No Reservations Required (21 page)

35

Bram returned to his cubbyhole office after his radio show. As soon as he sat down behind his desk, the phone rang. “Baldric,” he said absently. He was still thinking about his last caller. Or, more precisely, he was smoldering.

“Hey, buddy. It’s Al.”

“Hi. Any news?” He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk.

“I caught the last hour of your program.”

Bram grinned. “What’d you think?”

“You’re not gonna want to hear this.”

“Why? What?”

After the first hour, Bram had opened up the program to callers. The topics: three recent homicides in the Twin Cities; the scandal at the
Minneapolis
Times Register
; had the
Twin Cities
turned into the
Evil Twins
of big-city crime? Since the news stations had already picked up what had happened last night, Bram couldn’t exactly deny that he’d been instrumental in bringing new information to light on the Loy, Fabian, and Irazarian homicides. The lines lit up as he described the evening’s events in vivid—perhaps even a tad melodramatic—detail. He carefully left out certain facts that he’d been asked to keep quiet. But there was still plenty of fodder for his talk-radio audience. Phil Banks had made a lot of enemies in his years as the owner of Banks Construction. The dirt flew hot and heavy, mainly during the last hour. “Something you didn’t like?” Bram asked Al.

“Not me, pal.
Banks.
If he was listening, you’re probably number one on his list of guys he’d like to see splattered across a concrete wall.”

“Meaning what?”

“That you should stick a sock in your mouth, go home, and keep a low profile until we find him. Jesus, Baldric. What were you thinking? Do you have some sort of death wish? Were you trying to wave a red flag in front of an angry bull?”

“If my program dislocates him from wherever he’s crawled to hide, then fine. I’m happy to oblige.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, just take my advice. Now, I also called to tell you that we’ve got his house staked out, his construction company, and the restaurants where he’s part owner. We also linked the gun found last night to a murder that happened up in Duluth in ’95. Believe me when I tell you, you don’t want to mess with this guy.”

The message was beginning to penetrate. “Okay, okay.”

“Keep your nose clean. I gotta run.”

“One question first.”

“Make it quick.”

“Bob Fabian, he’s dead, right?”

“Of course he’s dead.”

“Banks shot him.”

“Yes.”

“The bullet
killed
him.”

Silence. “Like I said, I gotta run.”

“The gunshot didn’t kill him? So if he’s dead, something else must have. What?”

“Go find yourself a nice cozy rock and crawl under it, okay? I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out.”

“Gee, that’s just wonderful, Al. Just peachy keen. More evidence of my tax dollars at work.”

“Later, pal.”

Bram sat for a few moments, mulling it all over. Al hadn’t answered him, not directly, but in a way he had. Phil may have shot Bob, but Bob had actually died from something other than a gunshot wound. That’s what all the hedging had been about. When it came to Bob Fabian, the police were looking for two murderers: Phil, who made an attempt, and someone else, who succeeded.

Tucking his jacket under his arm, Bram was out of the office in twenty seconds flat. He wanted to get home and talk it over with Sophie. Maybe she could help him make sense of it. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after four. Sophie had that late meeting over at the
Times Register
, so it seemed a good bet she wouldn’t be home. That’s when a thought struck him. He wondered if Chris had told the police about the apartment Phil had in St. Paul. It seemed a good bet that she had, but just in case, Bram decided to swing by and see what he could see.

In the phone message Chris had left him, she’d said that the building was on Spencer and Fifteenth, and that it was old.

Fifteen minutes later, Bram drove along Spencer past a sixplex, circa 1930s. It was the only apartment building anywhere around, so it had to be the right one.

Cruising past in his very obvious Bentley, Bram felt as if he were behind the wheel of a neon exclamation point. He sped by quickly. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw a woman come out of a back door carrying a load of boxes. He was already too far away to see her face, so pulled a U-turn at the corner and came back for a second look.

A Ford Explorer was parked in the rear lot. As he edged in behind a delivery truck, the woman disappeared inside the building. It seemed apparent that she was packing to leave. He watched the rear door and waited. A few minutes later, the woman reappeared. She set the boxes she was carrying on the ground next to the rear hatch of the SUV. This time, Bram got a good look at her face. “Damn,” he whispered. He might be wrong, but he was almost positive it was the same blonde he’d seen with Phil Banks at the Speakeasy Cafe.

