Theresa Monsour (5 page)

MURPHY DIDN'T NEED to write down the address. It wasn't far from the Murphy family home, where as a kid she'd claimed the root cellar as her bedroom to escape the rest of the beehive. That's how she'd earned the title “Potato Head.” A family nickname. She didn't want anyone using it except relatives and a couple of close friends; Axel was neither one. She thought he was a pain in the ass. A hot dog and a show-off.

She pulled out of the yacht club parking lot and went south on Wabasha Street. She took a right on Water Street and passed the Great River Boat Works, where yachts and speedboats and houseboats were on blocks and lined up behind a fence, waiting for repairs in the yard. She took a left on Plato Boulevard and a right on Ohio Street and snaked up the winding hill. She hung a right on George Street, crossed Smith Avenue and drove into Cherokee Park.

Chad Pederson lived in a compact bungalow off the park. Murphy circled the block once and then drove down the alley. She parked her Jeep in front of a garage a couple
of houses away from Pederson's. Before getting out of the car, she opened her shoulder bag and checked her service weapon, a .40-cal. Glock Model 23. When she didn't wear a belt or shoulder rig, her purse doubled as her holster and had a special sleeve to carry her gun. She walked down the alley, surveying the trash cans huddled next to all the garages. The cans were empty; the neighborhood had recently had a garbage pickup. If Chad Pederson had disposed of any evidence in the trash, it was already at the dump. A cedar privacy fence enclosed Pederson's backyard, but there was a gate from the alley. She peeked through a crack between the fence boards and then opened the gate and walked in.

Against the back fence was a garden the size of a doormat; it was a tangle of dead tomato vines. On one side of the yard she saw an aluminum playground set with two swings and a slide. On the other side was a tree with slats of wood nailed onto the trunk; the rungs led up to a wooden platform set between the lowest branches. A fort. Her brothers built lots of them when they were kids. A deck ran alongside the back of the bungalow. Tucked into one corner of the deck was a doghouse—a miniature of Pederson's bungalow—with a sign nailed across the top.
Spike's Place
. A couple of shallow holes in the dirt against the fence had to be Spike's handiwork. There were no suspicious mounds or patches of fresh sod, and she'd expected none. She'd never come across someone stupid enough to bury his ex in the backyard. She remembered one genius who'd dumped his wife in the lake behind their house. Another kept his girlfriend in a trunk in the garage. Better check the garage, she thought.

The service door was open a crack. She put her ear to it and listened. Nothing. She pulled out her flashlight and pushed the door the rest of the way with her hip and walked inside. She sniffed. No suspicious smells. She flicked on the flashlight and ran the beam around the garage. No car. No trunk, either. A snowmobile sitting on a small trailer took up half the two-car garage. Tools
hanging from the walls. Kids' bikes and rakes pushed against the side. She shined her light overhead. A plastic snowman and a set of reindeer tucked into the rafters. A bunch of hockey sticks. Couple of shovels. She turned off the flashlight, stuffed it in her purse and went back outside.

Both the garage and the house needed a coat of latex; white paint was flaking off in spots. Murphy could sympathize; her boat needed a paint job. She walked onto the deck and peeked through the sliding glass doors. No signs of movement. She knocked on the back door and listened. No response.

A big voice from next door: “They went duck hunting.”

Murphy turned to her left; a man was standing on his deck looking over the fence at her. He'd returned from his own hunting trip. He was dressed in camouflage and had an armload of shotguns in camouflage cases. He was fat and all the green he was wearing and carrying made him look like an army tank.

“How'd you make out?” Murphy asked.

“Got our limit.” Three boys in camouflage came up behind him on the deck, their arms empty. He looked at them as he struggled to open the back door. “You lazy turds. Go help your mother unload the car.”

“I gotta pee,” said the littlest.

“You can hold it. Go help your mother.” The three boys turned around and stepped off the deck.

“No school today?” Murphy asked.

