Dead Boyfriends (32 page)

“I think Nye was telling the truth.”

“About what?”

“About Eli Jefferson. We have a witness. Priscilla St. Ana. She was on the scene after Nye had his alleged shoving match with Jefferson.”

“I like that word—alleged,” G. K. said.

“St. Ana said there was no body on the floor when she arrived.”

“Forget about St. Ana.”

“Forget her?”

“Forget everything. Look, McKenzie. I'm not Perry Mason. I'm not here to solve a crime. I don't even care who committed the crime. My job—and your job—is to show that our client is not guilty of the crime, and yes, we both know that's not the same thing as being innocent.”

“But what if. . .?”

“There are no ‘But what ifs.'”

G. K. placed a hand on my arm, stopping me. She looked up into my eyes. There was nothing sexual about it. She merely wanted my undivided attention.

“When I was young and just starting out, I believed that justice was more important than life.” She spoke as if she had made the same speech before—maybe to herself. “That's why I wanted to do the work I did, to serve justice. It was only after I became older and wiser that I realized justice belongs to God alone. The best the rest of us can do is serve the law. Well, McKenzie, the law says if there's reasonable doubt, the defendant goes free. Merodie Davies will go free today because after Richard Nye's behavior and the remarkable statement he just made there's plenty of reasonable doubt. Understand?”

I understood. That didn't make me any happier.

“You said that justice belongs to God alone,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Then where does Mr. Muehlenhaus come in?”

G. K. refused to answer. She continued down the sidewalk. She didn't take half a dozen steps before her cell phone rang.

“Speak of the devil,” I said.

She answered the phone without breaking stride, listened for a moment. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and glanced away from me, refusing to meet my eyes.

“What did I tell you?” I said.

“Yes, sir . . . That's very kind of you . . . No, sir . . . I appreciate it very much . . . He's standing right here . . . Not at all. . . Just a moment.”

G. K. thrust her phone at me. “He wants to speak with you.”

She didn't identify who “he” was. There was no need.

“Good morning, Mr. Muehlenhaus,” I said.

“Good morning, Mr. McKenzie. How are you? No worse for wear, I hope.”

“Fit as a fiddle and ready for love.”

“That's my boy.”

I didn't like that he called me “his boy,” but I let it slide.

“My sources tell me that Ms. Davies will soon be released,” Muehlenhaus said. “It seems that once again I am in your debt.”

“What's the going rate for such things?” I asked. “The hand of your eldest daughter and half your kingdom?”

“Alas, my daughters are all spoken for. I do, however, have a rather attractive granddaughter, if I do say so myself, who I am sure will find you just as fascinating as I do.”

“Is she as duplicitous as her grandfather?”

“Mr. McKenzie, there is no need—”

“Stop it,” I said. “According to my birth certificate I was born at night, Mr. Muehlenhaus, but I wasn't born
last
night. You weren't the slightest bit interested in getting Merodie off the hook. Nor were you concerned that Tuseman would use her murder trial to get publicity for his campaign. He'll get plenty from the meth busts—and don't tell me you didn't know about them ahead of time. No, you wanted the case kicked to protect someone else, and we both know who. Do I need to say her name?”

“No.”

“My question is why. Why would you protect her?”

“For the same reason you protect your friends. Because they are friends.”

“Still, why go to all this trouble? Why didn't you just pick up the phone and call Tuseman?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“The price was too high.”

“He wanted your support in the election.”

“I had already promised my support to another, and I never break my promises, Mr. McKenzie. That's another quality in which you and I are much alike.” I wished he'd stop saying that. “Unfortunately, it would seem that Mr. Tuseman will prevail, in any case.”

“Don't worry about Tuseman,” I said. “I'll stick a fork in that sonuvabitch.”

“Indeed, Mr. McKenzie.”

“Only I'm not going to stop there. Unlike Ms. Bonalay”—I looked directly in her eyes when I spoke—“I believe in justice on earth, and I'm not above manufacturing some when the need arises.”