Looking around, Bram didn’t see all that many cars, certainly none that looked like part of a stake-out. He had a sick feeling that the cops didn’t know about this place. Pulling his cell out of his pocket, he tapped the
5
key. He had Al on speed-dial now. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

“Lundquist,” said a gruff voice.

“Al, it’s Baldric.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch, just listen to me! Did Chris tell you about Phil’s girlfriend—and that he had an apartment in St. Paul?”

“Yes to the girlfriend, no to the apartment. Where is it?”

Bram gave him the address. “You better get here fast. The girlfriend is packing up a car.”

“I’m on it,” said Lundquist. “Don’t be a hero, Baldric. You see Phil Banks, you run.”

“Bye, Al.” Bram had no intention of getting involved, but he couldn’t just let Phil get away. No, he’d sit and wait—until the cops arrived.

36

Anika sat in the hospital room, her eyes rarely straying from her husband’s face. Just minutes after she’d made the 911 call, paramedics arrived at the house and whisked Andy away in an ambulance. By the time Anika got to the hospital, he was in the ER. With nothing else to do, she sat in the waiting room and catastrophized. What if he died? Was it her fault? Had leaving him pushed him over the edge?

Anika wasn’t sure what the doctors had done to him, but before they took him up to a room, a burly man in blue scrubs had come out to talk to her. He said that the drugs and the alcohol hadn’t been in Andy’s system very long. Most of the pills were still fully formed in his stomach. He felt they’d been able to remove most of it. He also informed her that Andy would probably sleep for a while, and he might have a whopper of a hangover when he woke up, but that he should be fine. As a grim addenda, he said that another half hour and the prognosis would have been vastly different. He asked if Andy had ever attempted suicide before.

Anika had a hard time getting her mind around the word. She told him that her husband had been depressed for quite some time, but that he’d never tried to hurt himself before. She insisted it was a one-time event, an aberration, maybe even some sort of bizarre accident. They’d been having marital problems. The doctor encouraged her to talk to a staff psychologist. He also suggested that anyone who had attempted suicide was deeply troubled. They might both benefit from talking to a therapist.

Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, Anika glanced at the clock on the wall. It was going on four thirty. She’d been at the hospital just under four hours. She desperately wanted Andy to wake up, but had no idea what she’d say to him when he did. Maybe she should start with the basics.

She whispered, “I still love you, Andy Gladstone.”

As if he’d heard her words, his eyes fluttered and then opened. He groaned as he turned to look at her. “God, I feel awful.” His gaze swept the room. “Where am I?”

“St. Joseph’s Hospital.”

“How—”

“I found you at the house and called 911.”

“Oh, God,” he said, closing his eyes. “I never meant for you to walk in on that.”

She took hold of his hand. “Why, Andy? Was it me? Was it the separation? Is that why you took all those pills?”

“No,” he whispered. His voice was raw. He’d had a tube down his throat, so it wasn’t surprising. “It wasn’t you. It had nothing to do with you.”

“The police let you go. You’re exonerated. An innocent man.”

“Innocence,” he repeated, clearing his throat, “is a pain in the ass.” He concentrated on her face. “God but you’re beautiful.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I’m a coward,” he said finally.

“No, you’re not. You’re always so hard on yourself.”

“Irazarian was blackmailing me.”

“Yes, I know. Because you were his editor.”

He closed his eyes again. “No. Because I’m an addict. He was my supplier.”

Anika felt her heart skip a beat. “I don’t believe you,” she said finally, but the catch in her voice said otherwise.

“It was the back surgery that started it. The doctors took me off the painkillers too early—I still needed them. So I went doctor shopping, looking for a way to get more meds. But I got scared because it’s illegal. When Del did that story on drug addiction in the Minneapolis Police Department, he met a lot of unsavory people. I confided in him one night, told him that if he ever came across any Vicodin, or Percocet, to hang on to it. I acted like I was joking, but he got the message. He started selling them to me. When I realized that he was making stuff up for his articles, that his unnamed sources didn’t exist, he threatened to tell Bob about my pill habit.”

