Pretty Girl Gone (3 page)

“I didn’t belong to her, Zee. That evening I was all yours, body and soul. And I have to tell you—even though it happened only that once—it’s like the song says, ‘I feel a glow just thinking of you.’ ”

“You will help me then.”

“Of course I will.”

In the back of my mind I was thinking,
You’re a schnook
. Lindsey was using the memory of that one night we spent together to hook me into doing her bidding, and I was going to let her.

“So, are you going to the gala tonight? Jack’s big charity do? I know you have an invitation. I saw your name on the guest list.”

“I’m not a gala kind of guy.”

“You should come. I’ll introduce you to the governor. You’ll like him. I know you will.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Oh, no, I’m running late,” Lindsey said suddenly. “I have to go.” She was standing now, pulling on her coat. The heavyset man at the door was standing as well. Lindsey gestured at the drinks. “I always forget to bring money. Can you get these?”

“Sure.”

Lindsey leaned into the booth and kissed my cheek.

“It was so good to see you again, McKenzie.”

She put on her hat and sunglasses and moved toward the door. The heavyset man held it open and icy air swirled into the restaurant. I called to her.

“How do I reach you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find you.”

“Zee. The e-mail? How can you be sure it’s not true?”

Lindsey turned. I couldn’t see her eyes for the sunglasses. She said, “You’re a dear,” and hustled out of the door.

I don’t care for cell phones and the lack of privacy they represent and for a long time I resisted them, a conscientious objector in the telecommunications revolution. But over time I gave in, just as I surrendered
years earlier to CDs after vowing vinyl today, vinyl tomorrow, vinyl forever. Guess I’m just a wimp when it comes to peer pressure.

I opened the tiny phone book I carry, found the correct page, and thumbed ten numbers on the keypad of the cell.

“McKenzie,” Kim Truong shouted after two rings. I guessed she had read my name on her caller ID. “How are you, you stud muffin?”

“Same old, Kimmy. Same old. How are you? Staying out of trouble?”

“What can I say? Thank God for the morning-after pill. Tell me you called because you dumped the girlfriend.”

“Oh baby, oh baby,” I answered and Kim chuckled. I had never known a woman to speak the way she did, but then I’ve never known a woman quite like her, either—young, petite, pretty, a transplanted Vietnamese computer genius with a barroom personality that would make a sailor blush.

“Whaddaya need?” she asked.

“I have a job for you.”

“Hmm, I like the sound of that.”

“Can you track down the owner of an e-mail address?”

“Easy.”

“With just the address?”

“Easy. What is it?”

I recited the long, seemingly meaningless series of letters and numbers in the “from” field on Lindsey’s e-mail.

Kim was using her surfer’s voice, carrying on a conversation with me while simultaneously surfing the web, reading e-mails or trading instant messages, so I wasn’t surprised when she said, “Wait, wait, wait . . .” Seconds later Kim said, “Tell me again.”

I did.

“When did you get the e-mail?”

“Three days ago.”

“Shoulda called then, Mac. We coulda tapped into the ISP’s short-term
memory cache before new records replaced the old records, know what I mean?”

I pretended that I did.

“Don’t worry. If your friend’s using a route account with a concrete street address like Eudora or Outlook, it’ll be like looking up a phone number. If he’s using a Web-based account like Yahoo or Hotmail that exists only in cyberland, or even an anonymizer, one of those sites created to mask information about the original sender—and right now I’m thinking that’s what this looks like—it’ll be tougher, but a babe like me, I can handle it.”

“How long will it take?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Really?”

“Ten minutes once I start. Can’t do it now. Some delinquent launched a particularly nasty little virus and my accounts are screaming for me to purge their systems before the entire Western economy collapses around them, so I’m gonna have to get back to you.”

I had often wondered if Kim had ever launched a few viruses of her own in order to drum up business—it would have made for a nifty extortion racket—but I never asked.

“As soon as you can get to it, I’d appreciate it,” I told her.

“So, McKenzie. This e-mail. You got a stalker?”

“No.”

“Would you like one?”

“I’ll let you know if there’s an opening.”

