Absolute Zero (25 page)

J.T. and his family
left for Iowa before dawn, towing the trailer full of ostriches. So, when Broker and Amy woke up in their respective bed and couch, on separate floors, they had the house to themselves. About nine
A.M.
, Broker heard her thump around in the upstairs guest room, then the bathroom pipes banged in the wall as he made coffee.

She came downstairs barefoot in a burgundy terry-cloth robe too bulky to have fit in her travel bag, and Broker figured it was Denise’s. She sat at the kitchen table and he saw she had painted her fingernails and her toenails a moody purple. He stood at the counter. There was no “good morning,” no “hey, how you doing?” He held up a coffee cup. “Black? Or there’s Coffeemate.”

“Black.”

He poured two black coffees, brought the cups over to the table, sat down, and they faced each other. Her freckles were lifeless gray and her gray eyes were shot with red; her face was puffy, unshowered, just splashed with wake-up water; her usually tawny hair was a snarl of platinum wire, sticking up.

By contrast, his eyes were clear and calm. His face was smooth and ruddy. His hair was happily tousled. “So,” he said, “did you get your flight?”

“Yeah . . .” she stared at the navy blue cup in her hands that was stamped with the legend ramsey county swat. Then she snapped her tired eyes on him. “. . . And did you get what you were after?”

The remark smoked past his ear with the incendiary velocity of a .50-cal tracer round, blew out through the wall, scorched a dry cornfield, and streaked out over the curve of the earth. Broker veered away from the comment, which pained him because, after sidling in a little too close to Jolene last night, he was happy to have escaped with all his fingers and toes.

Jolene had been disfigured with alcoholic stress fractures. Amy, even frizzed with pique, remained clean and attractive—a rounded female who looked like she could bounce as opposed to sticking like a dagger.

But probably it was a little late to discover how much he appreciated her. “I have one last thing to do and then I’ll be going back to Ely,” he said quickly.

“Uh-huh,” she said in a neutral tone.

“Just got to talk to a guy, that’s all.”

“The boyfriend?”

“Yeah. I’m going to explain a few things; kind of truth and consequences, and then I’m done.”

“You mean threaten him.”

“Okay, I’m going to threaten him. But no rough stuff.”

A quick peek directly into Amy’s eyes gave Broker the impression she could literally smell Jolene on him. So he took his coffee upstairs and soaked in a long, hot shower. When he came down she was still sitting at the table.

“You had a call,” she said. “There’s a number by the phone. From that lawyer, Milton Dane. The
wife
gave him this number.”

Glad for the distraction, Broker went to the phone and called the number on the pad.

“Law offices.”

“Milton Dane,” Broker said.

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Phil Broker, returning his call.”

Broker poured another cup of coffee, sipped; Milt came on the line.

“Hey, Broker, I heard you were in town.”

“I brought Hank’s truck back.”

“That’s what Jolene said.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Ibuprofen. And reps with tuna cans. Story of my life. How long are you in the Cities?”

“Over the weekend.”

“Look, could you drop by my office today? Take a quick deposition? It would save me the trouble of driving up north.”

“Sure,” he glanced at Amy. “I could be there, say—at ten.”

“Good. I’ll assemble the usual suspects.”

After getting Milt’s location, he said good-bye, hung up, and turned to Amy. “When’s your flight?”

“Six-thirty, check in at five-thirty.”

“You want to get out of the house, go into St. Paul?”

“And take a chance on running into Milton Dane, who is going to sue my ass off? No thank you. I’ll pack. Just get back in time to give me a ride.”

Driving west on 94,
he decided it was time to let it go and head back up north. After seeing Milt, he’d call Jolene and nail down a time to have a sit-down with Earl Garf. Maybe someday he’d figure out a way to tie Garf to Stovall. But not today.

Then he’d take Amy to the airport.

When he got back to Ely he’d call her up. Dinner maybe.

And the idea of staying at Uncle Billie’s held a certain appeal as opposed to returning to his empty house, with children’s books and toys gathering dust in the corners. So, he’d stay in Ely for at least November. Go deer hunting with Iker. Try to kick back for a while. Let things develop.

He entered St. Paul, parked, and found his way to the twenty-second floor of the American National Bank building where Milt had an office.