“But if he was selling them to you, he could’ve gone to jail.”

“Oh, yeah. Nobody’s hands were clean. But I had more to lose than he did, and we both knew it.”

“That’s why you let him get away with those false stories?”

“I had to. I didn’t have a choice. And I needed the drugs, except I knew they were wrecking my life. That’s why I tried to quit.”

Anika felt as if a light had gone on inside her mind. “The time you got so sick?”

“And the day Bob died. I tried to go cold turkey both times, and both times I couldn’t stand it. I thought I was going to die. The only reason I got better was because I started using again.” He squeezed Anika’s hand. “Don’t you see? I’m just like my father. I’m no good. I need drugs to live my life, I can’t do it straight. But the drugs are killing me. They ruined our marriage. They would have eventually ruined my relationship with Bob.”

It was all becoming clear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t. You, Bob, and Rick are the only people I ever really cared about, and I knew what you’d think if you found out.”

“Oh, Andy. You’re so wrong.” She got up and bent over him, kissing him lightly on the lips. Sitting down on the bed, she held him in her arms. “You’re not your father. You’re not.” She could feel him shaking.

“I love you so much,” he said, his words choked with sobs.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll find you the help you need.”

“I don’t know if I can do it. Not alone. I’ve felt so alone all my life. I’m always so afraid someone will see through me, see the real me, and then they’ll leave.”

The guilt she felt was crushing.

“If you could just . . . stay. For a little while longer. God, I just need someone to believe in me and not leave when it gets rough. Do you understand?”

“I’ve always wanted to be that person, Andy.” And she had. But she didn’t believe in soap opera endings— that mushy desire for everything to turn out for the best. In real life, it rarely did.

“Then, you could still love me? Even knowing what you know?”

She smoothed back the tousled strands of hair from his forehead. “I never stopped. We’ll get through this. We have to.” She held him close, willing it to happen.

37

Sophie stood outside the Maxfield, waiting to ask a bellman to get her car. But late on a Friday afternoon, the hotel was a madhouse. The circular drive was packed with cabs and airport vans. Not only was it a football weekend, but Elton John was scheduled to appear at the Target Center. The Minnesota Symphony was hosting an internationally known choral group from South Africa. The latest Broadway version of
Cabaret
was playing at the Ordway, and Peter, Paul and Mary were scheduled to appear Sunday afternoon at Northrup Auditorium. And that was just a few of the attractions that might bring visitors to town.

Sophie checked her watch. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d be late for her meeting at the paper. Deciding to let the bellman take care of guests instead of her, she trotted across the street to the parking garage. The Maxfield rented several of the bottom floors for guests and employees. Sophie kept her Lexus on level DD.

As she descended the metal stairway into the dimly lit, dank subbasement, she thought she heard footsteps above her. When she stopped, they stopped. It was probably just her imagination. She’d been imagining all sorts of things lately. She hadn’t told Bram, but she was growing more and more paranoid about Nathan, feeling his eyes watching her as she walked through the hotel or worked at the reservation desk. It was impossible for him to spend that much time away from his restaurant, and yet she had the sense that he was there. She couldn’t believe he’d want to hurt her, but if he didn’t quit popping up out of the blue, it wouldn’t be long before she’d feel like she was being stalked. She even thought she saw him earlier in the afternoon—jeans, white chef’s coat, dark hair and beard—but when she looked more closely, she realized that it was one of her sous chefs from the Zephyr Club.

By the time Sophie reached level DD, she was completely spooked. She headed straight for her car. A few feet away from it, she pushed UNLOCK on her remote. She glanced in the backseat before opening the driver’s door, just to make sure. As she tossed her purse into the passenger’s seat, the dark tinted window in the van directly next to her suddenly rolled down. An arm thrust outward. Attached to the arm was a gun.

Sophie froze.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Phil Banks. He cocked the hammer and grinned.

Sophie looked around wildly, but there was no place to run. “What . . . what do you want?”

“You,” he said, his expression hardening. “And then your husband. Or maybe I’ll just do you. That way he can suffer for the rest of his miserable life because of his stupidity.” He eased out of the van.

