Tin City (10 page)
“It’s Bobby,” she repeated.
“Bobby?” I said into the receiver.
“McKenzie. Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“So what else is new? Where are you?”
“I’m at my desk. Listen. The FBI has just issued paper on you.”
“What do you mean, paper?”
“A Seeking Information Alert.”
“A what?”
“You know what a Seeking Information Alert is. It’s just this side of Wanted, Dead or Alive.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The FBI’s looking for you. Are you sure you’re awake?”
“I am awake. What are you talking about?”
Bobby sighed deeply. Here he was trying to help me, at no small risk to himself, and I was being dense.
“We just received it—a flash e-mail. The FBI has issued a Seeking Information Alert on McKenzie, Rushmore James.”
“What’s it say?”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation is requesting the assistance of all city, county, and state law enforcement agencies in determining the where- abouts of Rushmore McKenzie, a United States citizen last seen in St. Paul, Minnesota. Although the FBI has no specific information that this individ-
ual is connected to any potential terrorist activities, based upon information developed in the course of ongoing investigations, the
FBI
would like to
lo-
cate and question this person. It comes with a photograph. The photo was taken when you were younger. I hardly recognized you.”
ual is connected to any potential terrorist activities, based upon information developed in the course of ongoing investigations, the
FBI
would like to
lo-
cate and question this person. It comes with a photograph. The photo was taken when you were younger. I hardly recognized you.”
“Why? Why is the FBI doing this?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m not a terrorist.”
“You expect us to take your word for that?”
“That’s not funny, Dunston.”
“Did I say something funny?”
“Ahh, jeezus.”
“It’s like when Joe McCarthy was calling people reds. Once he dropped the label on a guy, you were pretty much colored for life.”
I mixed a half dozen obscenities, profanities, and vulgarities into a long, complicated sentence.
“My words exactly,” Bobby said.
“But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t it? Think about it.”
I did, for about seven seconds. Finally I said, “The Carver County deputy who caught Mr. Mosley’s murder—before he was taken off the case, he told me that not only had Crosetti disappeared, there was no record that he had ever existed. I asked him who had the resources to make someone vanish like that, and he said, ‘Who do you think?’ I guessed at the time it was the government. Now I know which branch.”
“Bingo.”
“That’s why Dyke blew me off earlier. The FBI got to him—I bet the guy driving the yellow Mustang was FBI. They’re protecting the man who killed Mr. Mosley. Now they want to pick me up because I’m trying to find him.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“But why? Why would they do this?”
“Ask them.”
“What do you mean, ask them?”
“How long have we known each other?”
“Several lifetimes. We were legionnaires together under Marcus Aurelius.”
“I need you to listen to me, McKenzie. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to come in.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. Come in. Now. Before things get out of hand.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“So the FBI can label me an enemy combatant? Drop me in a hole in Guantánamo Bay—no charge, no lawyer, no rights? I don’t think so.”
“That won’t happen.”
“Why not? What’s going to stop them? The Constitution? C’mon. Bobby, a man was murdered and a woman was raped and the FBI is protecting the guys who did it. Suddenly I’m in the way. What do you think is going to happen if I walk into the Federal Building with my hands up? Hey, guys. I hear you’re looking for me.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“I keep doing what I’m doing now.”
“Or”—Bobby’s voice became softer, more cautious—“you could promise them you’ll be a good little citizen and do exactly what they tell you.”
“Someone has to pay for Susan and Mr. Mosley.”
“I figured you’d say that. Only, Mac, you’re trying to catch someone whose throat you can get your hands around. But it’s not one person. It’s a committee, an organization, a government.”
“One man. You go high enough, you always find one man giving the orders.”
“And what are your chances of finding that one man? What are your chances of getting to him if you do?”
“What happens to me if I don’t? Besides, remember Bill Tierney, our history teacher in high school? Remember what he used to say about success?”
“Half the battle is showing up.”
“I’ll see you, Bobby.”
“Wait.”
“I can’t wait. If they’re looking hard for me, they’re probably also watching my friends. You could get into a lot of trouble just for calling me.”
“What are you talking about? I called home to wish my lovely wife a good morning.”
“You’d better talk to her, then, in case they wire you to a polygraph.” I handed the phone to Shelby and went into the living room. I dressed quickly. Shelby had just hung up the phone when I returned to the kitchen. She was standing in bare feet. The bright morning sun streaming through the kitchen windows surrounded her like the golden aura Renaissance artists painted behind angels and saints. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her forehead.
