The Sixth Idea (19 page)

M
agozzi hung up with Grace just as he was pulling off the sloppy, snow-packed street into the City Hall parking garage, not quite sure what had just happened. Grace MacBride was a walking conundrum—wildly unpredictable, paranoid, antisocial—and at the same time she was steady, brave, and deeply caring. If you walked on her rug, you knew it might be pulled out from under your feet at any moment, with a single exception—if you were a victim of violence or persecution or both, Grace became downright empathetic. She'd lived through it all, and he sensed and feared that maybe her only true connection to others was a shared experience of trauma. What that meant for their relationship was that unknown
x
in an algebra equation.

He shut off the car as Gino nudged his old Volvo into the empty parking space next to him. Neither of them seemed to be in much of a hurry to jump out of their warm cars—in all probability they were
both in some sort of sleeping wakefulness. Or maybe it was waking sleepfulness.

Magozzi pinched his eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of his nose. It was always a bad sign when your internal dialogue started to turn into indecipherable babble with made-up words and psychological conditions.

He finally got out of his car and lifted his face, letting the cold air smack him up a little bit in the hopes his brain would switch off idiot mode.

“I need one of those sticky buns, Gino. I'm not going to be able to function without sugar and caffeine this morning.”

Gino gave him a half-smile. “Really? Jeez, you're getting old. You've gotten at least five hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours, what more do you want?”

Magozzi begged with his hand palm-up. “The bun, Gino. That's what I want.”

Gino passed him a white waxed bakery bag that was about half a pound lighter than it had been when they'd left the Pig's Eye Diner. “I already ate mine.” He explained the obvious weight discrepancy.

“Did it help?”

“Oh, yeah. I'm so wired I could run a marathon right now.”

“Grace called on the way over here. She thinks that book of Lydia's might be some kind of a clue from the grave.”

“What kind of clue?”

“The author's name spells Sixth Idea.”

“Seriously? That's not a coincidence. It can't be.”

“Right. Especially if her grandfather wrote the book. Grace is hoping it's a road map of some kind.”

“A road map to where?”

“The Sixth Idea, I guess. Or at least some answers. She wants to bring Lydia to Harley's and work with her to figure it out.”

Gino shoved his gloved hands into the pockets of his bulky, olive drab parka. “And I suppose you told her a sniper tried to take her out tonight, and that anybody a mile away from Lydia Ascher is in the crosshairs?”

“Of course I did.”

“And let me guess—she doesn't care about any of that.”

“It's more calculated than that. She said Harley's place is safer than anything the Feds can come up with, at least in the short term, and after she gave me a rundown, I believe it. Did you know he has bulletproof windows and doors and a panic room?”

Gino tipped his head curiously. “Didn't know, but it doesn't surprise me. So what did you tell her?”

“She asked me to call Malcherson and present the offer to the Feds. But ultimately, it's Lydia's choice.”

“Christ. You ever notice that for a woman with bars on all her windows, she jumps into dangerous situations at the drop of a hat?You ever think she has a death wish?”

“I think she has motives we'll never understand.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I promised her I'd call Malcherson.”

Gino looked away and nudged a chunk of dirty snow that had fallen off his wheel well with a wet plop. “Shit. Did Dahl call you back yet?”

Magozzi shook his head. “I called from a burner phone. Maybe his supersecret Fed phone blocks unlisted numbers.”

“Or maybe he doesn't want to talk to us. Last time he got involved with us, we dragged him up to an Indian reservation in northern Minnesota during the worst blizzard in fifty years to sort through the bodies of a bunch of dead terrorists.”

“There is that.” Magozzi shoved his hand in the pocket of his overcoat when he heard his phone buzzing. “Malcherson,” he told Gino. “Chief, have you met with Shafer yet?”

“I'm on my way. Are there any new developments I should know about before I speak with him?”

“Well, actually, sir, there is. Monkeewrench wanted me to run something by you.”

Malcherson grunted. “I certainly hope it doesn't involve MI-6.”

Magozzi opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut. On rare occasions, the chief toyed with humor and sarcasm, but Magozzi wasn't sure if this was one of those occasions—he was never really sure—so he answered straight, like always. “No sir, nothing like that.”

He told the chief what Grace had told him, and not once did he interrupt with questions or protests or challenges—he just listened, processing and carefully considering the information as it was fed to him. Malcherson was probably one of the last critical thinkers alive.

