah, you are.

I reached into my pocket and removed the apartment key that Boston Whitlow had given me the evening before. “I was saving the best for last,” I said.

Bobby took the key from my outstretched hand as I explained how I got it, repeating everything that Whitlow had told me about him and Ivy.

“Damn, McKenzie,” he said. “That must hurt, giving her up like this.”

“I have to.”

“I know you do. You understand, I could bust you for obstruction, bust you for tampering with evidence.”

“Or you could say that I secured the evidence before Whitlow could destroy it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you had in mind.” Bobby stretched his back again. When he finished, he tapped the carton of letters under his arm with the key. “I’m trying real hard not to be pissed off at you right now.”

“Yeah.”

He waved his hand at me. “Go do what you think you have to do. Just don’t expect any favors.”

I turned and walked to my car.

Ivy Flynn was smiling when she opened the door. The smile vanished when she saw the expression on my face. “McKenzie, what’s happened?” she said.

“I spoke to the police a little while ago.”

“About what?”

“Ivy, I think you should sit down.”

Ivy led me deeper into the apartment. She didn’t sit, so I didn’t, either.

“What’s this about, McKenzie?” she said.

“The clock is striking midnight, sweetie. It’s pumpkin time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re my friend and I care about you, but you killed Josh Berglund. You have to pay for that. I’ll help you; I’ve been helping you. I’ve done everything I could to protect you so the price won’t be too high. Only you killed him, so whatever it is, you have to pay it. There is no other way.”

“No, McKenzie. You’re wrong.”

I pulled G. K. Bonalay’s card out of my pocket and pressed it into Ivy’s hand.

“This belongs to a very good lawyer,” I said. “A friend of mine. She’s agreed to represent you. Don’t worry about her fee. I’ll pay the bills. I need you to call her. I need you to call her right now. The cops will be here soon. They’re probably already on the way.”

Ivy’s face was so pale she looked as if every drop of blood had been drained from her.

“I’ve been collecting suspects,” I said. “There are at least eight besides you. I’ve been trying to distract Bobby Dunston with them, only he’s not one to be distracted. Still, he’ll be compelled to turn over all the information to the county attorney’s office. Eight suspects. That’s a lot. Big hurdles the CA will have to jump over before she can get to you. It’ll make it easier for you to cut a deal when you explain what happened. How you forced Berglund from the apartment, kidding with the gun, just trying to scare him, until you stumbled or stubbed your toe and the gun went off accidentally. How you were so frightened that you lied to the cops, but now you know that was wrong and you decided to do the right thing by calling G. K. and turning yourself in.”

“That’s not what happened,” Ivy said.

“I don’t care what happened. That’s between you and G. K.”

“I can’t believe you think I killed Josh—”

“Ivy, you don’t have time for this. The cops know about your deal with Boston Whitlow. They know you gave him a key to the apartment. They know you got Berglund out of the way so Whitlow could steal his research. They also know that Whitlow told you about Genevieve Antonello, that Berglund was cheating on you with her, that he was using you, that he wasn’t going to share the gold with you. So many motives, Ivy.”

“How could they know that?”

“I told them.”

“Why? If you’re my friend, if you’re helping me—”

“I told them because you killed Berglund. It doesn’t matter that he was a jerk, that he probably deserved it. It doesn’t matter that you’re a
sweet kid who’s never hurt anyone before. You killed him. You have to pay for that, honey. Why Bobby Dunston hasn’t arrested you yet I can’t say. Maybe he’s still trying to connect you to a .25 caliber revolver. Still, he knows what you did. He knew before I told him about Whitlow.”

“How could he know that I killed Josh if I didn’t do it?”

“The keys, Ivy. The keys to your apartment. You said that Berglund had his key in his hand and was about to unlock the door when he was shot. Only there were no keys on him or around his body when he was moved. You had keys in your purse; we saw them when you searched for the ticket stubs. Since there was no forced entry, it was assumed that the killer got in the apartment using a key. Your key. You gave him your key and used Berglund’s key, the key with the USA Olympic logo on the chain, to get into the apartment. That’s very thin, I know. Yet it was enough to convince Bobby Dunston that you were guilty and to start him building a case.”

“You, too, apparently,” Ivy said. “It convinced you, too.”

“We were right, Ivy. Weren’t we? You lied about the key. You lied when you said Berglund wasn’t involved with another woman. You lied about everything.”

“I didn’t kill Josh.”

