Vapor Trail (4 page)

Broker watched
John Eisenhower’s Bronco disappear up Milt’s driveway and then stood soaking in the heat as he calculated Harry Cantrell’s influence on his life.

Which had been in the nature of huge.

Broker knew that Harry Cantrell had trouble with the first half of July because his wife, Diane, had been murdered on a July 7 at seven o’clock.

Seventh month, seventh day, seventh hour: 777.

Harry had the numbers tattooed on his right forearm
.

The story passed by word of mouth. It was never written down. It did not appear in the reports. It had become a quiet police legend that followed Broker through his career.

Harry and Broker were baby cops together. They’d sat next to each other at the academy. They’d partnered in patrol. Neither of them seriously thought of being coppers for the long haul. They’d both seen action in the latter days of the Vietnam War and looked on police work as a way of extending the tour of duty and the adrenaline rush.

They’d both liked the clash and sting of the street, but Harry was always the more willing to mix it up. He’d slap the cuffs on extra tight; he’d choke to subdue; he’d break wrists and dislocate arms. On his third month on the job he shot a drug dealer who’d had the bad sense to pull a gun. An investigation ruled it a righteous shoot.

Then came that perfect night for a domestic. Hot, no moon; cruising the streets, you could feel people’s blood starting to steam up the lighted windows.

At least this time it was in a nice neighborhood, on Summit Avenue, which was just about as nice as you could get in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1985.

They went together, two sergeants advancing fast in rank. Comers. They were filling in for patrolmen who were taking vacation time.

And that’s the night Harry met Diane.

She was, like her house, very well maintained except for the swelling under her eye and the trickle of blood coming from her nose.

Hubby was a dentist who was a meticulous success at everything except, apparently, living. He was given to rages over cobwebs and dust balls. He’d found lint in his underwear drawer, and so he beat his wife.

That night she’d decided not to take it anymore and had picked up the phone. Broker and Harry took one look, then came in fast and split them up. Broker shoved the husband in one room, while Harry sat with Diane in another and persuaded her to file charges.

Harry continued to advise her through injunctions, restraining orders, and the divorce. A storybook courtship followed.

But there were some, with an eye toward Harry’s dossier of brutality complaints, who said discreetly that Diane had traded one batterer for another.

Others in those racially more dubious days scoffed at the notion. Harry, they pointed out, only thumped on young black males.

Broker stood up in a Lutheran chapel as best man on the day Harry and Diane were married.

Now he thought back to being young and moist-eyed sentimental on the cathedral light pouring through stained-glass windows, getting dizzy on the fragrance of fresh flowers.

Here and now he remembered the birthday card inside on the kitchen table. He’d just broken up with his first wife, Caren, and he’d brought a new girl to the wedding. A girl he’d met taking evidence over to the BCA.

Janey.

But the dentist husband turned out to have deeper issues than anyone suspected. He held old-fashioned ideas about his marriage vows. He interpreted the death-do-us-part clause literally, and he began to harass Diane. He studied Harry’s shift schedule, and he caught Diane alone in the backyard on a hot July afternoon. He went after her with his fists.

Diane was lucky; she got away with just her eyes blackened. She’d fought him off with a barbecue fork until her screams brought the neighbors. Word got out over the radios, and Broker met up with Harry in the Ramsey County emergency room.

He’d watched as she told Harry how crazy the ex had been.

Crazy, she’d said. Really crazy.

In a cold fury, Harry left the ER, got in his squad, and drove away.

Broker followed in a separate car. He knew that the ex-husband was still in his old house which was up for sale as part of the divorce settlement. So he headed for Summit Avenue and found Harry’s squad parked in the driveway. He gave the address over the radio and called for backup. The front door was locked, so he went around the back and kicked through the kitchen door and found
Harry in the living room beating the dentist’s head against the marble fireplace.

They talked it over:

Harry said, Go away and come back in five minutes.

Broker said, I can’t let you do this.

