Dead Boyfriends (13 page)

“Afterward, I helped Merodie buy a house in Anoka,” Cilia went on. “I would check in on the two of them from time to time. Merodie soon spent all the money she earned in the lawsuit. She had become a fullblown alcoholic. Several times over the years I forced Merodie into treatment. Unfortunately, it never took. She'd go to two, perhaps three meetings and quit. I tried to intervene several times to protect Silk. Unfortunately, there was only so much I could do legally. Eventually, Merodie became involved with a man who abused her. I believe Eli Jefferson abused her as well. She seemed to attract that kind of man.

“One night that man passed out behind the wheel of Merodie's car while it was parked inside her garage and died of carbon monoxide poisoning. The next day I took Silk home with me. She was four years old.
Merodie, to her everlasting credit, never challenged this. Not once in twelve years. I believe she understood that Silk was better off with me. That's my only explanation for her actions, or rather, I should say, her lack of action. In any case, I've been raising Silk ever since.”

“You've been paying Merodie fifty thousand dollars a year for the privilege of raising her daughter,” I said.

Cilia managed a smile. “It is a privilege,” she said. “I'd pay a great deal more, believe me. Would you care for more iced tea?”

“I'm not sure how it works,” I said, “but when your brother died, wouldn't his daughter inherit his share of the St. Ana fortune?”

“My goodness, McKenzie, but you're cynical.”

“Just asking.”

“My brother didn't share in the estate. My father disinherited him shortly before he died. It wasn't punishment. Father was merely afraid that Robert would ruin the company once he was gone. It was a fear I shared. In any case, it's a moot question.”

“How so?”

“Because Silk will get everything. She became my heir the moment I first set eyes on her.”

“And Merodie?”

“I'll always take care of Merodie.”

“Is that a privilege as well?”

“It is a small price to pay. Besides, over the years I have become rather fond of Merodie. Despite her many faults, she has a truly generous and caring soul.”

I pulled a notebook from my pocket. “The man who died in Merodie's garage, what was his name?” I said.

Cilia closed her eyes, scrunched her face and said, “Becker? Yes, Becker. Something Becker. I can't remember his first name. Sorry.”

I wrote “Becker” in my notebook.

“When did you last see Merodie?”

“A month ago.”

“You didn't see her on August first?”

“When I delivered the check? No. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. I went inside, called her name. No one answered. I left the check and departed. I was there for less than two minutes.”

“When did you arrive at Merodie's house?”

“Early afternoon.”

“How early?”

“One thirty, two.”

“Huh.”

“What does ‘huh' mean?” Cilia asked.

“A few minutes ago you didn't remember when you delivered the check.”

“Times change.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

“A Saab—an Aero sedan.”

“Not very sporty.”

“I like it.”

“What color?”

“Black.”

I studied Cilia for a moment.
The time doesn't match what Mollie Pratt told you,
my inner voice reminded me.
The vehicle
—
that's a stretch, too. On the other hand, Cilia is probably lying.

“Did you see anything unusual?”

“Such as?”

“Such as a body lying on the living room floor.”

“I saw nothing amiss.”

I liked that word—amiss.

“Where did you leave the check?” I asked.

“On the table.”

I closed my notebook and thanked her for her time and the tea. Cilia
seemed relieved that I had stopped asking questions. She escorted me back through her sumptuous home.

“Do you believe that anything I've told you might help Merodie?” she asked when we reached the front door.

“It's hard to say.”

Cilia rested her hand on my wrist and stepped close enough to kiss me. It was not an intimate moment, yet I felt a thrill just the same.

She said, “I do not believe it would be to Silk's advantage, especially at this point in her diving career, for her relationship with her mother to become common knowledge. However, having said that, I would very much like to help Merodie.”

“In what way?”

“In any way possible. You'd be astonished, Mr. McKenzie, at what money can buy.”

“I always am.”

 

“We have good news and we have bad news,” I said.

G. K. said, “Start with the bad news, but make it quick. I'm already five minutes late for a meeting.”

I switched my cell phone from my right ear to my left. “Merodie had means and opportunity to kill Eli,” I said. “Turns out she also had a strong motive. I found at least two witnesses who claim that Eli was cheating on her.”

“What's the good news?”

“We can place Priscilla St. Ana at the scene. Her brother was the father of Merodie's daughter, the brother who died in a car accident sixteen years ago. Priscilla has been raising the girl.”

“The girl that you told me about? Silk?”

“Yes. St. Ana admits that she was at the house, says she dropped off Merodie's check, says she saw nothing amiss. But here's the thing. In her original statement, Merodie claimed that a man broke into her house
and had a fight with Eli, a man with blond hair. Priscilla St. Ana has short blond hair.”

“Could she be confused with a man?”

“Not by anyone who's sober.”

“Merodie wasn't sober. Or maybe she was. It would certainly explain why Merodie insisted we leave St. Ana alone. She's protecting her.”

“Something else,” I said. “St. Ana said that she's willing to open her considerable checkbook if it'll help Merodie's cause.”

