The Sixth Idea (3 page)

T
here was something terribly wrong about growing up in a family of secrets. Chuck had never understood why his parents never talked to each other or to him; why strange men in suits questioned his friends; or why they had to move every year or so. It seemed that every time he started to make new friends in a new town, they packed up and left. Maybe it was his fault.

Children drew the straightest lines between cause and effect, so Chuck concluded that by making friends, he doomed the family to another move. He started to withdraw after that twisted epiphany, hoping that would enable them to stay in one place for a while. It never worked, but it was, apparently, a perfect recipe for a solitary existence, because he'd been a failure at relationships all his life, and very nearly friendless.

Ironically, the death of his father had led him to Wally, a man with an almost identical childhood, sharing a history so similar to Chuck's,
they might have been siblings. Even though he had yet to meet the man face-to-face, they'd made a strong connection in the past few weeks through their Internet exchanges and phone calls. And then today, along came Lydia, another connection. Chuck felt like he was acquiring a family one person at a time. He'd been a little disappointed that she hadn't wanted to meet with him and Wally tonight, but he understood what it was like to come off ten days on the road—he'd done plenty of business traveling before he'd retired. At least she'd agreed to a cup of coffee at the airport before they went their separate ways.

He'd never been to Minneapolis before today, but it seemed almost magical as he drove through downtown to his hotel. Christmas lights sparkled gaily from the streetlamps and garland seemed to be looped everywhere, trumpeting the festive season. Shining store windows proudly displayed their holiday swag, and cheerful people bundled up in their winter clothing strolled the streets as if they didn't have a care in the world. There was even a pristine dusting of fresh snow to complete the Christmas card feel, and more snow was sifting lightly down from the darkening sky.

But after his day so far, Chuck felt a deeper magic drawing him to this city like an unseen magnet. First he'd found Wally here, then the unbelievably serendipitous meeting with Lydia. It was like the cogs of fortune had finally caught, telling him there was a more important reason for him to be here than just the simple pursuit of an old mystery. It sounded stupid and New Agey, even in his own private thoughts, but with his spirits so high, he didn't care.

He found the Chatham Hotel, parked his rental in the ramp, and checked in. The place was a little too modern and hip for his personal
taste, but the service was impeccable and the room and amenities were on par with the hefty nightly rate. In a bigger city he would have paid twice as much and gotten much less.

Once he'd settled into his generously sized suite, he pulled a Heineken and a fifteen-dollar bag of cashews out of the minibar, unloaded his laptop and external backup drive, then dialed Wally's number from his cell. He couldn't wait to tell him about Lydia, but he'd save that until they were together.

“Wally!”

“Hey, Chuck, are you in town?”

“Just got to the hotel. And you're not going to believe what happened to me today. Are we still on for six?”

“You bet. Think you can get here all right?”

“I've got your address programmed into the GPS already.”

“Great. And I've got some things to tell you, too. I've been going through some of my father's old files I never bothered to look at before, and . . .” Wally paused for a moment. “Chuck, hang on, would you? There's somebody at the door.”

“Sure, Wally.” Chuck put his cell on speaker and walked over to the big window that looked out onto the street below. Minneapolis was even prettier four stories up.

There were some muffled voices coming out of his phone as Wally greeted his visitor, but then he heard a much louder noise, almost like a crash, then shattering. “Wally?”

“Who are you? What do you want?!” he heard Wally shouting, then a protracted, “Noooo!” before the connection went dead.

Paralyzed, Chuck stared at his phone in horror for a moment, then called 911 while he scrambled for his briefcase and car keys.

C
huck's shaking hands felt slimy on the wheel of his rental as he tried to focus on the directions the GPS was squawking at him. The female voice was supposed to be soothing, he supposed, but right now it seemed shrill and grating. He felt acid churning around the expensive cashews in his stomach. Jesus. Who would attack a nice man like Wally in his own house?

Stupid question
, he chided himself. It seemed like there was more senseless savagery in the world now than there had ever been. Then again, there hadn't been a twenty-four-hour news cycle when Christians were getting fed to lions and gladiators were chopping off people's heads in the Coliseum or when the Roman Catholic Church was burning witches. Maybe humanity was just as brutal and depraved as it had always been, you just heard about it now, every time you turned on the TV.

The GPS harpy commanded him to turn right on Gleason in
fifteen feet; still, he almost missed it because the snow had started to fall harder and the headlights of passing cars turned into fuzzy, disorienting halos in his aging eyes.

He pushed his speed as far as he dared on the residential street that led to Wally's cul-de-sac, but after fishtailing on the slick pavement and nearly sideswiping a parked minivan, he slowed down.

When he was less than a quarter of a mile from Wally's, he heard the sickening bellow of sirens and saw a raft of flashing lights ahead. But maybe that was a good sign. The police had responded fast, he prayed fast enough, and Wally would be okay. Shaken by his home invader, most certainly, but okay.

But his tenuous optimism morphed into a leaden sense of doom when he saw billowing plumes of ugly black smoke and orange flames rising above the bare trees and into the dusk. Emergency vehicles of all kinds were jumbled every which way in the middle of the street, and there were uniforms everywhere, frantically barking out orders and admonishments to the gathering crowd of wide-eyed, frightened onlookers.

There were barricades across the street a good two blocks from Wally's address, and officers were stopping every car, turning them back.

“I'm sorry, sir. We're evacuating the area. No through traffic. There's been a natural gas explosion.”

“My friend lives at 1240 Gleason. Can I get there another way?”

The cop gave him a pained look. “I'm sorry. That's the address where the explosion occurred.”

Chuck shook his head. “No, it can't be. You must have the wrong
address, or maybe I do, because I was on the phone with Wally when he was attacked.”

