Theresa Monsour (6 page)

Murphy: “No.”

“Friends, huh? Chad's got plenty of those. He needs a woman who can cook for him.”

Murphy tipped her head toward the woman onstage. “Doesn't he socialize with any of the ladies here?”

She wrinkled her nose. “The dancers? No way. Not his type.”

A guy in a suit took a stool to Murphy's right. He had a drink in his hand. It smelled like whiskey. Strong stuff for lunch, Murphy thought. His eyes were bloodshot. Tie askew. He had short red hair and freckles. Old enough to be in the bar, but too young to be hitting the booze so hard so early in the day. He raised his right index finger. The bartender eyed him. “I think you've had enough,” she said.

The guy turned and said to Murphy, “The responsible adult thinks I've had enough.”

“I'd have to agree,” Murphy said. She sipped her Coke.

He stared at Murphy's chest. “You should be up there, baby.” He thumbed toward the stage; the boney blonde had been replaced by a chubby blonde, also with dark pubic hair. She turned her back to the crowd and bent forward, looking between her legs while hanging on to her ankles.

“No,” said Murphy. “That's not my kind of dancing.”

“You wouldn't have to dance,” he said. “All you'd have to do is get naked and stand there and they'd slide you wads of cash. Know why?”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause you got a rack.” With the word
rack
he slammed his right hand on the bar.

“Thanks,” Murphy said dryly.

“No. I mean it. I could talk to the manager. I know the manager.” He threw his left arm around her shoulders and leaned into her right ear. “Listen. Here's the plan.” He stopped talking and frowned. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

Murphy pushed his arm off her. “You were going to ask the bartender for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

He nodded. “Good idea.” He raised his finger again. A male bartender—a tall black guy in a square haircut—approached him. The drunk pointed to his glass.

“No way, buddy. You're done,” the bartender said, and walked to the other end of the bar.

The female bartender set a plate of burger and fries in front of Murphy, and a bottle of ketchup. The drunk picked up the bottle and squirted a puddle of ketchup on Murphy's plate. Set the bottle down.

“Hey!” said Murphy. He picked a couple of fries off her plate, dipped them in the ketchup and started eating them. She slid the plate in front of him. “Put this on his tab,” she told the female bartender. “He needs it more than I do.”

“I'm sorry,” said the woman. “I'm gonna get someone over here to deal with this joker.” She walked over to the
tall bartender and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and picked up a phone under the bar.

“I got what I need,” Murphy said to herself. She pulled some bills out of her purse, threw them on the bar and hopped off the stool. Threw her purse strap over her shoulder and went out the door. She was reaching in her purse for her keys when she heard someone behind her. She turned. The drunk redhead. He had ketchup on his chin. “What the hell do you want?” she asked.

He stepped toward her. “I think you know.” He pressed her against the side of the Jeep and cupped her left breast over her jacket. “You gotta be a hooker, coming into a place like this by yourself. With tits like these. What do you charge for a knob job, huh?”

She pushed him off of her and he fell against her again. Reached around and cupped her buttocks with his hands. “Come on, baby. This your day off or what?”

“My friend,” Murphy said. “You picked the wrong ass to grab.” She pushed him off of her with both hands, stepped behind him and slammed him face-first into the Jeep. She grabbed each of his wrists in each of her hands and pulled his arms behind him.

“Murphy. Need some help?”

She looked over her shoulder. Two uniforms. She recognized both of them. The male bartender must have called them. “Yeah. Take this asshole to detox.” She stepped away.

The bigger of the two uniforms held the drunk's arms behind his back while his partner cuffed the guy's wrists. They flipped him over so he faced them. He looked at Murphy. “Why'd you call the cops, baby?”

Murphy was wiping the front of her jacket with a wad of tissue. The guy had ketchup on his hands and had gotten some on her. “I am the cops,” she said.

“Shit,” the drunk muttered.

The two uniforms walked him over to their squad. They eased him into the back while Murphy watched with her arms folded in front of her.

“Wouldn't have squeezed her tits if I knew she was a cop.”

“You squeezed her tits?” said the big uniform. “Jesus Christ. You're lucky to be breathing. We saved your life, dumb shit.”

