‘We are not renaming this company after a creepy little reptile,’ Annie said firmly.
Roadrunner pouted. ‘Well I don’t see any of the rest of you coming up with a new name.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Grace said quietly, and everyone looked at her. ‘Let’s call it Monkeewrench.’
No one said anything for a minute.
‘That name’s had some pretty bad press, Grace,’ Harley said.
‘So has the USA, and nobody suggested changing that name.’
Annie mulled it over for a bit, then reached over and patted Grace’s knee. ‘I like it,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s who we are.’
44
Pleasantly warm days, cool, cool nights. That’s what the Canadian cold front had left behind when it had pushed the storms out of the state last night. By six-thirty the temperature had already dropped to fifty-five degrees, and Magozzi stood on his front porch in a heavy black sweat-shirt, wondering what it would be like to live in a place where the temperature didn’t leap or drop forty degrees in any twenty-four-hour period. Boring, probably. For a lot of Minnesotans, conversation would grind to a halt.
Bodies sunburned by the weeklong heat wave were encased in sweats and windbreakers as they took their evening jog, or walked tongue-lolling dogs along the sidewalk before hurrying home. There was a stiff, chill wind tonight, and Magozzi could already smell wood smoke rising from nearby chimneys.
It was a good night for a fire. He’d laid one in his own house earlier, then stood on the empty expanse of carpet in front of the hearth, trying to figure out where he and Grace would sit. He’d remembered to decant the red wine and chill the white, lay the table in the little kitchen, right down to forks, knives and spoons, even though he’d always thought spoons were pretty useless utensils, and then he’d imagined a cozy, languorous evening in front of a roaring fire. The one thing he’d forgotten was that he didn’t have any furniture to speak of, and he had never once seen Grace MacBride sit on the floor. She wouldn’t like that. It would take too long to jump up and shoot somebody if you had to, and Grace spent her life assuming she would have to.
‘Let me give you two words,’ Gino had said this afternoon when he’d learned Grace was actually going to visit Magozzi at his house for a change. ‘Bower birds.’
‘Thanks, Gino. I’ll cherish those two words forever.’
‘Don’t be a wiseass. I’m trying to educate you.’
‘Okay.’
‘The male bower birds – there’s a whole bunch of different kinds – build these elaborate nests on the ground, like little portable caves made out of twigs and branches and vines and shit like that, and then they go find pretty stuff, like flower petals, or sparkly bits of stone, and they scatter that all around so the place looks great. That’s how they attract females. The guy with the prettiest bower wins. Now the unhappy moral of this little story is that, Leo, my friend, you got the ugliest bower in town.’
Magozzi sighed and looked out over his scabby lawn with the dying spruce, at the single chaise on the porch and the Weber grill with its duct-taped legs. He considered digging around in the dirt for a few sparkly stones, but in the end, he just picked up the roll of duct tape that was still lying next to the grill and went inside. It was the best he could do on short notice.
At precisely 7 P.M. he opened his front door and looked at Grace MacBride standing on his porch, and felt pretty pleased with himself. He’d gotten her here without a single sparkly stone.
She was wearing a full-length fringed buckskin coat he’d never seen before over her English riding boots, somehow making the clash of cultures look right. Black hair curling a little over her shoulders, blue eyes smiling at him, even though her mouth wasn’t.
He took the grocery bag she was holding in one hand, and looked down at the laptop she was carrying in the other. ‘Are we going to play computer games?’
‘Later,’ she replied, striding in like she owned the place, taking possession of all the air. ‘I want to give you your present first.’
He closed the door and faced her in the little foyer, which was fast becoming his favorite room in the house. It had a little table on one wall where he tossed his keys, and he considered it fully furnished.
Grace set down her laptop, straightened, and gripped the front plackets of the coat, elbows out. ‘Ready, Magozzi?’
‘I don’t know. Are you going to flash me?’
The smile made it down to her mouth as she opened the coat and let it slide to the floor, and in a way, Magozzi thought, she had flashed him. Even in her jeans, boots, and black silk T-shirt, she had to feel naked, because she wasn’t wearing the Sig.
His eyes darted automatically to her ankle, looking for the derringer she strapped on whenever she didn’t wear the shoulder holster, but it wasn’t there. ‘All right, Grace, where is it?’
‘At home in the gun safe. Both of them.’
‘You drove all the way over here without a gun?’
Her eyes sparkled like a kid’s. ‘I did. But oh, Magozzi, I thought I’d die.’
He was hugging the grocery bag hard, feeling something soft mush between his arms, grinning like a fool. ‘It’s a great present, Grace.’
‘I told you you’d like it.’
Magozzi figured there probably wasn’t another man in the world who would consider it an amazing, hopeful gift when a woman agreed to have dinner with him unarmed, but they just didn’t understand. Grace had just given him a giant step.
Magozzi poured the wine while Grace unloaded the grocery bag and turned on the oven. He eyed a shallow casserole dish covered with tin foil. ‘That smells fantastic.’
‘Beef Wellington.’
‘Excellent.’ Magozzi couldn’t remember the exact components of Beef Wellington, but figured it was some kind of hotdish with delusions of grandeur.
‘Why don’t you clear a space on the table and plug in my laptop. I’ll show you what I pulled from Morey Gilbert’s computer while we’re waiting for this to heat.’
Magozzi hesitated, feeling like he’d been suddenly flung into another dimension. Mentally, the case had ended for him the minute he’d fired the first shot at Jeff Montgomery. He’d completely forgotten having Morey’s office computer sent over to Grace.
Her fingers flew over the keys and pulled up a cartoon fish on a hook, with the legend Go Fish beneath it.
Magozzi grunted. ‘Lily said he played computer games every night.’
‘I had to restore this. Probably Jeff Montgomery tried to wipe it out the day after he killed Morey Gilbert – but it’s not a game.’ Grace clicked the icon, and the page filled with three columns – names in the first, locations in the second, and a date column that was empty. Magozzi scanned the names, but didn’t recognize any of them from the list of victims they’d gotten off the pictures at Ben Schuler’s house. It took him a second to put it together. ‘Jesus. These are the ones they hadn’t hit yet.’
Grace nodded. ‘That’s what I thought, so I cross-checked with Wiesenthal’s site. We need to send this out, Magozzi. Most of these guys are on their list as unfound.’
‘Then how the hell did he find them?’
Grace’s fingers got busy on the keys again. ‘That’s the beauty of it – or the horror, depending on your point of view. I don’t know how he tracked the earlier ones, but the worldwide Web made his job a lot easier.’ What seemed like an endless series of Web-site addresses started to scroll by at high speed. ‘When I checked the logs of all the Web-site visits he deleted, it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Every single one of them was a neo-Nazi or white supremacist site – he spent hours in the chat rooms on those sites, Magozzi, and he posted the same message on all of them.’ She stopped the scrolling on a bold-faced message.
WARNING! JEWS ARE KILLING OUR BROTHERS! PROTECT YOURSELF!