Harry said, He’s going to resist arrest. He’s going to attack me with that fireplace poker right there. He didn’t leave me any choice.

Broker said, I’m going to cuff him and put him in the car. Step away.

Harry said, Make me.

So they faced each other across six feet of space, with a semiconscious man between them, dripping blood on the Persian carpet. They both carried .38-caliber revolvers; their right hands were poised at hip level above their pistol butts.

Harry’s eyes were too bright, eager for it. He said, I always wondered what this would be like.

Broker said, Maybe you could have got away with doing him, but you’ll never be able to explain both of us.

The opposite of Harry, Broker had centered in a deadly calm, working the problem. He knew that he had to keep Harry talking.

Harry said, I know what this guy’s like. He’ll keep coming back on her until somebody stops him permanently.

Broker said, We’ll lock him up.

Harry said, What do you mean? She has a black eye; he’ll be out in a week. I’m telling you, he’s going to kill her.

Broker said, No he isn’t; he’s going to jail.

And then it was sirens forever as the black-and-whites swarmed the house like metal hornets with blue flashers.

And Harry said, You fucker. This is your call, and it’s on your head.

Fine, Broker had agreed.

They put the cuffs on the man and took him into the station and booked him for assault.

The next day they were handing out traffic tickets on University Avenue when the call came in. Diane was back in Ramsey ER in a coma. That morning a judge who suffered from haughty extremes of robes disease and who tended to be lenient about domestic abuse and who was impressed with Summit Avenue addresses had let the dentist out on bail. He had gone directly back to Harry’s house and beat Diane with a claw hammer he’d found on the back porch. Harry had been using the hammer to repair a loose rain gutter. By the time they got to the hospital, she was dead.

This time a different judge refused bail for the unrepentant dentist.

Six months after Diane Cantrell was married, she was back in the Lutheran chapel; this time she didn’t see the light filtering through the stained glass. She didn’t smell the pyres of flowers.

And Harry met Broker at the church door and said, I don’t want you here.

It changed Broker’s life. His dad had always figured he’d go to law school after tiring of the police. His mother wished for something more whimsical, something to develop the intuitive talents she saw in her son.

Broker remained a cop. But a detached and then a remote kind of cop. He told himself he’d sought out the deep undercover work to anticipate crimes before they happened. Then his current wife, Nina, came into his life. She looked at his undercover routine and said, What are you hiding from, anyway?

Broker and Harry tried but failed to put the friendship back together. They both left the St. Paul department. Broker went to the BCA; Harry to Washington County. Broker departed on his undercover pilgrimage. Harry found refuge in excesses of hard work and binges of drinking and gambling.

And every time they met it was instant time machine—they were back in that living room on Summit Avenue. Their voices were civil and professional, but their eyes were locked as if their hands were poised three inches away from their holstered pistols and each was waiting for the other to make the first move.

So the story passed by word of mouth, and it wasn’t written down or reported, and some people said that Harry had put it all behind him. Others were convinced that Harry had never recovered from the events surrounding Diane’s murder and it was only a matter of time before he took revenge on Broker.

And Broker understood that it was Harry’s style not to be in any particular hurry.

Broker drove the
ten miles from Marine on St. Croix, where Milt had his river house, toward Stillwater, the Washington County seat. He was heavier by thirty-eight and a half ounces of steel slung in a nylon hideout rig behind his right hip. John was right. If Harry had gone off the deep end, it could get nasty. So after he showered and shaved, he loaded the Colt .45 Gold Cup National. Then he put on faded jeans, cinched the holster to his belt, and pulled a loose gray polo shirt over the pistol’s bulk. Scuffed cross trainers and a pair of sunglasses completed his casual attire.

Never a big fan of sidearms, he had always preferred to deal with trouble inside the reach of his arms. But he was fond of the .45 for its usefulness in close as a steel club.

Broker breathed in, breathed out.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Take it one step at a time. Stay professional; it’s a job.

Bullshit. It was Harry.