“I will mention this to Special Agent in Charge Shafer,” he finally said once Magozzi had finished. “But as you pointed out, the decision ultimately rests with Ms. Ascher, and she should be informed of every possible choice before she makes that decision. Let me find out what the FBI has to offer and if they would even provide support outside one of their facilities. There are also policy and legal implications at play here.”

Magozzi hung up and looked at Gino. “He'll call us back.”

McLaren was already at his desk when Magozzi and Gino slogged into Homicide. He looked particularly undone this morning, his red hair showing deep, ragged furrows where his fingers had been dragging through it, a clashing, weirdly knotted red and green plaid tie hanging loosely askew around the collar of his wrinkled shirt. “One single frigging break on the Alvin Keller case,” he greeted them dourly. “And no thanks to the news—Miami just had a blackout, so for sure we've got a global catastrophe on our hands, no time for reporting on a boring missing person.”

“What's the break on Keller?”

“Someone just found his body in Curtis Park. But nothing on Arthur Friedman.”

T
his is not a park,” Gino groused, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his parka pockets, watching his silly little loafers slog through four inches of newly fallen snow.

“Of course it's a park. See the sign? Curtis Park. What's your beef?”

“Parks have plowed sidewalks. Trimmed trees. Lakes and paths and shit. Look at this place. See those dead brown vines choking the trees to death? Woodbine, the northern kudzu. Every homeowner knows you rip those things out when they're babies or they'll kill your trees and maybe kidnap your children. And look at my loafers. They're going to rot by lunchtime and I'll probably freeze my feet off and have to walk on my ankles for the rest of my life.”

“You have boots in your locker. And free will, which for some reason you decided not to exercise this morning.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, Leo, but you don't get it. I'm a married
man. When you get married, you lose all free will and rely on your wife to make sure you're dressed properly for the weather and occasion.”

“That's pathetic. Do you lose all cognitive function when you get married, too?”

“Pretty much. At least when it comes to dressing yourself.”

“I'll make you a cheat sheet—snow plus loafers equals cold, wet feet. Proceed to locker for appropriate attire before venturing outside.”

Magozzi couldn't tell if Gino was amused or annoyed; maybe a little of both. But it didn't really matter—Gino would air his complaints about anything, anytime, no matter what, and Magozzi would continue to parry with his limited scope of influence. It was a perfect symbiosis.

They finally found the bench, deep into this five-acre pretend park. A mastodon patrolman guarded the bench and the dead man on it with a stoic stance and a fiercely protective countenance that would have frightened pit bulls. High school wrestler, Magozzi thought. Long torso, massive arms, short, powerful legs, and so gung-ho and new to the job he was still in that phase where you thought you could actually make a difference. In stark contrast was the frail body of Alvin Keller, oddly covered with a blanket, a towel tucked beneath his head.

“Excellent catch, Patrolman Snyder.”

“Thank you, Detective Magozzi. My pleasure to serve.”

He sounded like a veteran, and probably was—lately, they'd been the best additions to the force in a long time. “Do you have anything for us?”

“Yes sir. This is exactly how I found him. I recognized his face
from the BOLO. Doesn't look like foul play, but I didn't touch anything or move the blanket.” He took a long look at the man on the bench. “He looks like he was sick.”

“He was dying of ALS.”

Snyder's face darkened and he took a deep breath.
He knows the disease,
Magozzi thought.

“He almost looks . . . peaceful. Maybe he came here to die.”

Gino walked to the other side of the bench. “Under normal circumstances, I'd agree with you, Officer. But this man was almost totally paralyzed, and probably kidnapped. Taken from his house and away from his wife of sixty years.”

Patrolman Snyder dropped his head. “I'm sorry to hear that. It's strange, though. There was some respect paid here. Why would a kidnapper take the time or care? And why would he put him in a public space like this, almost pose him?”

“Maybe the kidnapper wanted him to be found.” Magozzi looked at Gino. “He was in bad shape. Heart attack, maybe.”

Gino got closer to the body and lifted the blanket. “No signs of foul play under here, either. I think you're probably right about the heart attack, Leo. Poor guy must have been terrified.”

Magozzi took a long look at Alvin Keller's very, very white face. The pallor of death accentuated the deep furrows that old age and disease had carved there. And maybe some very dark, unspoken secrets had contributed to those furrows as well.