“Why?”

“Could be guilt. Could be she wants to stay close to the investigation in case it turns her way. Could be she wants to shield Silk against bad publicity.”

“Which might be the reason Merodie wants us to lay off Priscilla—to protect Silk.”

“Could be. One more thing. You said that the Anoka County attorney was trying to build a case against Merodie. Well, if he is, he's doing a damn poor job of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The only people asking questions about Merodie are us.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Gen. Maybe your information is wrong.”

“No. No, my sources are solid.”

“Assistant County Attorney Rollie Briggs, is he your source?”

G. K. chuckled. “You're very clever, Mr. McKenzie,” she said.

“Could Briggs be wrong?”

“I don't think so.” G. K. paused for a few moments. She said, “McKenzie, did you ever read
Alice in Wonderland?
”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“That's the line.”

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Daniel the architect was standing between Nina Truhler and me in the downstairs lounge of Rickie's. They were walking out while I was walking in. My intention had been to apologize to Nina. Apologize for not taking her to the charity ball. Apologize for conducting surveillance at her home the previous evening. Apologize for all of my faults and for every slight, real or imagined, that I had ever committed. Apologize up the ying-yang, as Shelby suggested, if that was what it would take to get her back on my side. Now I wasn't so sure. She was dating this loser two nights in a row? Hell, I only stood her up once!

Daniel said, “Can I help you?” He was over six feet tall and knew from exercise, but Jenness had been right about him. He was soft. Slap him in the mouth and he'd call his lawyer to ask what happened.

“I'd like a moment alone with the lady,” I said.

“Would the lady like a moment with you?”

Daniel directed the question at Nina. She shook her head.

“I'll call you later,” Nina told me.

“You heard the lady,” Daniel said. He set a hand flat against my chest and pushed.

Behind the bar, Jenness made a hissing sound as if she had seen something that frightened her.

My inner voice screamed,
Is this guy suicidal?
My hands came up slowly as I debated which of Daniel's body parts I would damage first. I decided to go with the hand that was still pressing against my chest.
Let's see if he can draw blueprints with five broken fingers.

Give him credit, Daniel stood his ground. Behind him, Nina gave me a quick headshake. Her eyes were both hard and unyielding, and the message they sent was unmistakable.
Don't even think about it!

I lowered my hands and let Daniel ease me out of his way.

Daniel grunted in triumph—actually grunted.
Are you kidding me!
His smile was mocking, and his eyes were filled with condescension. I never wanted to punch someone so badly in my life.

He brushed past me and led Nina out the door. He didn't look back. I have no idea what I would have done if he had.

I went to the bar.

“I know you won't believe me,” Jenness said, “but not kicking Daniel's ass, that was the smartest thing you could have done.”

She was right. I didn't believe her.

 

I had had a lot to drink that night, but apparently not enough, because the dream returned—with extras. In the past it had nearly always ended with the actual shooting. This time it replayed the aftermath.

It began with my commanding officer shaking my hand and telling me, “The Ramsey County grand jury refused to indict. It ruled that you had acted properly and within the scope and range of your duties.”

The scene then shifted abruptly and I was watching TV in my apartment. I had been placed on administrative leave—with pay—as was the custom whenever an a St. Paul PD officer discharged his or her weapon. WCCO-TV
News at Noon
was showing an excerpt of a press conference filmed at city hall just an hour before.

The minister who stood behind a makeshift podium was tall and severe-looking and reminded me of Denzel Washington when he played Malcolm X, yet his voice had a pleasant rhythm to it, and when he said “This assassin, this slayer of children,” the words sounded like poetry. It took a while for their meaning to sink in.

“Did he just call me a murderer?” I asked the TV set.

Behind the minister stood the black man and woman who had driven into the convenience store parking lot that evening. They stood like statues, looking neither right nor left, up nor down. The minister said these good folks witnessed Rushmore McKenzie's cold-blooded execution of nineteen-year-old Benjamin
Simbi—for that was the brother's name—while he was raising his hands to surrender. He claimed it was yet another example of racism in the police department. He said the grand jury's verdict was just another example of what they already knew—“it is impossible for the black man to get justice in a white man's court”—adding that “there is no hope in the system.”

“This is nuts,” I told the TV set.

When I woke up, I said the same thing. “This is nuts.”

I have known Clayton Rask for many years. He has been to my home. I've fed him cherry sno-cones and mini-donuts that he claimed were better than the ones you can get at the Minnesota State Fair. Today he wasn't talking to me like a friend. He was talking to me like the commander of the Minneapolis Police Department's Homicide Unit.

He said, “Meet me at the Anoka County Sheriff's Office. Do you know where it is?”

“I know where it is.”

“Meet me at 9:00
A.M.
Don't be late.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“I'll tell you when you get here.”

“Tell me now.”

“McKenzie, you'll be doing us both a favor if you just show up. You really don't want me to come looking for you.”

He hung up the phone before I could protest further.