He turned off 95 to bypass the business district and eased on back streets to the Law Enforcement Center at the south end of town. He parked in the visitors’ lot by the front door. The red
brick building housed the sheriff’s office and the jail and looked like one half of a deserted shopping mall. The other half was the county offices next door.

Inside, John was waiting in the lobby in front of a framed map of the United States on which all the Washington Counties in the continental forty-eight states were indicated by police uniform shoulder patches.

A husky six footer in a gray suit stood next to him. A young guy.

“Broker, meet Lymon Greene,” John said.

Greene’s style was strictly in your face. For starters, he made a strength contest of the handshake. Broker endured the viselike grip without commenting.

“You have a first name?” Greene asked in that cop tone that implied,
You have a first name, asshole?
Except Greene projected a slight aura of stiff straightness that suggested he didn’t use words like
asshole
a whole lot.

So Broker didn’t respond to that slight either. They were not off to a good start. There was the fact that Greene was barely thirty years old and was obviously caught in the rapture of indomitable youth. He wore his hair cropped in a tight black skullcap. His brown eyes smoldered with a carefully masked contempt for Broker that conveyed:
geezer, retread
,
crony
. And, complicating Broker’s gut-level aversion to Greene’s persona and style, was the fact that Greene was a black guy. Actually less black than light wicker tan. But, at any rate, a black guy.

“Clearly this is a match made in heaven,” John said in a dry voice. “C’mon, this way, you two.”

After a brisk tour through administration, Broker emerged with a badge and a sizzling new laminated picture ID. John held up a .40-caliber pistol, a holster, and a box of ammunition.

Broker refused the weapon. “I never qualified with the forty.
Never could hit squat with a handgun anyway.” He tapped the bulge on his hip. “Got my tamer right here.”

Lymon smiled and said, “Forty’s a sweet weapon. I could take you to the range, check you out.”

Broker remained silent, but John Eisenhower winced as they went down the hall to his office. Sergeant Maury Seacrest, Lymon’s supervisor, waited impassively next to the office. He had a mound of hard gut pushing over his belt, and sticking out under his gray 1950s flattop were extra-large ears, which had earned him his nickname.

“Hey, Mouse, how you doing?” Broker said, extending his hand.

They shook. “What’s a big dog like you doing in our quiet little town?” Mouse grumbled with the barest smile. A drinking buddy of Harry Cantrell, clearly he disapproved of this day’s work.

Lymon watched suspiciously as Broker greeted his supervisor. “You guys know each other?” Lymon said.

Maury’s and Broker’s eyes met, looked away. For a new guy, Lymon didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. They went into John’s office and sat down. Broker noticed that John still had the same two Norman Rockwell pictures on the wall. The same chemically treated plastic card on his desk with a thumbprint and the invitation:
Test your stress level.

Without preliminaries, John shot a question to Mouse. “As of this minute, who knows we got a saint’s medallion on the crime scene?”

“The four of us; Joey Campbell, the Stillwater mayor; his police chief, Arnie Bangert; and Tim Radke, one of Arnie’s patrol cops. He was the first copper on the scene,” Mouse said.

“And that’s how it stays until I get back in town. I’m bringing Broker in as Special Projects to do a little poking around. He reports only to me. So he wants anything, you guys give it him,” John said.

“That’s clear enough,” Lymon said.

John pointed his finger at Lymon. “Watch it.”

The phone rang; John took the call, then rolled his eyes. “Sally Erbeck,” he said, “you must be psychic; I was just thinking of you. What’s up?”

Mouse leaned over and whispered to Broker, “Sally Erbeck,
St. Paul Pioneer Press
reporter. Now it begins.”

“Nothing much, Sally,” John said. “It’s pretty quiet out here in Sleepy Hollow. A couple cows got out of the barn, but I saddled up the boys and we rounded them up. Sure. See ya.” John hung up the phone. “Just routine checks; she hasn’t caught wind of the dead priest yet, so the troops are staying mum.”

“I don’t know,” Lymon said, narrowing his eyes.