“Wally?”

“Yes, dammit, Wally Luntz, 1240 Gleason. On the phone I heard someone come into the house, then there was a struggle, but there was no explosion, just Wally screaming for help.”

The officer winced. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid your friend died in the explosion.”

For a moment, Chuck thought he might throw up, and he pressed his sweaty brow against the cold steering wheel. “Are you sure?”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh my God.”

The officer squatted next to Chuck's open window, giving him a few moments to compose himself. “I know this is a shock for you, sir, but you said you heard Mr. Luntz being attacked, is that right?”

All Chuck could manage was a nod.

“I think you should talk to a detective. Can you manage that?”

Chuck nodded again, or maybe he was still nodding.

A
s Christmas crept up on the calendar and reliably cold weather settled in for the long haul, Minneapolis homicide detectives Leo Magozzi and Gino Rolseth were enjoying day six of their seven-day vacation. Only they weren't enjoying it at all.

A few weeks back, it had seemed like a great idea to take some time off after chasing around armed terrorists in the north woods and spending the emotional equivalent of twenty years in FBI debriefings so repetitive and boring the idea of pulling out your own fingernails had suddenly seemed like a terrific alternative.

But in retrospect, vacation in the middle of dreary December in Minnesota had been even worse, and they were bored out of their minds. The need for distraction of any kind had become absolutely essential, which was why, on a frosty winter evening, Magozzi and Gino were in the western suburbs, currently freezing their balls off
while simultaneously getting the crap kicked out of them in a bush-league, two-on-two broomball game by a couple of Neanderthal firemen buddies out of Station Seven. It was cold, painful, and humiliating.

“Come on, Detectives!” Freddie Wilson taunted them, expertly sweeping the stupid ball back and forth on the ice with his tricked-out tournament broom, daring them to move on him. “You're only ten points behind! Make an effort!”

Gino gave him a ferocious sneer and shouted back, “You look hungry, Freddie! Wish we had time to eat chili on the job!”

“Oh yeah? Looks like you've had plenty of time to eat on the job, Rolseth!”

There was a chorus of “oohs” from the handful of spectators along the boards of the outdoor hockey rink, the crowd evenly divided between law enforcement and Fire. These interdepartmental matchups were more like the WWF—the more smack talk, the better.

Magozzi watched Gino's demeanor change from competitive to bloodthirsty just as Freddie bent into shooting position and made a searing shot toward their goal. Gino launched himself across the crease, making a half-twist swan dive onto the ice as the ball sailed over his head to home for the score. One more goal for Fire, one seriously messed-up shoulder for MPD.

The firemen on the sidelines raised their hands and cheered. The cops booed and started chanting, “MPD! MPD!” along with colorful words of encouragement to Gino and Magozzi.

Gino rolled over onto his back, clutching his throbbing shoulder, wondering if it would have to be amputated. At least it wasn't his
shooting arm. He stared up at the dingy snow clouds above, which turned into Leo's cold-reddened face.

“Are you okay, Gino?”

“No. I need morphine.”

“Time out, take five!” Magozzi heard the referee shouting, with no regard to the dying man writhing around on his patch of ice. What an asshole. Freddie and his fellow firefighter Jim Ames, über studs of the illustrious, hard-core broomball world, slid over to stand above Gino.

Freddie offered his hand and lifted him up off the ice as if he weighed less than a two-day-old kitten. When the guy wasn't fighting fires or eating chili in the station house, he was throwing around iron.

“Nice move, Rolseth.”

“Fuck you, Freddie, I know where you live.”

“No, I mean it,” he chuckled. “You were just a millisecond too slow, otherwise it would have been a bomb save. Better luck next time.”

“Yeah, right.”

Magozzi gave Freddie a friendly bump on his inhumanly large arm. “Nice guns. But don't forget, Gino and I get to carry real ones. All the time.”

Freddie and Jim both laughed. “Yeah, well, we've got big hoses we get to use all the time, so I guess it's even.” He looked back at Gino, who was tentatively testing his injured limb. “Happy to see that.”

“What?” Gino snapped.

“You're moving your arm. If you'd dislocated your shoulder, you'd be screaming right now—”

Suddenly, all the firemen's phones beeped loudly in unison, creating an electronic orchestra around the boards and on the ice. Jim Ames pulled out his cell phone from a zippered jacket pocket. “We gotta go, Freddie. Gas explosion in South Minneapolis.”

“Aw, too bad you guys can't finish the game,” Gino said smugly. “Leo and I were just heating up.”

Freddie snorted. “Yeah, you're melting the ice now,” he said smoothly as he and Ames jogged away.

“Be safe, guys,” Gino called after them, meaning it. Then he turned to Magozzi. “Can I shoot him in the back?” he asked, also meaning it.

Gino shrugged off his parka in the warming house and slapped a cold gel pack on his shoulder.

“Sorry about the shoulder,” Magozzi offered, rummaging in his duffel, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen and tossing it over. “Take four.”

Gino gladly washed down the pills with the warm dregs of his Gatorade. “What an asinine sport.”

Magozzi gave him a long-suffering look. “I hate to remind you, but . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, it was my idea. Next time I recommend any recreational activity I ever enjoyed before I hit twenty-five, you have my blessings to pistol-whip me.”

“Deal. Is the offer retroactive?”

“No. You were an accessory to the crime because you were stupid enough to let me talk you into it.” He sagged onto a wooden bench and started stripping off his snow pants, wincing in pain whenever
he moved his shoulder the wrong way. “God, this hurts. The only thing that's going to save this day is the lasagna Angela has in the oven. Hey, you wanna come over for dinner?”

“Are you kidding, I always want to come over for dinner, but Grace and I have plans tonight. Thanks for the invite, though.”