“I gotta go.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I was ringing Margot’s doorbell.
Disappear, I
told myself
. Take a page from Frank Crosetti’s playbook and vanish.
The FBI couldn’t find me—and neither could Danny and his partner—if I didn’t exist, if I adopted a new identity, if I became someone else for a time. It’s not that difficult if you know how, if you know the right people, and if you have the money. Problem was, all my cash was locked in a safe in my basement, and the people I needed to deal with didn’t take checks. Which is what brought me to Margot’s at 7:00 A.M.
told myself
. Take a page from Frank Crosetti’s playbook and vanish.
The FBI couldn’t find me—and neither could Danny and his partner—if I didn’t exist, if I adopted a new identity, if I became someone else for a time. It’s not that difficult if you know how, if you know the right people, and if you have the money. Problem was, all my cash was locked in a safe in my basement, and the people I needed to deal with didn’t take checks. Which is what brought me to Margot’s at 7:00 A.M.
I had worked my way around Falcon Heights, parked in the lot of the University of Minnesota golf course on Larpenteur Avenue about a quarter mile from my home, and strolled casually to Margot’s—just a neighbor taking his morning constitutional.
Margot was wearing a short white terrycloth robe when she opened the door. If she had anything else on, I didn’t notice.
“What do you want?” she asked, then said, “Let me rephrase that. Good morning, McKenzie. What brings you by so early?”
“Remember that canary yellow swimsuit you wore the other day? I’d like you to put it on.”
“Honestly, McKenzie, I wish you’d come back later. I’m much more fun after I’ve had a cup of coffee.”
I gave Margot a head start, watching her carefully from her kitchen window, vowing not to leave her house until she disappeared around mine. She walked barefoot slowly across her lawn, careful not to spill a drop of coffee from her enormous mug. “C’mon, c’mon,” I heard myself mutter, at the same time regretting that I had suggested she carry the innocuous prop in the first place.
Margot paused when she reached the pond and took a sip of coffee. She seemed fascinated first by the fountain and then by a silver 747 that arched across the cloudless sky, studying both as if they were new to her. She sipped her coffee some more.
“Now you’re just trying to annoy me,” I whispered.
Eventually she began moving again, slowly, leisurely, taking her own sweet time as she crossed my lawn and passed my garage. I had told her to behave casually, but for God’s sake! Finally she turned the corner of my house and vanished from view.
I was off. I dashed from her back door and sprinted across the lawn. I rounded the pond and ran in a straight line toward my own back door, house key in hand—if I didn’t beat my personal best time in the 200-meter, I came damn close. I let myself in quickly and quietly. Cautiously I closed the door, took a knee, and waited to regain my breath. The house was still—I heard no sound and felt nothing to indicate that it was occupied. After a moment, I crept through the kitchen to the hallway, where I had a view of the front porch. Through lace window
curtains, I could see Margot. She was leaning against the railing and glancing at the headlines in the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
that she held with one hand while sipping coffee from the oversized mug in the other.
curtains, I could see Margot. She was leaning against the railing and glancing at the headlines in the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
that she held with one hand while sipping coffee from the oversized mug in the other.
I heard his voice before I saw him.
“Miss?”
Margot looked startled. “May I help you?” she asked.
“Wilson,” the man said. He appeared on the porch next to her. He was holding his credentials for Margot to see. “FBI.”
Hey, I know this guy,
I reminded myself.
He owes me a favor.
Trying to collect it at that moment didn’t seem like the wisest of actions. Instead, I slid silently back into the kitchen, out of sight of the porch, opened the basement door, and descended the staircase. I was moving quickly. I figured Margot was sexy enough to distract anyone who might be watching my house—male or female—especially in that yellow swimsuit. Only I had no idea how much time I had before someone caught on and said, “Hey, wait a minute …” ’Course, knowing it was Wilson made me feel better about the ruse. Seven months earlier I had helped him and an ATF agent named Bullert bust a gunrunning operation. He liked attractive women.
I reminded myself.
He owes me a favor.
Trying to collect it at that moment didn’t seem like the wisest of actions. Instead, I slid silently back into the kitchen, out of sight of the porch, opened the basement door, and descended the staircase. I was moving quickly. I figured Margot was sexy enough to distract anyone who might be watching my house—male or female—especially in that yellow swimsuit. Only I had no idea how much time I had before someone caught on and said, “Hey, wait a minute …” ’Course, knowing it was Wilson made me feel better about the ruse. Seven months earlier I had helped him and an ATF agent named Bullert bust a gunrunning operation. He liked attractive women.