“What?” John protested. “I don’t have an official cause of death yet. Sure, he had a bullet in his head, but he could have died of a heart attack. Get with the program, Lymon. Now, Mouse, what’s our fallback position?”

Mouse shifted in his chair and spoke in a monotone. “The Church is in crisis; priests are being targeted; some guy shot one in Philadelphia a little while ago. We got a climate of scandal that could attract nutcases. This Moros wasn’t around long enough to put down roots here. So maybe it’s somebody striking from his past, or somebody with lots of grievances just lashing out at the Church in general. They throw in the saint’s medal as misdirection, to twist our crank.”

“We don’t want to go anywhere near that yet,” John said. “Try again.”

Lymon took a turn. “Moros was alone; it’s a fairly remote location. And there’s been a rash of church break-ins the last month in town. Satanist graffiti, stuff like that.”

Mouse shook his head. “Aw, shit, that’s those little high school creeps with the green hair who wear black. I don’t buy this vandalism-goes-wrong theory.”

“It’s not bad for a start,” John said. “Okay, we need a minimum press release to cover our ass. The stress is on minimum.”

Mouse shrugged, looked at Lymon. “How old was Moros?”

“Forty-three.”

“’A forty-three-year-old male was found dead in Stillwater last night,’” Mouse said.

“Sounds great,” John said as he checked his watch. “It is now nine-thirty. I board a plane to Seattle at twelve twenty-five. Have the Comm Center ship that out at eleven-thirty.”

“So when the media calls and asks about the dead priest, what do we say?” Lymon asked.

“
We
say jackshit,” John said. He pointed to Mouse.

Mouse shifted in his chair. “You say we’re investigating, and we’ll keep them abreast of events as they develop. They need anything more detailed, they should get ahold of me.”

“But you’re in federal court all week in St. Paul,” Lymon said.

“Exactly,” Mouse said.

“Okay, c’mon, guys.” John made a hurry-up gesture with his hands. “You know why we’re here. Broker is going to get us a read on Moros’s background, but mainly he’s going to take Harry off the table, so ah—well, Mouse, where is he?”

Mouse folded his arms across his chest. “Got me. He don’t answer his phone. But he’s probably home sacked out, sleeping off a hangover. I reckon he’s been hitting the bottle steady since you took his badge. If he’s not home, you could try Annie Mortenson’s; she’s his on-and-off lady friend, but she won’t give him the time of day if he’s been drinking, so he probably ain’t there. I’d check every bar and casino within a one-hundred-mile radius.”

“Great,” Broker said.

“You asked.” Mouse shrugged, took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, and handed it to Broker. “I’ll check around and put the word out. All the other poop’s there; addresses, phone
numbers, the witness next to the church, the secretary who found the body. You can reach Mortenson at home or try the library; she’s part-time there.”

Lymon squared his shoulders, came forward in his chair. “Harry had contact with the priest. Why not turtle up, go out to his place, and bring him in for questioning?”

John waved his hand in a downward motion. “Don’t provoke him if he’s drinking; he could bounce weird. The last thing you want is to play guns with Harry. You got that, Lymon?”

“What did I say?” Lymon said.

Mouse scowled. “We don’t know he had contact with Moros. We know he asked around and cleared an anonymous tip.”

Lymon smiled, shook his head. “You guys all stick together, the over-forty club.”

“C’mon, Lymon; you gonna arrest him because he called you a name? Where’s your probable cause?” Mouse said.

“At least we should test his hands for nitrates, to see if he fired a gun in the last twenty-four hours,” Lymon said.

“Enough,” John said sharply. He turned to Broker. “See why I need a certain touch? None of these guys can think straight about Harry.”

“Aw, bullshit,” Mouse said.

John sighed. “Okay, Mouse; get it off your chest.”

Mouse shrugged. “We’re running scared. Bringing Broker in on Harry is too much gun. Sends a bad message.”

John smiled tightly. “Says
you
. I say we eliminate Harry up front. No more embroidering his name into the Saint legend. Plus, the guy needs help; let’s sock him away in treatment.” John glared at Mouse. “You want to take him to treatment?”