The pert blond gatekeeper told him to go right in, that Milt was expecting him. Broker went through a door next to the reception desk. Milt appeared at the end of the corridor and waved him into his corner office.

Gingerly, they shook hands. Milt was clearly still favoring his arm. The corner walls were primarily glass and, twenty stories down, the east side of St. Paul spread to the horizon like an Amish autumn quilt. In the foreground, the window ledges were lined with travel souvenirs: African carvings, Southeast Asian brass dragons, and South American masks. Framed pictures on the walls portrayed Milt strapped in a life jacket, glowering through whitewater, swinging a kayak paddle.

And there was this tall guy in a gray suit, with beetle brows and a widow’s peak, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Milt’s desk. A guy who did not get up to greet him, who did not smile.

His name was Tim Downs and he’d been a homicide investigator with St. Paul and had gone to law school at night. He’d quit and hung out his shingle. Downs had been a cop with a nose for politics, the kind who kept track of everyone and everything.

Not missing a beat, still smiling, Milt said, “You two know each other.”

“Yeah,” Downs said, getting up.

“Yeah,” Broker said, nodding at Downs.

Downs nodded back and walked from the office, leaving Broker in flat-footed appreciation of Milt’s understated style.

“So, have a seat,” Milt said. “You want some coffee?” Milt asked. Broker shook his head.

Milt now extended Broker the courtesy of addressing him as a player and a peer. “So Allen calls me up the other night and says Jolene’s houseguest, Earl Garf—alias Clyde—had a run-in with you . . .”

Broker, caught off guard by Downs’s appearance, went on the attack. “Hank belongs in a nursing home, he needs full-time, skilled care. She’s working herself ragged.”

Milt reacted frankly, hands open, fingers spread. “I couldn’t stop her, she went ballistic when the Blue Cross tanked. Look, Allen’s been monitoring him every day. He’s in remarkably good shape for a . . .”

“Vegetable,” Broker said.

“I didn’t want to rush her. I also had to get a feel for working with her . . .”

Broker said, “What’s the matter? Afraid she might jump to another lawyer?”

Milt said, “Monday I’m moving him into a full-care facility.”

“Who’s paying?”

“I’m paying. I’m also on the calender in probate in Washington County. It might take a month, but Jolene will be appointed Hank’s guardian and executor of his trust. We all just got off to a bad start on this thing.”

“Too bad. Garf wouldn’t be there if she hadn’t come up broke because of Hank’s trust-fund antics,” Broker said.

Milt said, “I
know
that. If he would have listened to Jolene and paid his bills on time we wouldn’t be in this mess. But he didn’t listen to her, he went to his AA buddy. You know about that?”

“I know about Stovall,” Broker said.

The preliminary fencing ended and they both backed off. Milt glanced at his hands and inquired diplomatically, “Don’t like surprises, do you? Like Downs being here?”

Broker changed the subject and pointed to a medical monitor the size of a breadbox that sat on the desk. “What’s that?”

“That,” Milt said, “is our case. It’s a GE Marquette, it monitors vital signs; what they had Hank hooked up to. I rented one.” Milt reached across the desk and fiddled with knobs and dials. “And this is what I think happened: they had one nurse watching Hank and, to be fair, half the other patients in the place, plus covering the ER. Once you attach the leads to the patient, the monitor starts graphing vital signs. But if you don’t program the machine for a new patient, the alarm doesn’t activate.

“So I’m thinking the anesthetist miscalculated the amount of sedation she gave Hank throughout the operation and took him off the gas too soon. They get him up to recovery—but the nurse is busy, she hooks up the leads and forgets the programing procedure; she sees the wave forms going across the screen and thinks everything’s all right. She gets distracted, leaves the room, Hank stops breathing, and nobody knows.”

Milt picked up a manila folder full of forms and dropped it on his desk. “The case is very strong.”

Broker said, “Jolene insists he looks at her.”

Milt nodded. “She told me. We’ve had experts. Allen checks him regularly for visual pursuit. There is no indication of voluntary reflexes.” He paused and then focused his full attention on Broker.