I rolled back a rug and removed four reinforced tiles. Beneath the tiles was a safe. I spun the combination too quickly and had to try again before it would open. I started pulling out items. First my handguns. There were three—a Heckler & Koch 9 mm, a Beretta 9 mm, and a Beretta .380. Then I dug out all the paper I had stashed in there—my last three tax returns, investment reports, mortgage information on my house and lake property, titles to the Jeep Cherokee and my boat, a life insurance policy, my last will and testament, passport, birth certificate, and $19,200 in cash in twenties and fifties. The money was what was left of $25,000 I had hoarded after I collected the price on Teachwell—that was the name of the embezzler I had captured.
“Mad money,” I had called it.
“If you don’t put it in a bank, you are nuts,” my dad told me.
Only I sometimes had expenses that didn’t bear scrutiny.
I returned the weapons to the safe. If I was going to shoot an FBI agent, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be with my own guns. I found a shoe box on a shelf in my workroom and stuffed the paper inside it. I also added my wallet and cell phone. It all fit easily, my entire life, I thought past, present, and future. Cremate me, and you could probably also find room for my ashes. I flashed first on an old Peggy Lee tune—
Is that all there
is?
—and then on a line my father used to recite.
Is that all there
is?
—and then on a line my father used to recite.
You
don’t
deserve to own anything
that you can’t
take care
of.
don’t
deserve to own anything
that you can’t
take care
of.
For no particular reason except habit, I checked my voice mail while I was in the basement. It had recorded a message from Ivy Flynn.
“Mr. McKenzie, I am so sorry about Mr. Mosley. If there is anything I can do … I’m calling because I presume you wanted me to continue checking soil samples. I discovered that the Sevin XLR Plus originated just west of the property where the man shot at me. It’s being used to control crop pests in a grove of hybrid poplar trees. Apparently, wind currents carried it to some nearby flowers favored by honeybees. That is how Mr. Mosley’s hives were contaminated. Please call me and I will tell you more. I hope this helps.”
I couldn’t believe it.
All this because of some poplar trees? Mr. Mosley dead, Susan Tillman raped, me on the run because some jerk was sloppy in spraying his goddamn poplar trees?
It seemed
so
pointless.
But it’s not because of the trees, is it?
I told myself.
It’s something else. Something worse.
All this because of some poplar trees? Mr. Mosley dead, Susan Tillman raped, me on the run because some jerk was sloppy in spraying his goddamn poplar trees?
It seemed
so
pointless.
But it’s not because of the trees, is it?
I told myself.
It’s something else. Something worse.
I erased the message and crept back upstairs.
“Officer,” I heard Margot say.
“Special Agent,” Wilson corrected her.
“Special Agent Wilson—I like the way that sounds.” Wilson smiled as if he did, too. “Special Agent Wilson, I don’t know how many ways I can tell you the same thing. McKenzie called early this morning. He said he was leaving town for a while. He asked me to collect his newspapers
and mail until he came back. He didn’t say where he was going, and he didn’t say how long he would be away. That’s all I can tell you.”
and mail until he came back. He didn’t say where he was going, and he didn’t say how long he would be away. That’s all I can tell you.”
I took one last look around. It was a big house. I had eight rooms not including bathrooms and the basement, but only four were furnished—my bedroom, my dad’s old bedroom, the kitchen stocked with every culinary gadget available to civilized man, and what my father called “the family room.” That’s where I kept my PC, a big-screen TV, VHS and DVD players, my CD player, and about a thousand books, some of them even stacked on the shelves. Would I miss my house? I wondered. Would I be upset if I never saw it again? And the pond? And the ducks? And Nina and Margot and Bobby? What if I never saw Shelby again?
From the porch, I heard Wilson say, “If you hear from Mr. McKenzie, please contact me.”
“Of course, Special Agent.”
Get out,
I screamed to myself.
Get out while you still can.
I screamed to myself.
Get out while you still can.
I didn’t linger at Margot’s but kept fleeing north, moving quickly, cutting through yards the way I did when I was a kid. I was out of breath when I reached Larpenteur Avenue. I hung a right and reduced my pace to a purposeful stroll, pretending I wasn’t a fugitive, refusing to glance at the vehicles that whizzed past, resisting the urge to look behind me. I knew where I needed to go and calculated the safest route to get there. It wasn’t in a straight line, and it certainly wasn’t from behind the steering wheel of my Jeep Cherokee—I was sure there was a stop-and-detain order on it. Smarter, I decided, to acquire new wheels when the time came and let the golf course tow the Cherokee to an impound lot. I continued to follow Larpenteur east.