Muehlenhaus started to laugh, but only to prove that he could.

“Yes, I am sure my granddaughter would find you quite fascinating.”

I deactivated the cell phone without saying good-bye and handed it back to G. K.

“What are you going to do?” G. K. asked.

“Whatever I can.”

“McKenzie, you did good today. You probably saved one woman's life, and you helped get an innocent woman out of jail. Can't you be happy with that?”

“Genevieve,” I said, drawing out the name. “That little speech you gave me before about serving the law—all I can say is, thank God, I'm not an attorney.”

 

I was in my Jeep Cherokee heading east on Highway 10 toward New Brighton. It was slow going. Over one and a half million people were driving to work, and the Cities' overburdened freeway system was clogged with traffic, most of it heading in the general direction of downtown Minneapolis and St. Paul. It was becoming increasingly hot inside my car, but I had the air-conditioning off and windows open—I was trying to dry off.

My cell phone sang “Ode to Joy.” Normally, I don't answer it when I'm driving for fear it might lead to an accident, but considering the speed at which I was traveling, I decided to take that chance.

“McKenzie, this is Dr. Ronning with the county coroner's office.”

“Yes, Dr. Ronning.”

I was so surprised to hear from him that I nearly rear-ended the van in front of me.

“I ran a blood test on Eli Jefferson as you requested, this time specifically looking for GHB. I ran it twice.”

“And?”

“Negative.”

“Negative?”

“There was nothing there. Not a trace. I looked very hard.”

“Are you sure?'

“McKenzie, it's what I do.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“How about, ‘Sorry for wasting your precious time and resources, Doctor'—that'll do. Oh, never mind.”

Dr. Ronning hung up.

Suddenly, I felt like the tiredest man on the face of the earth.

I had asked Muehlenhaus why he was protecting Priscilla St. Ana. What I should have asked him was why Priscilla St. Ana needed protection. The answer had seemed obvious to me. She had killed Jefferson. She had all but confessed to it, along with the murders of her father, her brother, and Brian Becker. I thought I knew why. It was the reason I was driving to New Brighton. Now I wasn't so sure.

 

Vonnie Lou Lowman was making a beeline from her front door to her car in the driveway, a Plymouth Reliant that couldn't have been much younger than she was. I pulled in behind it.

My brain was all a-jumble with thoughts of signatures and motives and opportunities and the means of murder. Cilia claimed she had put Robert St. Ana and Brian Becker to sleep with her GHB analog and then allowed them to die of carbon monoxide poisoning. Eli Jefferson had also been asleep when he bled to death. The coroner now says there was no trace of GHB in his blood. If Cilia hadn't killed Jefferson, why was she so anxious that I believe she had? Or maybe she did kill him,
but instead of using GHB, she used the softball bat to make him unconscious.

Put that aside for now,
I told myself.
Instead, concentrate on motive. Concentrate on the why.
Cilia killed her father for herself. She killed her brother for Merodie. She killed Becker for Silk. Why did she kill Jefferson?

“What is it?” Vonnie Lou wanted to know as I approached her car. She was dressed the way lots of women dress for work in the office nowadays, in a matching blue blazer and skirt and a white blouse with notched lapels. The outfit reminded me of a private school uniform.

“I need you to look at a photograph,” I said.

“I don't have time,” Vonnie Lou insisted. “I just got a call for a receptionist gig that could last three weeks, maybe longer. I can't afford to be late.”

“It'll only take a sec.”

I showed her the computer printout of a photo of Priscilla St. Ana, the one that appeared in
Women's Business Minnesota.

“Is this the woman you found with Eli in your bedroom that day?” I asked.

Vonnie Lou was definite. “No,” she said. “I told you, the bimbo was younger. A college girl.”

“Are you sure? She looks young for her age.”

“Not that young. Besides, the bimbo had auburn hair. This one is blond.”

“It's a dye job. Imagine her with auburn hair.”

“It's not her.”

