For the next hour he and Grace answered questions, gave statements, told their story to McLaren, the crime-scene techs and the first responders while Gino sat in the squad with a cuffed Matson doing God knew what. After everyone else left, Gino came inside and sat at the kitchen table with Grace and Magozzi.
‘You two doing okay?’
Magozzi and Grace looked at each other, but neither one of them said anything, and Gino couldn’t read their expressions. He waited for a while, growing more uncomfortable by the second. There was an open bottle of wine on the table with what looked like French words on it. McLaren would know; Gino didn’t care. ‘Pour me a glass of that, Leo, would you? And tell me what the kid said to you; what you know.’
Magozzi pulled his eyes away from Grace. She hadn’t said a word to him since it happened. The last time he’d heard her voice was when she was giving her statement to McLaren. ‘He didn’t say anything, just came up the walk and told me to get in the house.’ He went to the cupboard for a glass and set it in front of Gino.
‘But you sent Grace into the house before that. Why did you do that?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘I saw him coming, and it just felt wrong.’
‘He was saving my life,’ Grace said quietly, but Magozzi shook his head.
‘She saved mine.’
Gino rolled his eyes and reached for the bottle. ‘Oh, please. I talked to McLaren outside. I heard all about the mutual-admiration society you’ve got going here. A dynamic duo is what you are, and I think that’s real cute, but let’s not beat it to death. So you have no clue why he came here to dust you?’
‘I guess because I killed his friend.’
‘Not exactly, buddy. You killed his brother.’
Magozzi’s brows shot up. ‘Tim Matson was Jeff Montgomery’s brother? The dead one?’
‘None other. I got him to tell me a few things out there in the squad.’
Grace looked directly at Gino for the first time. ‘What’d you do to him?’
‘Nothing.’ Gino held up a hand. ‘I swear to God. Pulled the tape off his mouth pretty fast – hope the kid has no dreams for a mustache – but that was just for his own comfort. And so he could talk, of course. Seems the two brothers have been planning this for over a year – had their asses covered seven ways to Sunday – and faking his death was part of it. They figured if Montgomery got busted before he offed all the people who killed their dad, there’d be another brother nobody would think to look for to finish the job. Man, I’m telling you, talking to that kid is gonna give me nightmares for years. Cold as ice. Dear old dad did a real job on indoctrinating those two, but I’m thinking this one had to be born a natural. Turns out he did Ben Schuler, got a real kick out of playing with the old guy before he killed him. When he heard you killed Jeff, you went right to the top of the hit list, but he was headed over to the nursery after he finished up here to take out Jack Gilbert.’
‘He just blurted all this out?’ Magozzi asked. ‘He didn’t ask for a lawyer?’
Gino frowned and scratched the side of his head. ‘That’s the kicker. He’s just so friggin’ proud of himself it made me want to puke. Has it in his head that he’s some kind of a martyr. What do you bet we’re gonna see him on Dateline in about a week, then he’ll start writing books, they’ll give him a computer in his cell and a Web site. Shit, Leo, this is why I hate that Minnesota doesn’t have the death penalty. All we do with these guys is make them celebrities.’
He glanced over at Grace. ‘You didn’t shoot the guy, Grace. I was really impressed.’
‘I didn’t have a gun.’
Gino started to say ‘yeah, right,’ then noticed that she wasn’t wearing her shoulder holster, and wondered how he’d missed it. ‘Holy shit. You came over here without a gun?’
She looked right at him, and for the first time Gino Rolseth saw Grace MacBride really smile. She even showed her teeth a little, and boy, did she have great teeth.
His own face broke into a broad grin, and he gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Way to go, Gracie. Really.’
After Gino left, Grace tried to throw away the Beef Wellington. Magozzi knew she was cleaning up, trying to erase herself from this house before she left.
He took the pan from her hands, grabbed a fork, and started eating, clinging to the perfectly ridiculous notion that if he just held on to that pan, she wouldn’t leave. She’d have to wait until he finished, and he needed the time.
‘For God’s sake, Magozzi, don’t eat that. It’s been sitting in a warm oven for two hours. The pastry’s soggy. The meat’s ruined. You’ll probably die.’
‘It’s delicious.’ He wouldn’t look at her. He just sat down at the table and wrapped his arms around the pan and kept eating.
‘At least put it on a plate…’
‘No!’
Grace sat down next to him, watched him eat, and waited.
Magozzi kept looking down at the pan. ‘I was going to light a fire. We were going to sit it front of it and drink wine, and then later I was going to kiss you and blow your boots off.’
‘No kidding.’
‘That was the plan.’
Grace reached over and lifted his hands from the ugly, dented aluminum pan and pulled it away. ‘I’m sorry, Magozzi. I think it’s a little too late for that.’
He looked down at the stupid table for about two seconds, thinking, no, by God, it wasn’t too late for that – at least not the kissing part – and it was high time he stopped tiptoeing around and took control of the situation. He jumped out of his chair and turned to grab her, but she wasn’t there. Goddamnit, she was fast.
He found her in the living room, one foot poised on the staircase that led up to the bedroom, and she was smiling at him. ‘Gee, Magozzi, what took you so long?’
He stood there looking at her, feeling like he was trying to fly, but couldn’t quite catch the updraft. ‘Are you still going to Arizona tomorrow?’
Grace sighed impatiently at him, the way she always did whenever he got hung up on rules or procedures or tried to look too far ahead.
‘Magozzi, that’s hours and hours from now.’
about the author
PJ Tracy is the pseudonym of mother-daughter writing duo P.J. and Traci Lambrecht, winners of the Anthony, Barry, Gumshoe, and Minnesota Book Awards. Their first three novels, MONKEEWRENCH, LIVE BAIT and DEAD RUN, have become national and international bestsellers.
P.J. Lambrecht is a college dropout with one of the largest collections of sweatpants in the world. She was raised in an upper-middle class family of very nice people, and turned to writing to escape the hardships of such a life. She had her first short story published in The Saturday Evening Post when Traci was eight, still mercifully oblivious to her mother’s plans to eventually trick her into joining the family business. She has been a moderately successfully free-lance writer ever since, although she has absolutely no qualifications for such a profession, except a penchant for lying.
Traci Lambrecht spent most of her childhood riding and showing horses. She graduated with a Russian Studies major from St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota, where she also studied voice. Her aspirations of becoming a spy were dashed when the Cold War ended, so she instead attempted briefly and unsuccessfully to import Eastern European folk art. She began writing to finance her annoying habits of travel and singing in rock bands, and much to her mother’s relief, finally realized that the written word was her true calling. They have been writing together ever since. Traci now lives in Southern California and divides her time between there, Minneapolis and Aspen.
