Want To Play (19 page)

Magozzi wanted to kiss him. ‘We owe you, Doc. Thank you.’

‘This is my job, Detective. I will call you immediately when I have something to report.’ He turned to Gino and bowed his head slightly. ‘I was honored to work with you tonight, Detective Rolseth. You were very gentle with the guests while performing a very unpleasant duty.’

Gino, unused to compliments from any quarter, blushed and blustered, ‘Yeah, well, I could have done without it. Sucked rocks, is what it did.’

Rambachan brightened and looked at Magozzi. ‘Sucked rocks? Would this be in the book?’

Magozzi suppressed a smile and shook his head. ‘Probably not.’

‘Then you will explain at another time?’

‘With pleasure.’

‘Excellent. Then good evening to you both.’

Gino waited until the Indian was out of earshot, then turned to Magozzi with a broad smile. ‘What is with you two? You’ve got some little bonding thing going. I can barely understand the guy and you two chat it up like a couple of English lords over tea.’

Magozzi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s just so . . . polite. And so naïve. It’s a nice combo. He thinks
How to Talk Minnesotan
is a linguistics book.’

Gino laughed out loud. ‘I hope you told him.’

‘Not yet . . .’ Magozzi’s cell phone chirped and he fumbled it out of his coat pocket. ‘Damnit. Hang on, Gino . . . Magozzi!’ he barked into the receiver.

He was quiet for a long time, and Gino swore he saw the beginnings of a smile.

‘No kidding. You got an address for me?’ He dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and scrawled down numbers and a street name. ‘Funny place for a multimillionaire to live. Great work, Tommy. Now go home and get some rest. I’m going to need you early tomorrow.’ He snapped the phone closed with a flourish.

‘Good news?’ Gino asked.

‘Grace MacBride, or whoever she is, has six guns registered in her name. One of them’s a .22.’

Gino nodded knowingly. ‘She did it.’

‘I’m going to head over there, see if I can catch her home, peg her from two to four, maybe take a look at the gun, and then ask her for some help with the registration list.’

‘Nice touch. Could you help us find a killer, unless, of course, you’re the killer, and if that’s the case, could I take a look at your gun?’

Magozzi shrugged. ‘You got any other ideas?’

‘Yeah, I got an idea. Getting as far away from this case as I can. Jimmy and I were talking about that day-trading thing. Figured we could do it from Montana.’

Magozzi sped through side streets, turret light flashing, then picked up 94 East to St Paul. The freeway was nearly deserted at this hour – too late for the worker bees to be out, too early for the clubbers to head home – so he pushed the unmarked up toward ninety in the far left lane, wishing he had one of MPH’s new Grand Ams instead of the doggy two-year-old Ford sedan.

Then again, why was he in such a hurry? He knew damn well Grace MacBride was no killer, and even if she were, she certainly wouldn’t be wandering around her house drenched in blood carrying a smoking gun and looking guilty. The .22 registered in her name was the thinnest of coincidences – that particular gun was as common as potholes in this city – but it was an excuse to drop in on her, and he decided not to examine his reasons for wanting to do that too closely.

‘Alibi. The registration list.’ He said it aloud, as if giving voice to the feeble rationalization would make it more believable. His excessive speed was easier to justify. The broken car heater had mysteriously kicked in with a vengeance at eighty-five mph, and it was the first time he’d been warm since leaving City Hall.

He braked at the Cretin-Vandalia exit and turned off the turret light. By the time he drove the few blocks to Groveland Avenue, the temperature in the car had already dropped ten degrees and the plastic steering wheel started to feel like a circle of ice.

Even deep in the residential district, there were a few people out in spite of the cold. A group of preteens who should have been home in bed on a school night; a couple walking a long-haired dog so close to the ground it looked legless; a die-hard jogger who harbored the delusion that running past dark alleys and shadowy doorways was a healthy pastime. All of them wore gloves, even the kids, which made all of them smarter than he was.

He put one hand between his knees to warm his fingers and steered with the other, dreaming of his gloves at home on the closet shelf.