Mouse shook his head. “Fuck that!”

“So that’s it. Stonewall until I get back in town,” John said. They all stood up.

Mouse said, “We’ll keep it low profile, talk to the congregation . . .”

“All six of them,” Lymon quipped.

Broker nodded. “I’ll touch base later this morning after I call on Harry.”

Lymon stepped closer. “You know, you might need backup going out to Harry’s. I could . . .”

“Take off,” John said sharply to Lymon as he took the young detective by the arm and walked him to the door. Then he turned to Mouse. “When it gets right down to it, Broker is going to need a hand with Harry.”

Mouse shook his head. “Sure, but I’ll do it under protest. I don’t go for strong-arming him into the hospital.”

“See what it’s like here?” John said to Broker. “I got a mutiny.”

“So hang me,” Mouse said. “Harry breaks the law, I’ll put him down. But all Harry did was mouth off to Lymon. I ain’t defending it, what he said, but all he did was say some words.” Mouse paused and said to Broker, “What you and him have in the past is your business.” Mouse turned and left the room.

“I’m going to be real popular around here,” Broker said. “And what’s Lymon’s story? The dude is barely housebroken.”

“It’s a brave new world, buddy. Lymon is pretty typical of the new breed. Smarter than most. He went straight from high school in the suburbs to college to patrol in Park Rapids. You remember in St. Paul, the first thing they had us do at rookie school?”

Broker shrugged. “Sober up?”

“You know what they do now? They put gloves on them and stick them in the ring. Most of these kids have never been hit in their life. Then they take them to the morgue to see their first dead body.”

“Fuck me dead,” Broker said. When he and John went through rookie school, 90 percent of their class was ex-marine and army grunts back from a shooting war.

“And you gotta watch what you say these days. There’s age discrimination, there’s sexual discrimination . . .” John wagged an admonishing finger and raised his eyebrows for emphasis. “There’s racial discrimination. And there’s a need to be generally sensitive. For instance, Lymon is pretty serious about his family and going to church.”

“Gosh,” Broker said.

“That’s better. Now, here’s my cell; I’ll be monitoring it full-time in Seattle.” John handed Broker two cards. “Give your cell on the second one.” Broker scribbled the number and handed the card back. Then John asked, “Who are you going to approach at the archdiocese about Moros?”

“I thought Jack Malloy,” Broker said.

“He’d be my choice,” John said.

“I’ll call him right now,” Broker said and reached across the desk, picked up John’s receiver and dialed information, got the number for Holy Redeemer in St. Paul, called it, and asked for Jack Malloy. He told the secretary it was urgent. The voice on the line said that Father Malloy was not available this morning. Broker covered the receiver with his hand and said, “Playing golf.” He requested a sit-down with Malloy as soon as possible. He used the word
urgent
again and left his name and cell number.

When he hung up, John said, “Make nice to Mouse; he’ll come around and fill you in.”

“Yeah, right,” Broker said. “Sounds like Lymon was part of the scene that got Harry in trouble.”

“Harry comes into the unit stinking of booze, and somehow Lymon picked up the Mr. Coffee before he did, so Harry yells, ‘Who gave this nigger cuts to the front of the line?’ Bigger than shit in front of half the squad.”

Broker shook his head. “Vintage Harry.”

John pointed a no-nonsense finger. “I’m thinking when Harry
sees I sent you after him, he’s going to blow his top. Everything’s going to come out. You push him hard on the Saint. But then he goes inside, in-patient, four weeks at the CD ward at St. Joseph’s. No treatment, no badge, no gun. You got it?”

“I got it,” Broker said.

“I mean, you get Mouse to help you, and you walk him into the hospital to the admitting desk, and you don’t leave till he has a little white plastic patient ID strapped on his wrist. And be careful; I don’t think Harry’s a threat to the public safety in general . . .”

“Just to me,” Broker said.

“Well, yeah.”