CHAD PEDERSON WASN'T a wife killer. Murphy did more checking when she got back to the station. Made a few phone calls from her desk. He had nothing in the way of a record. “Damn waste of time,” she muttered as she threw down a pen and leaned back in her chair.

Chuck Dubrowski and Max Castro walked into the office. They were veterans in Homicide and had been partners so long they looked alike—big arms, bushy eyebrows, gray hair, thick necks that seemed sunburned even in the middle of winter. When Dubrowski learned he needed glasses, he went out and got the same wire-rimmed frames as Castro. He said it was a coincidence, but Murphy enjoyed giving him grief about it. Today they wore matching sweatshirts under their blazers.

“Wild-goose chase,” Castro muttered, tossing a notebook on his desk.

Dubrowski poured himself a cup of coffee and collapsed into his chair. “Yo-Yo and his bullshit.”

“What happened?” Murphy asked.

“Get this,” said Castro, sitting down. “Duncan hands us this address on the North End. Some guy getting death threats.”

“The North End?” asked Murphy. “I know where this is going.”

“Yup,” said Dubrowski. “Anyway, I tell Yo-Yo who we're dealing with, that we all know this head case. He says there could be something to it; maybe somebody is really threatening the guy this time. I tell Duncan to send a uniform. Castro says we should call head case's social worker. The asshole says if we don't take the call, he's gonna write us up. Fuck him.”

Castro: “So we drive out there to make Duncan happy. The head case is sitting in his front room with a crucifix. He's got his noggin wrapped in aluminum foil so the aliens can't tap into his mind. Waves his cross around and says he won't talk to us because we're part of the conspiracy. Says we're ghosts from another planet and we're helping UFOs abduct people.”

“Ghosts? That's a new twist in his story,” Murphy said. “But then why does he keep calling us?”

Dubrowski: “Hell if I know.”

Murphy: “Ghosts don't go out during the day, do they?”

Dubrowski: “I didn't write this guy's script for him.”

Castro got out of his chair and walked over to Murphy's desk. “Anyway, we're coming back to the cop shop and Duncan calls us.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Guess what he says? Says to make sure we do up a detailed report. That's the word he used.
Detailed
.”

Murphy: “You're shittin' me.”

Castro: “I shit you not.”

“Think it would do us any good to talk to the boss?” Murphy asked.

“He's got his own problems,” said Castro.

Murphy knew he was right. Months earlier, Chief Benjamin Christianson had been accused of hindering her investigation into a prostitute's death. The murderer—the man who'd given Murphy the scar—was a surgeon and a
cousin of Christianson's wife. The doctor killed himself before his arrest, but that didn't end the mess. The mayor wanted the chief's resignation and Christianson was fighting it. Adding to the tumult: a city council plan to move police headquarters from downtown to the lower East Side.

“What about going to the union?” said Murphy.

“We already talked to Sandeen,” said Dubrowski. Pete Sandeen, another Homicide detective, was a union steward. “He says we should hold off. Give Yo-Yo time. I say it's time to kick his ass.”

Castro walked back to his desk, sat down and waved Dubrowski over. “Come on, Casper. Let's put our alien heads together and do up a
detailed
report on Reynolds Wrap Man.”

Murphy had to give them a hard time about their shirts before they went to work. “Hey, cute sweats. Where can I get one? Then we can all match.”

Castro opened his desk drawer. “I already grabbed one for you.”

Murphy thought he was joking, but he pulled a shirt out and threw it to her. She caught it and held it up. The upper left side of the shirt was embroidered with a St. Paul Homicide detective's badge and circling it, the words:
To the living we owe respect. To the dead we owe the truth
. “I like that,” she said. “Where'd this come from?”

Castro: “The union. Sandeen made them up. Says it'll promote unity and team spirit and all that other crap. He's trying to come up with a different one for each division. If he can't get rid of Yo-Yo for us, at least he can dress us pretty.”

 

MURPHY wanted to find out if her mission was Yo-Yo's idea or if the Moose Lake cops had asked for help. She walked into Duncan's office before going home that night. He was on the phone with his feet up on the desk. He motioned for her to sit down in the chair across from his desk, and she did.