“Here’s the thing,” Kim said. “I can hack an ISP and trace the route back to the original sender, or at least to his computer. No muss, no fuss. Only we’re talking the violation of several federal privacy statutes . . .”

“I figured.”

“For that kind of exposure, I’m gonna have to charge you.”

“You’re on. Just don’t go crazy out there, Kim. Protect yourself, okay?”

“Nothing to it.”

“Send me a bill.”

“What bill? I tell you how much it costs and you pay me in cash. It’s not called the underground economy for nothing. ’Course, I might take the price out in trade, if you know what I mean.”

“You’ve got my number.”

“I wish.”

“Hey, Kimmy?”

“Yeah.”

“Pleasure talking to you.”

“See ya.”

The sky was cloudless and pale; the sun fierce and white and glistening on the snow piled along the streets and sidewalks. Except the prettiness of the afternoon was just bait to lure unsuspecting prey out of doors. The sweat on my forehead froze so quickly in the frigid air when I left the Groveland Tap that the fingertips of my brown leather gloves came away encrusted with frost when I brushed my brow. I began to shiver as the rest of the perspiration on my body chilled, and it took an effort to keep my teeth from chattering.

At five degrees below zero—not to mention the minus twenty-three-degree windchill—Minnesotans understand that Nature gives the body a choice. Either lie down and die or run to some place warm. Me, I was running. I broke into a slow trot when I left the Tap, moving along St. Clair Avenue to my Audi parked half a block up. Not for the first time I marveled at those eccentric men and women who dash out of saunas, roll around in the snow or leap into a nearby frozen pond, then hurry back to the sauna before frostbite settles in.

I had just about reached my car when a man on the other side of the street called, “Excuse me.” He was dressed for business in a gray trench coat over black dress slacks and wingtips. He was carrying an unfolded
map in both hands and looked hopelessly lost. It was one of the oldest ploys in the book, but I didn’t see it until he crossed the street and shoved the .38 into my gut. I blamed the weather. After all, how many muggers prowl the streets at five below looking for vics?

“My employer wishes to speak to you,” he said politely, his warm breath rising like mist.

“He could have called,” I said. “I’m in the book.”

A combination of cold fear and hot anger thrilled through me as he pressed the muzzle under my ribs. It was a dangerous combination for all involved—frightened, angry men don’t always do what’s in their best interests. I carefully reviewed his words in my head.
“My employer wishes to speak with you.”
I took that to mean that he didn’t want me killed, whoever
he
was—at least not for the time being. I decided to keep it uncomplicated, give my escort no reason to make any fatal mistakes. So, a moment later when a black Park Avenue pulled up, I said, “Is this our ride?”

My escort yanked open the back door.

“Inside,” he said calmly.

“After you,” I told him.

He gave me a gentle poke with the gun.

“Well, since you asked nicely.”

A few minutes later, we were on I-94, crossing the Mississippi River into Minneapolis—“Sin City” some of us St. Paulites call it, and not always in jest. A few minutes more and we were deep inside downtown Minneapolis, pulling into the parking ramp of one of the newer glass and steel towers. It was when we were on the public elevator with three other people going up that I realized the kidnapping was all for show and that I had little to fear.

“You’re new at this kidnapping thing, aren’t you,” I told my escort.

A panicked look spread across his face as our elevator mates glanced at him while pretending not to.

“I gotta tell you, though, the trouble with shooting through your pocket? You can’t really be sure where the gun is pointing.”

My escort’s face became a shade of red that you don’t often see in nature. Yet he didn’t speak. Nor did he take his hand out of his pocket. Instead, he stood motionless, watching the floor numbers change on the electronic display. Once the doors slid shut after our final companion departed the elevator, he turned toward me with an expression of snarling anger.

“Uh-uh,” I grunted and pointed toward the upper corner of the car. My escort followed my finger to a small security camera.

“You could end up on
America’s Funniest Home Videos.
”

He faced the door again and said nothing.

“Seriously,” I asked him. “What did you do before you got into this line of work?”