Like me, the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota was actually located in Falcon Heights. No doubt it was just as embarrassed
by the fact as I was, since it was never, ever referred to as the “Falcon Heights campus.” It wasn’t long before I reached the student center. That’s where I caught the free shuttle, a full-sized MTC bus that carried students nonstop from the St. Paul campus the few miles to the Minneapolis campus. You’re supposed to be enrolled or an employee at the U to ride the shuttle, but no one asked to see an ID when I boarded.
by the fact as I was, since it was never, ever referred to as the “Falcon Heights campus.” It wasn’t long before I reached the student center. That’s where I caught the free shuttle, a full-sized MTC bus that carried students nonstop from the St. Paul campus the few miles to the Minneapolis campus. You’re supposed to be enrolled or an employee at the U to ride the shuttle, but no one asked to see an ID when I boarded.
I found a seat and waited. The bus filled quickly with young men and women dressed as though they had just finished cleaning out the garage. And pretty. Unmarked by the changing seasons. Looking about as intense as a Sunday afternoon. Especially the women, the finest women in the United States. Normally I would have taken pleasure in being among them, but it’s difficult to enjoy girl-watching when you’re also on the lookout for men in dark suits carrying guns.
I didn’t begin to relax—and then just barely—until the bus shuddered and shook as it accelerated from the curb and slowly followed a circuitous route through the campus, eventually crossing from St. Paul into Minneapolis. It rolled up to the edge of the East Bank of the campus; the West Bank was located on the far side of the Mississippi River.
I took my leave of the shuttle in front of Mariucci Arena, where the Gophers played hockey, walked past Williams Arena, where they played basketball, and found a seat on the bench at the bus stop on University Avenue. The MTC stopped for me and several other commuters. I couldn’t remember the last time I rode a city bus and didn’t know the correct fare. I dropped an extra quarter into the meter and probably would have paid more if the driver hadn’t looked at me like I had the IQ of a salad bar. I quickly found a seat, the shoe box balanced on my knee.
The bus headed east, crossing back into St. Paul. It made frequent stops, but the number of passengers never seemed to grow or diminish. For every one that disembarked, someone else boarded. Still, I had a seat to myself until we reached Snelling Avenue and a man dressed for business joined me.
“How you doin’?” he said.
I nodded and looked out the window.
“Some weather.” He spoke with the enthusiasm of a telemarketer, trying to engage me in conversation, trying to interest me in his product. Whatever it was, I wasn’t buying.
“Where are you headed?”
I turned casually toward him. He smiled. His teeth were stained by grape juice, and when he brushed his hair off his forehead the way bad actors do, I noticed that it was very thin on top. I estimated he’d be bald by the end of the week.
“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I’m in a very bad mood. You don’t want any part of it.”
“Oh.” The purple smile faded quickly. “No problem. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Normally I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure.”
He wasn’t a bad guy. A Minnesotan trying to be nice just for the sake of being nice. Outsiders—and a few of our more cynical natives—often ridicule us for this behavior. I can’t imagine why. When he left the bus at Lexington Parkway, I said, “Have a good day.” He said, “You, too.”
After crossing Lexington, the bus began a two-mile stretch of University Avenue known as “Asian Main Street” because of the hundredplus Asian businesses found there. As a nickname, “Asian Main Street” wasn’t very catchy. Nor was “Asian Avenue.” Some had attempted to tag the area “Chinatown,” but the label hadn’t stuck because there were hardly any Chinese there. The inhabitants were mostly Hmong refugees from Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos, with a smattering of Japanese and Koreans mixed in. I read somewhere that St. Paul had the greatest concentration of urban Hmong in the world. Which puzzled me. I would have thought the culture shock if not the climate change—we have six
months of snow and ice, man—would have sent them scurrying to the southern states.
months of snow and ice, man—would have sent them scurrying to the southern states.
I pulled the cord that signaled the driver to stop the bus at an intersection near Rice Street.
Phu Photography sold film cameras, digital cameras, camcorders, lenses, gadget bags, tripods, darkroom equipment, film, and binoculars. One corner of the store had been reserved for passport photos, and a door behind the cash register led to two studios where individual and family portraits were taken.
A tiny bell sang when I entered the store, although no bell hung above the door. A moment later a young woman asked if she could assist me. She spoke in the clear and precise English that only foreigners speak.
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