He looked down at his phone when it started chirping. “It's Chief Malcherson. Excuse me, Officer Snyder.”

Gino stayed with Snyder while Magozzi retreated out of the wind beneath a small clump of birch trees. He'd always thought birch
trees were some of the most beautiful things in the natural world, with their chalk-white trunks studded up and down with almond-shaped black eyes. But at the moment those black eyes seemed to be staring at him, accusing him. “Chief.”

“Detective Magozzi. I just spoke at length with Special Agent in Charge Shafer. He was very alarmed by recent developments.”

“I'm sure he was. Are the Feds getting involved?”

“Not officially, at least not yet. But he promised to do everything possible to provide support in the meantime.”

“Like a safe house for Lydia Ascher?”

Malcherson cleared his throat. “Ultimately, yes. But she's not a federal witness yet, Detective. There is strict protocol.”

Magozzi felt blood creeping up his neck to his face. “Oh. I get it. Just a little too much red tape to save a life, better luck next time. So what's this support he's offering? Is he going to crochet us a safe house out of all that red tape in his spare time?”

Malcherson cleared his throat. “I was candid with him, Detective. He knows what's at stake, and he knows there is a larger issue at hand that has to be investigated. Delicately. And he has access to certain channels that we don't.”

“That larger issue being his career?”

“Detective,” Malcherson warned.

“I'm sorry, Chief, but it really bothers me that Shafer acts like he's God until it inconveniences him to be omnipotent, then he's just some clueless schlub in a big office, wearing government shackles and playing dumb and helpless.”

“Those weren't my exact words to him.”

Magozzi was a little nonplussed—sometimes it was easy to forget
that Malcherson had been on the job for a long, long time before he'd stepped into the muck of political life, and his allegiance would always lie with the men and women serving under him. He'd never really left the trenches. “I owe you an apology, Chief. Paul Shafer has always rubbed me the wrong way, and I'm pretty sure he feels the same about me.”

“No harm done, Detective. Now, more importantly—Monkeewrench's offer to shelter Lydia Ascher. I am not remotely comfortable with that, and I certainly can't condone it.”

“I feel the same way, but as private citizens, it's their call. And it's Lydia Ascher's call. And with the Feds bailing, it's her best shot at this point.”

“I know this is a difficult situation for you, Detective Magozzi. Please, talk to Monkeewrench again, and all of you think this through very carefully before you make the offer to Ms. Ascher, because she would be a fool not to accept.”

“I will, sir. And if we do end up bringing her to Harley's, do we have your permission to request some off-duty volunteers to cover the neighborhood?”

“That won't be necessary. MPD and St. Paul PD will provide twenty-four-hour coverage if this comes to pass. It seems both our departments have a year-end budget surplus.”

Magozzi flexed his hands in his frozen gloves and smiled at the black eyes on the birch bark, because they were smiling back at him now. The budget surplus was absolute bullshit; for all he knew, the chief would be paying overtime out of pocket. “I appreciate that, Chief.”

“Call me when Ms. Ascher makes her decision.”

Magozzi stared down at the Call Ended message on his phone's screen, then heard crunching snow behind him as Gino bravely slogged through it in his ruined loafers.

“What did the chief have to say?”

“The Feds are out for now, and they're not offering a safe house to Lydia. That bastard Paul Shafer is stonewalling. Protocol bullshit, he said, which is ass-covering bullshit in plain English.”

Gino folded his arms across his chest. “You've gotta be kidding me. Since when does Shafer turn down a date to thunder in on his white steed and save the day?”

“I think we might be underestimating this whole thing. When Shafer doesn't dive in headfirst, that means he's positioning himself. He sees a career maker or a career breaker, and he wants to be on the right side of it when things go down.”

“So the chief told him enough that his ears are pricked. You think Shafer knows something?”

“I think Shafer's on a hunting expedition right now.”

“What does the chief think about Monkeewrench's private safe house offer now that the Feds are out?”

“He hates the idea as much as we do, but said he'd provide additional police support if that's the way it goes. Twenty-four-hour coverage around Harley's place. Even Shafer offered to provide additional support, whatever that means.”

Gino looked up at the dirty gray sky that promised more fits and spurts of snow to brighten everyone's day. “So is that what we're going to do?”

Magozzi followed Gino's eyes up to the sky. “There are no good choices anymore, Gino, only bad ones.”