The renter was Ramona Jones. No picture identification was in the file. Simply a one-page, two-month agreement and a notation of $2,000 cash paid up-front. It was nothing unusual, according to Harvey. This was one of his lesser rental properties, and he was contemplating selling because he couldn’t regularly rent it. When Jones came along with $2,000 cash and a two-month rental request, it was “a no brainer,” Harvey said. “Otherwise the joint sits empty.”
Harvey’s description of the woman wasn’t helpful either. “Small, petite, she was attractive, had long blonde hair, nearly down to her ass. I took a little run at her, if you know what I mean,” Harvey said, smiling crookedly and winking at Mac. “But she blew me off.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Lich cracked.
“Where was she from?” Mac asked, suppressing a chuckle.
“I don’t know, beyond what’s on the rental sheet,” Harvey said, the booze on his breath causing Mac to wince and take a step back. Good thing this guy has a lackey driving him.
The rental sheet revealed a nonexistent address in Duluth. Harvey said that he had spoken to Jones once over the phone, met her once in person to have her sign the lease, collected the money, and gave her the keys. Harvey hadn’t stopped by since.
Neighbors were questioned, but nothing useful was coming of it. People saw the vans, but they couldn’t give consistent answers as to colors, makes, models, or plates. Men were seen, but nobody seemed to know how many or what they looked like beyond being big. Nobody spoke to the men or ever saw their faces. They were seen pulling in and out of the garage, black-clad torsos with hats and sunglasses on. Otherwise, they were never seen and never did anything to draw attention.
Burton, Duffy, and Peters were also convinced that the kidnappers were using the house. Now, if only they would come back. Mac ran the facts continuously through his head as he watched the house and the neighborhood. The neighborhood was eerily quiet. The heat was keeping people inside. A normal July 3rd night would have people out walking their dogs, taking a run, enjoying the small window of summer weather in Minnesota. Instead it was quiet.
Stifling a yawn, Mac turned away from the window to see the massive Rock sitting in an undersized armchair, reading, of all things, Better Homes and Gardens. Rock wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who cared about curtains or tulips or anything of the like. He was bored. So was Lich, who was failing miserably in his attempt to complete a crossword puzzle in the Star Tribune. The kicker was Riles, a man who absolutely hated pop culture, reading a People magazine. Pat far preferred watching the Discovery and History channels or reading a Newsweek or Time.
Mac had to laugh. Riley, all six feet, three inches of him, wearing a faded blue Minnesota Twins cap, a dark blue golf shirt, and khakis, sat on the right side of a small couch. On the other side sat the short, squat Lich, wearing white tennis shoes, lightly soiled off-white pants, a red Hawaiian shirt with white collar, and a white beach hat he had fished out of Mac’s backseat earlier. It was the Skipper and Gilligan.
Mac slyly caught Riles’ attention before he said to Lich, “Hey little buddy,” in his best Skipper voice. Riles, right on cue, hit Dick on the head with his blue hat. Rock howled in laughter.
“Fuck you all,” Lich growled, rubbing his head. For no reason at all everyone started talking about their favorite Gilligan’s Island episode. Rock argued for five minutes, mostly tongue-in-cheek, that the show was racist. “I didn’t see no brothas on that show. Why not? That Sherwood Schwartz dude was racist.”
“Oh, right,” Mac answered, rolling his eyes. “There were lots of African Americans who were going on charter boat rides in Hawaii back in the mid-sixties.”
“Fuck that,” Rock answered. “They just didn’t want a gook lookin’ black dude like Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, or Richard Roundtree scoring with Ginger or Mary Ann.”
“You know what I don’t get? Why weren’t the skipper, professor, or Gilligan drillin’ Ginger or Mary Ann to begin with,” Lich said, his mind always wandering in a certain direction. “I mean, you know Thurston was putting the Howell the III to Lovey.”
“Oh God,” Mac howled, doubling over with laughter, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Okay, which one, Ginger or Mary Ann?” Rock asked smiling.
“Mary Ann!” Mac and Riles replied in unison.
“Agreed,” Rock said. What about you, Dick Lick?” Rock asked.
“Ginger. Definitely Ginger. She could suck a golf ball through a straw,” Lich said, smiling, sticking his tongue out in his best impression of Morris from Slap Shot.
Mac got up out of his chair, still clutching his stomach, and went to check on Hall. Mrs. Hall, whom they had yet to meet, was out shopping although she was due back any minute. In the meantime, Mac and the others would check on Mr. Hall from time to time. When Mac walked in he was lying in his bed, watching the Twins game.
“Can I get you anything?” Mac asked. Hall was sweating through yet another shirt.
“A refill on my water,” Hall answered. “I have to take some medication.”
Mac arrived in the kitchen just as Mrs. Hall came through the back door with two bags of groceries.
“You must be Mrs. Hall,” Mac said as he introduced himself and pulled out his shield. Mac explained what he and the others were doing.
“How is Pat doing?” she asked.
“He needed some water for his medication.”
“I can get that,” she said.
“That’s fine,” Mac answered. “You put your stuff away. I can run it in for him.”
Riles walked in, putting his cell phone back in his pocket. “That was Peters. We’ve got relief coming in a bit. We get until 0600 to get some rest. They’ll call us if anything comes up.”
Mac nodded, grabbing some ice cubes out of the freezer. “I’m starting to think these guys have bolted.”
“They might have, but what else do we have at this point?”
Riles was right. What else did they have? Or why weren’t they looking for something else? Mac wondered. All they’d done in the last two days was react to whatever the kidnappers were doing. To Mac, it still seemed like they weren’t pushing the investigation. Rather it was being pushed at them. Three words surfaced again in his mind: complicated, prepared, and motivated.
Mac walked back to Hall’s room with Riley in tow. As he placed the glass on the nightstand he heard a vehicle slowing outside. Mac turned to the window to see a minivan pulling into a neighbor’s house, but not to the house they were watching.
“Nothing, eh?” Mr. Hall asked, taking a sip.
“Nada,” Mac answered. “How are the Twins doing?”
“They’re up four. Mauer is three-for-three,” Hall said, then added with a little pride, “That St. Paul kid is hitting over three-forty again.”
“He’s got a shot at another batting title,” Riles said, straightening his Twins cap on his head.
Mrs. Hall walked into the room to check on her husband. Riles and Mac stood watching the game for a moment and both clapped as Mauer flared a single to left field, now four-for-four in the game.
“He’s unbelievable,” Riles said of Mauer.
“That he is,” Mac replied as he went back to the window and pulled back the curtains.
“They haven’t come back, have they?” Mr. Hall asked disappointedly.
“No,” Mac answered, looking out the window.
“You think they’re the guys?”
Mac looked back and nodded slightly.
“Too bad I didn’t pay a little more attention when they ripped out of here earlier,” Mrs. Hall said. “Maybe I could have seen something that would have helped.”
“Ripped out?” Mac asked, turning back to Mrs. Hall.
“What do you mean ripped out?” Riles added.
“I might have missed them when they left,” Mrs. Hall answered, “except that they squealed the tires pulling out. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the air conditioner was working. But with the windows open, I heard the tires and saw them go.”