“Kids have been off since Thursday. Teachers' convention. They should have been back in school today but I let them play hooky so we could hunt longer.”

“When did Chad leave for hunting?” Murphy asked.

The man pushed open his back door. Two big dogs ran up the deck steps and shot through the door ahead of him. “He was having a hard time getting off work. Said he wasn't leaving until after work Friday. Was gonna swing by his ex's house and pick up his boys and go.”

“Know when they're due back?”

“He was talking about taking today off, like we did. Send them back to school tomorrow.” The man set his guns down against the side of the house and looked at her. “You the new girlfriend?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Too bad. Chad's a good egg. Deserves a babe.” His wife came up behind him, arms loaded with gear. She was as big as he was and was also dressed in camo. She pushed past her husband to get into the house.

“Know where they were hunting?” Murphy asked.

“Chad's buddy has got a cabin. Not sure exactly where. You social services or what?”

Murphy heard barking from inside the man's house, and then his wife: “Fred! Get these filthy animals out of here!”

“Gotta go,” he said. He picked up his guns and walked through the door.

 

MURPHY went to the front of the Pederson house, stood on the porch, peered through a couple of the windows. An elderly voice: “Nobody home. Went duck hunting.” Then a hacking cough. Murphy turned and saw Pederson's neighbor on the other side of the fence. The elderly black woman was wrapped in a heavy sweater and sitting on a porch swing. In her lap was a white poodle dressed in a matching sweater. Murphy swore to herself she'd never own a dog that wore sweaters.

She smiled as she walked up the old woman's steps. “Hello.”

“You're a cop,” said the woman. She coughed again. Her skin was as gray as her hair. She had a cigarette between her boney fingers and was holding it away from her so the ash wouldn't drop on the dog. She wore red lipstick; it was smeared all over the cigarette butt. “Paris Murphy, right?”

“Yeah. Do I know you?”

“Mrs. McDonough. Recognized you from your mom
and dad's joint.” More hacking. “I saw you punch a fella after he pinched your ass. You were a tough little shit.”

“Tell me about this Pederson. Is he a decent neighbor or a jerk?”

“Chad. He's a nice kid. Moved down here from up north. Juggles two jobs to make his child support.”

Murphy took her notebook out of her purse. “Where's he work?”

“Machine shop in Minneapolis. Third shift. Tends bar during the day at that titty club on West Seventh Street.”

“I know the place,” said Murphy, writing in her notebook. “Ever see him lose it with his kids or his ex or anyone else?”

“Never met his ex.” She stopped talking to pick a dog hair off her tongue. “Cute kids. A little wild.”

“Does he yell at them a lot? Slug them? Hear any racket over there?”

“That stupid monster, Spike. Barks at everything that moves. Scares the living shit out of my baby.” She scratched behind the poodle's ears and kissed his head; she left a lipstick mark on his fur.

“What else about Chad?”

“Quiet. Shovels my walk in the winter. Won't take a dime from me. Sent tomatoes over all summer. Big Boys. Real meaty.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette, coughed, took another pull. Then it occurred to her: “Christ Almighty! That's his ex on the news, isn't it? You're not thinking he killed her. No way he did it.”

“Know how I can reach him?”

“He's at a friend's cabin. No phone. No electricity. Outdoor crapper.” She coughed so hard she dropped the cigarette. A gust of wind made her shiver and pull her sweater tighter around her thin body. “I think he's nuts. Especially this time of year.”

“He ever mention the friend's name? Where the cabin is located?”

“Nope. If he did, I'd remember.” More hacking, then:
“The body's going, but the mind still works. Your folks, Sean and Amira, they still alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” Murphy said.

“Tell them Tootie says hello.”

“I'll do that. You take it easy Mrs. McDonough.” She closed her notebook and slipped it back in her purse.