“Look . . . I mean . . . let’s talk about this.”

“You and me, we’re about to take a little drive.”

“Where?”

“None of your damn business.” He caressed her face with the barrel of the revolver. “You’re an attractive woman, Sophie. Maybe we’ll have a little fun first. What do you say?”

He stank of sweat and alcohol. The idea of being touched by him repulsed and terrified her to her very core. “I can get you money, help you get out of the state. Whatever you need. Really. I can help!”

“Oh, you’re going to help me, all right. But money?” He laughed. “Maybe while we’re driving, you can think of other, more intimate ways to help.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her around the back of the car to the passenger’s door. “Get in,” he ordered. “And move over to the driver’s seat. You’re gonna drive. Oh, and don’t try anything funny or I’ll blow you away right here. Now make it quick.”

As he released the hammer, Sophie climbed in, but before she’d moved more than a few inches, she heard him cry out. She whirled around just as a man in a leather jacket yanked him backward and slammed his hand into the rear fender. The gun was dislodged, skittering across the floor and landing against a concrete column.

Sophie’s eyes opened wide when she saw that her savior was Nathan.

In an instant, Nathan had Phil down on the ground. They were rolling together, wresting each other for control.

Sophie didn’t wait to see who the winner would be. She rushed past them, headed for the gun. But before she reached it, Phil had managed to get away from Nathan and beat her to it. He shoved her aside and grabbed for it, falling as he did.

“No,” screamed Sophie.

Nathan was on him again, trying to pry the gun out of his hand. Sophie turned away, looking for something she could use as a weapon. Anything heavy and hard. And that’s when she heard the gunshot. At the same moment, she felt her arm sting and go limp. Looking down, she saw blood dripping from her sleeve and spreading across her raincoat.

“Are you all right?” called Nathan.

She sank down on the back bumper of a Chevrolet. “You freaking asshole!” exploded Nathan. He sank his teeth into Phil’s hand and didn’t let go.

Phil howled in pain. The gun dropped as he fell to his knees. Nathan kicked him hard in the stomach. Phil doubled over. Nathan kicked him again and again, until he seemed beyond putting up any more of a fight. Then Nathan scooped up the gun, pocketed it, and raced over to Sophie.

“Let me see,” he said.

She felt dazed. The stain on her raincoat had grown larger.

“Press your hand over it,” he ordered. “Hard. I know it hurts, but it will help stop the bleeding.”

She looked up. Horrified, she cried, “Nathan, watch out!”

Phil slammed into him. They both hit the concrete with a deep grunt. But the older man was no match for the younger. Nathan pinned him in a matter of seconds and then just kept slugging him. Phil could only try to fend off the blows.

“Stop,” said Sophie. She looked away.

But Nathan kept it up. It was like some genie of rage inside him had been released. He gripped Phil by his coat, heaved him up, and hurled him into one of the concrete columns.

Phil sank to the ground, his greasy gray pompadour wilted over his forehead.

Nathan heaved him up and did it again. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Nathan, you’ve got to stop.”

“Shut up,” he yelled. Brushing himself off, he sat Phil against the pillar. Phil was out cold now and past caring.

“Nathan?” she called cautiously. “What are you doing?”

“Watch.” He crouched down close to Phil and removed the gun from his coat pocket.

“Nathan!”

He aimed, cocked the hammer, and fired.

She screamed. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Nathan had just shot a man in cold blood. She watched in stunned silence as he dropped the gun next to Phil.

A moment later, he was by her side, flipping open his cell phone and tapping in 911. “It was him or me, Sophie. You saw it. We fought. I got the gun away from him and fired. It all happened in a matter of seconds.”

She stared at him. That wasn’t the way it happened at all. But she got the message. It was what she was supposed to say when the police questioned her.

“I saved your life, Sophie. I don’t want gratitude. I just want you to finally realize how much I love you, that I’d do anything for you.” He listened to the phone. “Yes. My name is Nathan Buckridge. Send a squad and an ambulance to the Northland parking garage in downtown St. Paul, level DD. Hurry. A woman was just shot in the arm.”