“So, let’s talk about you. You thumped Garf and he checked around and came up with some interesting background on our trusty northwoods guide; like you did time in Stillwater, and so on. That’s when I got ahold of Downs, who investigates this kind of stuff for us, and I asked him to check you out.

“And he just laughs and says, ‘Good luck,’ because you were only the most freewheeling undercover operative in Minnesota cop land and the longest-running one. Apparently fragments from your undercover days are still scattered through the system, and that’s what Garf found in NCIC. You were with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, right?”

Broker remained silent, utterly unreadable and unflappable; it had been his most useful talent as a cop and his least endearing quality to civilians.

Milt, in no way intimidated, leaned forward across his desk. “Right?”

Clearly Milt was no cherry, and he had mouse-trapped him with Downs. So Broker said, “Yeah.”

“Among other things”—Milt raised an eyebrow—“like rumors, you’re stringing for ongoing deep-shit federal stuff nobody is willing to talk about. Which is why you’re still carried in the system.”

Broker cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and scratched his cheek. “What else did Tim have to say?”

Milt leaned forward a little more, grinning, “That you’re a misfit, a maverick, and maybe a shade more outlaw than cop—not a team player, at any rate.” He seemed intrigued by these revelations. Even amused. And something more. Broker sensed the lawyer was a quick study who spotted a passing advantage. He asked, “Can I still get some coffee?”

“Sure.” Milt tapped the intercom. “Kelly, could you bring us two cups of coffee.”

Broker inclined his head forward. “Did you tell Allen any of this?”

Milt smiled. “Allen, the invincible surgeon? Of course not. I love to keep that guy in the dark.”

“So Garf still thinks . . .”

“You have a checkered past. Like he does. Which is how you’re playing it with them, I suspect.” Milt straightened up when his assistant brought in a tray with cups, carafe, cream, and sugar. When she withdrew, he doled out coffee, then he turned back to Broker. “Naturally—once I learned about your background, I’d been thinking about the difference between omission and commission.”

“Say what you mean, Milt.”

“What are you doing hanging out at Hank’s?”

“You mean, like Allen? And maybe you?”

Milt opened his hands and pursed his lips. “Jolene’s in a tight spot. We all feel bad.”

“She’s the fucking Lorelei.” Broker pointed to the white-water pictures on the wall. “I’d plug my ears and mind the rocks, if I were you.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Broker sipped his coffee and watched a Cessna traverse Milt’s windows on approach to the St. Paul Municipal Airport. “Are you going to win?” he asked.

“Nothing’s for sure. But, yeah, I’m going to win.”

“Big?”

“Pretty big.

“How will the money be disbursed?”

Milt picked up a handspring from his desktop and squeezed it methodically. “Most of it will go into a trust for Hank’s extended care. Some will go to Jolene directly; she has a claim to loss of consortium.”

“What’s that?”

Milt shrugged. “It compensates for the loss of aid, comfort, and society of the injured party. But as the spouse she has a lot to say about administering the trust.”

“Along with her lawyer,” Broker said.

“Of course.”

Now Broker leaned forward. “Let’s say you do win big and the money gets paid, and then, when it’s all settled, Hank conveniently dies the rest of the way. What happens to the money?”

“She gets it all. What’s your point?”

“I don’t see Jolene shackled to bedsores for the long haul. Too many men are interested in her.” Broker paused for emphasis. “And love always finds a way.”

“That’s melodramatic,” Milt said, lowering his eyes in distaste.

Broker paused a moment. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Not at the moment,” Milt said, getting up, turning his broad pinstriped back to Broker. He stared out his windows. “I take it you’ve been in among these rocks you’re talking about?”

Broker couldn’t see his face. “Close enough to know when to get the hell out, after I take care of one little detail.”

Milt’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Which is?”

“Persuading Garf his self-interest lies elsewhere. The way I see it, I owe Hank a favor for saving my butt out on that lake.”

“Can you do that?” Milt turned just a fraction too fast.

Broker almost felt sorry for Garf: more and more he was being cast as the main speed bump on the way to Jolene’s bounty. Like everybody, Milt wanted him gone. But he didn’t want to get his hands dirty and he didn’t want to see the messy part. He just wanted it to be made nice and clean; the pretty woman all alone in the big house with all the money.