“If you want to keep denying it, that’s okay with me,” I said. “Except the story you told the cops—what you told the cops won’t hold up, and switching to something new now will be hard to sell to a jury. G. K. and I think you’d be better off trying to make a deal. In any case—”

“In any case? McKenzie, I didn’t do it.”

“Ivy—”

“Everything happened exactly the way I told it. There was a man wearing a ski mask at the door when we got home. A man with a gun. That’s the truth.”

“Make the call, Ivy. If you don’t want my lawyer, call someone else.”

Tears welled up in Ivy’s eyes.

“I’m sorry it has to end this way,” I said.

“No, McKenzie. What hurts is that you know me, you’re my friend, and still you’re convinced I’m a murderer.”

I didn’t have anything more to say. After a while, neither did Ivy. She went to her phone and called G. K. Bonalay. I left the apartment while they spoke. There was nothing more that I could do.

19

I took a late lunch at Cafe Latté on Grand Avenue. I would have gone to Rickie’s, but I’ve been mooching off of Nina far too much lately. Besides, she would have been full of questions about Kathryn’s letters, Jelly’s gold, and Berglund’s killer, and I didn’t want to deal with that.

It infuriated me that Ivy killed Berglund. I had wanted so desperately for her to be innocent—or at least not guilty, which was a whole ’nother matter. I told myself that I had done the best I could for her. It didn’t make me feel any better. Another man might have done more—conceal evidence, bribe witnesses, maybe frame someone else. I’m just not that guy. I suppose it’s my father’s fault. Or my mother’s. Who knows how people become who they are? Maybe it’s a result of watching too many old Humphrey Bogart movies.

I was picking at my lemon basil shrimp salad, feeling sorry for myself, when my cell phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Mr. McKenzie,” Genevieve Antonello said. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all. How are you, sweetie?”

“I’d rather you didn’t call me that.” Yet another thing for me to apologize for. Before I could, she said, “Uncle Mike would like to speak to you.”

There was a pause while the phone was passed from hand to hand.

“Hey, copper,” Mike said.

“What do you say, convict?” I replied, playing along.

“The reason I had Sugar give you a call, if you’re still interested, I remember something else about Jelly Nash. Don’t know why I didn’t remember before.”

“What?”

“You were asking who might have the connections to dispose of Jelly’s gold. Coulda been a sharper named John Dahlin, guy I heard was big in the construction trades. He used to run with Brent Messer. They were partners or something. Only this Dahlin, he was older and had more balls, I think. Sorry, Sugar.”

There was a muffled sound before Mike continued.

“Yeah, this Dahlin, he was into things. I seen him chinning with Gleckman and Jack Peifer and Chief Brown at different times. Could be he’s the guy you’re lookin’ for. He could have moved Jelly’s gold.”

“Could be,” I said.

Brent and Kathryn Messer, John and James Dahlin,
my inner voice said.
What a world.

“The reason I remember him was cuz of my trial,” Mike said. “I got to thinkin’ about them days after talkin’ with you. My trial—you knew I got twenty-five years. I ain’t sayin’ I didn’t deserve ’em. ’Cept Dahlin, I was out there takin’ my chances while he was hidin’ in his office makin’ dough offa other people’s hard work, he doesn’t draw so much as a fine. Doesn’t even get indicted. You tellin’ me the fix wasn’t in?”

“No,” I said. “Knowing what I know about St. Paul back then, I would never tell you that.”

“All I can say, if it weren’t for guys like Dahlin, guys like me wouldn’ta been in business very long. Anyway, you should look into it.”

“I will, Mike. I will look into it. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Don’t forget, me and Sugar each get ten percent of your end.”

“I won’t forget.”

I drove home and fired up my PC. I told myself that if John Dahlin had been Jelly’s fence the gold was a long time gone, which made a search seem more like a wilder goose chase than ever. Besides, so far nothing good had come of it. Ivy was probably in jail by now, and Josh Berglund was dead, and my interest was waning rapidly. Still, I checked the market. I was surprised to learn that the price of gold had jumped in the past few days to $721.37 an ounce. Which meant that Jelly’s gold was now worth $9,233,536.

Well,
my inner voice said,
it’s not like you have anything better to do.

I started searching Web sites. I learned a lot about James Dahlin, how his company had been a preeminent builder of single-family dwellings and how he personally was instrumental in developing many Twin Cities suburbs following the war. There wasn’t much on his father. That slowed me down. I was contemplating another trip to the Minnesota History Center when I wondered out loud, “If this was 1936 and I was investigating Dahlin and Brent Messer, who would I talk to?”