“Did he have anything on him when you picked him up?” While cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he was playing with a paper clip. Unbending it. A mound of straightened paper clips on his desk, as well as foam coffee cups, piles of paper, a half-eaten bagel and a copy of
Popular Science
. “No kidding? Any of them been fired?”

He wore an oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up, dress pants and a tie—Christianson ordered all his commanders to wear ties—but his clothes looked as if Duncan had slept in them for a week. He had sneakers on his feet. Murphy recognized the brand. Pricey running shoes. The tread was worn. Did the slob actually exercise? The blazer he'd brought to work was on the floor next to his desk and there was a dirty stripe across the back; he'd run over it with the casters of his chair.

“I'll ask my detective. She's back from the house. Sure. Sure. Happy to help out. Glad the s.o.b. turned up.”

Murphy realized he was talking about Chad Pederson. She couldn't believe Moose Lake was seriously looking at him for this. Everything she'd learned about Pederson told her he wasn't the killer. What did they have on him? She got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had Yo-Yo cooked up some theory and sold it to the cops up north? Duncan craved being in the middle of all the action. She hoped he hadn't dragged her into the middle with him.

He picked up a cup and speared it with a paper clip. “Tell you what. Here's an idea for you.” He pulled his feet off the desk, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. “Why don't I send her up there?”

“Shit,” Murphy said under her breath.

“She's the best we've got. Real easy on the eyes, too.” Duncan winked at her and Murphy smiled. He swiveled his chair around to glance out the window while he talked and she flipped him the bird behind his back.

“No. No. Not a problem.” He spun his chair back around and hung up the phone. “Pack your bags, Potato Head.”

Murphy: “What did you tell them? I haven't even briefed you yet. Jesus Christ. I don't think he did it. Doesn't have a record. Neighbors love his ass. Works like a dog. He was duck hunting with his kids.”

“That's the bullshit he laid on the authorities up there. Here's what really happened: Pederson shoots his ex after she leaves the wedding reception, dumps the body, grabs the kids and takes off. Maybe he really does take them duck hunting; it's a good excuse to disappear for a while. He brings them back to the ex's house days later and acts all broken up, pretends he didn't know she got croaked.”

“Motive?”

“Hated paying child support.”

“Why did they find a finger? Where's the rest of her?”

“Animals probably snacked on her; one of them ran off with a hunk of her and dropped it. The rest of her is out there somewhere.”

“This is the story you've sold to the Moose Lake police?”

“Carlton County sheriff. But the police up there are on the same page.” He picked up a sheet of paper and started folding it into an airplane.

Murphy got up from the chair and paced in front of his desk. “You've got nothing to base this on.”

“Pederson had a trunk full of shotguns when he pulled into Moose Lake this afternoon. A couple of them had been discharged.” He tossed the paper airplane toward a wastebasket in the corner and missed. “On top of that, he had a vicious dog. Almost took a deputy's arm off. I would've shot the thing.”

She stopped pacing, stood behind the chair she'd been sitting in, grabbed the back of it with both hands. She knew he was waiting for her to go ballistic; she saw the expectant expression on his face. She sat back down and rubbed her forehead with her hands. She caught his eyes locking on her scar and she brushed her bangs down to cover it. In a low voice she said, “He was duck hunting.”

“If he's innocent, it'll all come out. He's got major fucking holes in his story. If you think you can plug them
with what you got down here, go right ahead, if that's what you wanna do.” Duncan leaned back and put his feet up on the desk again. “But if that is what you wanna do, it makes me wonder. That little bump on the head. That making you soft, Murphy?”

She sat up straight in the chair. Her eyes narrowed and darkened, seemed to go from violet to black.

He smiled and took another shot at her: “They got an opening in the Public Pretender's Office.”

That's what Homicide called the Ramsey County Public Defender's Office. She wanted to bolt out of the chair and tell him to go fuck himself. Leave the room. Slam the door behind her. He'd love it, though. A big scene in the office. She didn't give it to him, but she was disappointed with the weak argument that finally came out of her mouth: “This is out of our jurisdiction.”

“Don't worry about jurisdiction.”

“It's not our case.”

“Now it is. Get your butt up there, Potato Head.”