Grace MacBride’s house was as modest as any in this quiet, working-class neighborhood, which seemed a little strange in view of her net worth. What was a multimillionaire doing living in a tiny two-story stucco with a detached garage? Another contradiction to add to the collection.

He parked on the opposite side of the street and studied the house for a moment while he exhaled frost into the cold car. Opaque shades covered all the windows; the only source of light was a high-intensity flood that illuminated a tiny front yard bereft of landscaping. No frivolous flower beds, no shrubbery, no decorative, welcoming touches – just a plain cement walk that led to a heavy, windowless door.

He shut off the car and climbed out, tugging his collar up around his ears. The thin microfiber trench that had seemed like a good fashion decision in August was laughably ineffectual now. But like every good Minnesotan, except Gino, he’d wait until a near-death brush with hypothermia before he dragged out the down parka, as if wearing lighter clothing would somehow encourage the weather to adjust itself appropriately.

He crossed the deserted street and followed the arrow-straight walk up to a three-step cement stoop. He paused on the top step and studied the door.

The last time he’d seen a steel-clad door was on a homicide call at a suburban meth lab last spring. A pricey line of defense for drug dealers, mobsters, and the ultraparanoid. For an abused woman hiding out from a crazed ex-husband or boyfriend, it made good sense, as long as you had money, and it wasn’t the first time that particular scenario had danced through his brain.

He’d seen the fear in her eyes the first time he’d met her, and in that instant he’d thought,
Abuse victim.
That idea had crumbled to dust within minutes. The victim mentality part was the problem. She didn’t have a shred of it. Afraid, yes; incapacitated, no. She might put a steel door on her house and pack a Sig Sauer, but those were the actions of someone taking charge, preparing to meet danger, rather than hiding from it. Besides, the abused-woman scenario would only explain MacBride changing her identity – not all five of them.

He shook his head to clear it of thoughts going nowhere, noticed a gray plastic intercom box mounted on the door frame, and ironically, a rubber mat that said ‘Welcome.’ He wondered if that was Grace MacBride’s idea of humor.

As he stepped onto the mat, he distinctly heard an electronic whirring sound just above his head. He pinpointed the source quickly – a security camera, well camouflaged in the fascia of the eave, turning and focusing its ever-vigilant eye on him.

He knelt down and teased up a corner of the mat, exposing a pressure pad integrated into the concrete of the top step, obviously wired to the camera, and probably from there to an alarm somewhere in the house.

The pathology of paranoia kept rearing its ugly head, and on some level, it was incredibly disturbing. What justified this kind of security? If not an abusive ex, what then? Corporate espionage? He didn’t think so. As he’d learned from Espinoza just tonight, you never had to leave the comfort of your own home to lie, cheat, or steal in a world that was inextricably linked together by the World Wide Web.

He stabbed the intercom button and waited, his breath coming in frosty puffs. For more than a minute, there was dead silence, then three metallic thunks – three dead bolts being released.

The steel door swung open and Grace MacBride stood before him, her pale skin flushed and moist. She was wearing baggy gray sweatpants, an oversized T-shirt, and a ponytail. She would have looked almost vulnerable if it hadn’t been for the ankle holster and the derringer it held.

‘It’s eleven o’clock, Detective Magozzi.’ Her voice was flat, noncommittal. She didn’t seem particularly surprised that he’d shown up on her doorstep.

‘I apologize for the hour, Ms MacBride. Am I interrupting anything?’

‘My workout.’

He gestured toward the ankle holster. ‘You carry when you work out?’

‘I carry all the time, Detective, I told you that already. What do you want?’

A born hostess, Magozzi thought sarcastically. ‘I want to look at your .22.’

‘Do you have a warrant?’ Her voice remained impassive, her gaze steady. Chalk one up for MacBride – she was either innocent or sociopathic.

Magozzi sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘No, I don’t have a warrant, but I can get one. I’ll just stand here on this pressure pad and keep ringing your intruder alert or whatever the hell it is until Gino brings one over.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘Everyone’s a suspect. Any reason you don’t want me to see the gun?’

‘Because this isn’t a police state, Detective Magozzi.’

Goddamnit, she was snotty. No way she could have ever had a relationship with an abuser. With an attitude like hers, whoever it was would have killed her the first night.