I was disappointed. I thought I was on to something.

“You don't look so hot,” she told me.

“I haven't been to bed yet.”

That's why you're punchy,
my inner voice told me.
That's why you're not thinking straight.

“Can you move your car now, McKenzie? I'm really late.”

I returned to the Cherokee. I was about to back out of the driveway
when I had another brainstorm. A moment later I was standing in front of Vonnie Lou's driver's side window. Vonnie Lou rolled it down.

“Now what?” She was losing patience with me.

I shoved another printout at her. “One more photo. Look carefully. Is this the woman you found in your bed?”

Vonnie Lou studied it for a moment.

“Yep,” she said. “That's her.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am absolutely sure. Now can I go?”

 

I was the first one in line when they opened the doors to the Minnesota Driver and Vehicle Services office in the Town Square Building in downtown St. Paul. The woman behind the desk was happy to furnish me with both a Records Request form as well as an Intended Use of Driver License and Motor Vehicle Information form. I filled both out carefully, then returned them to the clerk, along with the nine fifty search fee.

It was only a few minutes before I was rewarded with the information I sought—Priscilla St. Ana's complete motor vehicle information and driving record. According to the printout, Priscilla St. Ana owned two cars. The first was the Saab she had told me about. The second was a Mazda Miata MX-5.

“Would you call that a sports car?” I said.

“One-forty-two horsepower, four-cylinder, five-speed transmission, two-seat convertible—yeah, I'd call it a sports car.”

I glanced up at the clerk. She gave me a toothy grin and said, “I like cars.”

I went back to the printout. Under color, it read “black cherry.”

May I take the Mazda?
Silk had said.

You always do,
Cilia told her.

That's because I look so good in it.

“Nuts,” I said.

By midmorning the hot sun was shimmering off the gray tiles on the roof of Priscilla St. Ana's estate in Woodbury—and off the tiny black-cherry sports car parked in the long driveway. I spent a good deal of time staring at the car. It reminded me of something G. K. Bonalay had said—was it just yesterday?

God is in the details.

My inner voice scolded me.
So much misery could have been avoided if only you had looked in the garage,
it said.

Yeah, but there are no windows in the garage.

Excuses, excuses.

The way I looked, I didn't think I had much chance getting past the maid, Caroline. Besides, I didn't want to speak with Cilia. So I ignored the front door and made my way around the sprawling house to the backyard patio. I heard the rumbling sound of the diving board and saw Silk slicing into the water as I turned the corner. I watched her pull herself
from the pool as I approached. She was wearing a pale gray swim-suit with some pale blue splattered here and there. The sun touched droplets on her face and shoulders and the top of her breasts, turning them to silver. Silk smiled as she took a big white beach towel from the back of a chair and brushed away the droplets.

“Mr. McKenzie,” she said as if it were the answer to a question.

“Ms. St. Ana,” I said.

She seemed amused by my appearance—bruised, unshaven face; flat, disheveled hair; dirty jeans and shirt; damp, shapeless sports jacket.

“You look like you fell into something,” she said.

“I suppose you could say that.”

I sat in an iron chair next to the glass table without asking permission, stretching my legs out in front of me. I hid a yawn behind my hand.

“Sorry,” I said. “I've been up all evening.”

“Must have been an interesting night.”

“It had its moments.”

“Are you here to see Aunt Cil?” she asked.

“No. I'm here to see you.”

“Me?”

Suddenly, Silk seemed bashful. She took a tentative step backward and brought the huge white towel in front of her, concealing her body.

I set a heel on the seat of a chair and launched it forward. It slid across the tile and came to a rest next to Silk.

“Take a seat,” I said.

Silk did what I told her, an obedient child listening to the voice of authority, holding the towel in front of her as if it were a life preserver.

“What do you want?” she said. Her voice made me believe she was willing to do whatever I requested.
Where was her confidence?
I wondered.
Where was her audacity?

I said, “The clock is striking midnight, Cinderella. It's pumpkin time.”