“Try tonight on Chad,” she said as Murphy stepped off the porch. “He'll be back tonight. Probably bring me a duck all cleaned and ready for the oven.” She bent over and picked the cigarette off the porch floor and took another puff. “No way in hell he killed her.”

Murphy checked her watch. Close to lunchtime, and she could go for a bar burger and fries. She took Smith Avenue and crossed the High Bridge over the river. She hung a left on West Seventh and drove a couple of miles. There used to be several strip joints in St. Paul, but one by one they were shut down by neighborhood activists. One on the East Side was now an Embers restaurant in the front and a bingo hall in the back. Another on University Avenue had been converted into the police department's Western District Office. The West Seventh club was one of the last two left in town.

She took a left and pulled into the parking lot, turned off the Jeep and slipped her keys in her purse. She slid out of the car and shut the driver's door. Surveyed the parking lot. Not many cars. From what she remembered, the place had the biggest lunch crowd on Fridays. She hiked her purse strap over her right shoulder and walked to the entrance. The front windows were painted black with white silhouettes of nude women. After stepping inside, Murphy stopped for a few seconds so her eyes could adjust to the dark. The place looked the same as she remembered from her days as a uniform. The bottom half of the walls were covered by wood paneling and the top half by barn-red paint. Large oil portraits of nude women provided the main decoration for the place. The bar was on one end of the room and was circled by stools. The other end was the
stage. Murphy saw a nude dancer swaying to Tina Turner. A boney blonde with dark pubic hair shaved into a narrow V. A glass wall separated the performers from the rest of the bar. The city didn't allow establishments with nude dancing to serve liquor. As a way around the rule, the strip joints divided their clubs and put up the walls. They had separate outside entrances for the performance and bar areas. So the women could still receive tips, slots were cut at the bottom of the glass walls. Men slipped the bills through like they were sliding deposits to bank tellers.

Murphy took a stool at the bar. Unzipped her jacket and set her purse on her lap. Most of the dozen customers were sitting at the foot of the stage. A guy in a booth against the wall was getting a lap dance from a skinny brunette in a bikini. Murphy didn't see anyone she recognized; it would be easier to ask questions. She didn't expect trouble regardless. Strip clubs tended to have middle-aged patrons—including lots of married men—and those customers kept a low profile. Rarely made trouble. The police got more complaints about bars frequented by the younger crowd; they'd spill out of the clubs and pee and puke on people's lawns.

An older woman with big arms and a pink face walked to Murphy's end of the counter. Her silver hair was braided and coiled in a circle on top of her head. She wore a tee shirt that read:
Cleverly disguised as a responsible adult
. “What can I get you?”

“Burger and fries.”

The woman scratched the order on a pad.

“Anything to drink?”

“Diet Pepsi.”

“No Pepsi.”

“Diet Coke?”

“Coke we got. Want that now?” Murphy nodded and the woman turned around to fill a glass with ice.

“Chad not working today?” Murphy asked.

The woman poured the pop and slid the glass to Murphy. “Duck hunting. That's why I'm up front instead of in
the kitchen.” She nodded toward the dancer onstage. “I'm not big on this stuff.” She left to hand the order off to the kitchen. Murphy looked at the stage again. The dancer's routine had switched from simple swaying to squatting with her knees splayed wide and then standing. Squatting. Standing. Squatting. Standing. The bartender returned with a towel. Started wiping the counter.

Murphy sipped her Coke. “I suppose Chad deserves a day off.”

“That he does,” said the woman. “Works his hind end off for those boys of his. Hockey equipment ain't cheap. The older one is a goalie. Know what goalie pads cost? My daughter's got two goalies. Thank God her husband makes good scratch.”

Murphy took another drink. Set it down. Stirred it with the straw. “You'd think Chad's ex would help out more.”

“Don't know a thing about her,” said the bartender. “Never heard Chad say a word against her. Who knows? Maybe she's playing him for a sucker.” The woman stopped wiping and eyed Murphy. “You Chad's new squeeze?”