‘Ms MacBride, there are people dying out there and you’re wasting time.’

The color of exertion on her cheeks turned the darker pink of fury. He’d hit a nerve. ‘
You’re
wasting time, investigating the people who reported the crime instead of looking for the killer!’

He refused to rise to the bait. He just stood there in the cold, hoping she couldn’t see him shiver beneath the thin coat, waiting for her to slam the door in his face. She surprised him.

‘Oh, the hell with it. Come in and shut the damn door. And stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.’

He stepped inside quickly, closed the door, and looked around. ‘No retina scan?’

She glared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

Magozzi shrugged. ‘You’ve got a pretty serious security system here.’

‘I’m a pretty serious person,’ she snapped, turning and stalking down the long, dim hallway. When she disappeared behind a swinging oak door, he took a few steps in, looking for some indication that the place was actually inhabited, but the foyer and hall were as empty and anonymous as the outside of the house.

Stairway to the left, two closed doors – living room and what? Den? – to the right. In between there was nothing but a well-polished maple floor and eggshell walls. If Grace MacBride had a personality, which he was beginning to doubt, there were no insights here.

He heard angry footsteps and the swinging door burst open again. Grace glowered at him from the doorway. ‘I want this to be legit. If you want to see the gun, then you can look at it in the cabinet.’

‘Fine. Better yet.’

She watched in what Magozzi could only classify as deep disapproval as he walked toward her. If the look was designed to make him feel like a blundering interloper, it missed its mark. It just set him on edge.

‘Even you have to know this is ridiculous, Detective.’

He let the ‘even you’ part slide.
Detective 101. Do not respond to the verbal abuse of civilians.
‘Why is that?’

‘You think I’d use a gun registered in my name to kill people? You think I wouldn’t have cleaned it if I’d used it to kill that poor girl yesterday?’

No mention of the riverboat killing, Magozzi noted. Either she didn’t know about it, or was pretending not to. ‘Of course you would have cleaned it. I would expect nothing less from you, Ms MacBride. But detective work is largely a tedious process of information gathering and report writing. My objective here is to note your ownership of the same caliber gun the killer used, and further note that I examined said gun with your permission and saw no evidence of recent firing.’

‘You’re covering your ass.’

‘Absolutely. The first time I don’t will be the time a killer leaves a gun dirty and covered with blood and wrapped in a sign that says “I Am the Murder Weapon.” ’

She swung the door open and gestured him into a stark, utilitarian kitchen with sparkling white tile and a stainless sink that looked like it had been spit-shined. Expensive pots and pans hung from a rack above a black granite countertop that was lined with the sort of appliances only a serious cook would have.

A covered pot simmered on low flame, filling the air with the savory aromas of garlic and wine. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine Grace MacBride doing anything remotely domestic, but she obviously had a softer side, a side she went to great lengths to hide.

He didn’t bother wondering why she was cooking at eleven o’clock at night, assuming almost everything she did would be a bit out of the norm. ‘You have a dog?’ he asked.

Grace frowned at him. ‘Ye-es. Oh. The water bowl. Crack detective work.’

Magozzi ignored the comment. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s hiding. He’s afraid of strangers.’

‘Hmm. Is that something he picked up from you?’

She gave him an irritated look, then led him through an arched doorway into the living room, oddly placed at the rear of the house instead of the front. It was the polar opposite of the rest of the house – surprisingly warm, with overstuffed wing chairs and a big leather sofa that held an assortment of colorful down-filled pillows. A glass coffee table was stacked with computer magazines and ponderous-looking textbooks on computer programming languages. A willow basket of miniature pumpkins sat in the corner next to an urn filled with dried flowers and gourds. Another glimmer of her softer side.

He paid particular attention to the paintings, all originals, that covered the walls – an eclectic collection of stark black-and-white abstracts that had to be by the same artist as the painting in Mitch Cross’s office, and two soft watercolor landscapes.

She knelt down in front of a fine mahogany cabinet that sat in the far corner of the room and slipped in a key. The interior was lined with thick red velvet and held the very formidable MacBride arsenal. She pulled out a Ruger .22 and handed it to him by the barrel.