Now Norman, my escort, was sitting in a chair against the wall, nursing his pride. The three men at the far end of the table were all leaning forward, waiting to hear what I had to say. Muehlenhaus was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest like he already knew. Donovan was pacing, his hands behind his back like he was an eighteenth-century naval commander bestriding the deck. There was a streak of vanity in the man, I decided. It was long and wide.

“If the first lady is upset, I am unaware of it,” I announced calmly.

Mahoney—he was the one wearing the politician uniform—grunted loudly and looked at me as if he didn’t believe me, as if he hadn’t believed anything anyone had told him in years.

Donovan apparently agreed with him. He said, “I think you’re lying.”

I said, “I don’t care.”

The pain in his expression was so severe, you’d think I shot him.

“Whom do you think you’re talking to?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you when I get to know you better.”

The tension in the room was suddenly a thin wire stretched too tight. Just the slightest pressure and it would snap.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Muehlenhaus repeated in an attempt to calm us.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I said. “Under what scenario can you imagine that I would betray the confidence of my friends to you?”

“We know how to reward
our
friends,” Gunhus said.

“I bet. But we’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances, and if someone doesn’t start volunteering information in a hurry, I’m going to leave.”

Coole, Gunhus, and Mahoney looked at each other to see who would speak first. Donovan beat them all to it.

“Can we rely on your discretion?” he asked.

“Not even a little bit.”

They didn’t like my answer. I watched the five men discuss it with glances and gestures. Not a word was spoken—it was as if they communicated with ESP. I rotated in my chair and faced Muehlenhaus.

“What is it you want of me?”

He in turn made a nearly imperceptible gesture with his bloodless hand.

Donovan read it and said, “Mr. McKenzie, we have an assignment to discuss with you. One that requires fine sensibilities and good judgment, one that requires the utmost in secrecy.”

“You have already proven to us that you can keep a secret,” Muehlenhaus informed me.

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms and ankles.
And people say I watch too many movies.
I half expected the theme from
Mission Impossible
to begin wafting through the room from hidden speakers.

“Do you know the governor?” Donovan asked.

“We’ve never met.”

“Do you like him?”

“We’ve never met,” I repeated.

“We have a great deal invested in Governor Barrett.”

“A great deal,” Mahoney confirmed.

“Just so,” said Muehlenhaus.

“We made him governor,” Donovan added. “We would like to make him a U.S. senator.”

“Why stop there?” I asked.

“Why indeed?”

Jesus.

“We—as I’m sure you’ll appreciate—are prepared to protect that investment.”

“When we say ‘we,’ we’re referring to the party,” said Muehlenhaus. “After decades of being in the minority, the party has made great strides in Minnesota,” said Coole. “Much of that is due to Governor Barrett. He’s comparatively young. Attractive. Charismatic. He’s well known in the state and becoming well known throughout the nation—a high school sports hero, a self-made man rising above small-town poverty to become successful in business, respected for his philanthropic activities. He has been a splendid standard-bearer. So much so, that many people are considering him for higher office, perhaps the highest office.”

“He’s also willing to spend as much as twenty million dollars of his own money on his campaign,” added Mahoney.

“There’s that, too,” said Coole.

“So, what’s the problem?” I asked.

“You tell us,” Donovan said.

Muehlenhaus leaned forward.

“The first lady asked you to do a
favor
for her—please, don’t deny it. The favors you perform for your friends don’t always bear up well to public scrutiny. We would like to understand what this particular favor entails, but we will no longer press you on the matter. We wish only to
impress you with this one fact: If there is a problem with the first lady, we can make it go away. We are determined to make it go away. In that regard, are we not allies?”

“Mr. McKenzie,” said Donovan. “We are not asking you to help us. We are asking that you allow us to help you.”

“We’ll reward you well for your cooperation,” added Mahoney.

A feeling of excitement grew in my stomach and a kind of hollow feeling, too, that I couldn’t give a name. I couldn’t do anything about the feeling and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Like most people, I have been on the outside looking in while men and women I didn’t know manipulated events and made decisions that affected my life, sometimes gravely. Now I was being asked to participate, albeit in a somewhat roundabout manner. It made me feel the way I had when I was a freshman in high school and the “cool” kids invited me to lunch at their table. It made me feel important.