'Well, we got a newsflash for you - our bride down there? She's sporting a package.'
'What kind of package?'
'The kind of package you can only get with a Y chromosome.'
The sergeant's brows jumped up his forehead. 'No way.'
Yes, way.'
The sarge thought about that for a minute while he chucked his empty can into the car. 'I guess there's no surprise there, come to think of it. We get all kinds down here after hours, especially the creative dressers - the Tiara's just a few blocks up, you know, and they've got that big drag show that runs every night.'
Magozzi nodded. 'We know.'
'Any idea whether it's a homicide or an accident?'
'No real signs of foul play that the ME could see. And Crime Scene didn't have a whole lot of luck with trace. If there is any, most of it's probably on the way to the Gulf of Mexico by now.'
'Probably an accident.'
'Probably. But we're going to have to wait for the autopsy before we know for sure.'
'Well, I can tell you from experience that there's a lot of booze and a lot of drugs down here. I'm surprised we don't get more tooted-up riffraff falling into the drink.'
'How did the canvass go?' Magozzi asked, trying to find a patch of shade in the one spot along the river that didn't have much tree coverage.
'All the respectable citizens we talked to didn't see a damn thing. But then we stumbled across Wild Jim, drunk as a skunk, taking a nap under some bushes.'
Who's Wild Jim?'
The sergeant gave them a wry smile. 'Oh, you guys have been off the street way too long. Wild Jim is a regular down here, and a frequent flyer at the station.'
Magozzi got interested. 'For what?'
'Public drunkenness, disturbing the peace. Every now and then he brings one of his guns down by the river and fires off a clip and wakes the neighbors, but mostly he's harmless; just a real pain in the butt. We've pulled his guns a half a dozen times, but he just gets clean and another judge gives them back. Some of those bastards really stick together. Anyhow, he was ranting about some "crazy faggot" raising hell down here last night, but who knows? He hasn't been able to see straight since he got kicked off the bench, and I'm guessing his blood alcohol is around point-three right now.'
Magozzi and Gino shared a look. 'You're not talking about Judge Bukowski.'
'Oh, yeah, the very same.'
If you were in law enforcement, you knew who Judge James Bukowski was, even if you didn't know him as Wild Jim. He'd always been a little left of the dial, but after six DUIs and a narc charge, he'd decided to take his Wild West show elsewhere three years ago; obviously down by the river. 'Does he live around here?'
'Sure. In one of those seven-figure lofts by the Mill City Museum. But he likes camping better, I guess.'
'I'll be damned,' Gino said, shaking his head.
'Like I told you, we get all kinds down here. We've got him in the tank if you want to talk to him later.'
Chapter Five
It had been a year since someone had tried to kill Grace MacBride. In the span of her thirty-some years, this was quite an impressive hiatus, but it hadn't been long enough. She still carried the Sig and the derringer every time she left her house; she still wore the knee-high riding boots that would make it difficult for someone to slash the arteries in her legs; and she was still constantly, painfully aware of every detail of her surroundings. Every time she abandoned one of these defenses in a pathetic shot at normalcy, something bad happened. This particular pair of boots was getting worn; a little soft at the ankle, a little run down at the heel. She would have to replace them soon.
Get over it, Grace. She said that to herself every morning when she woke up, because, truthfully, she was living such a wonderfully ordinary life now. Get up, dress, feed the dog, eat breakfast, go to work. This was the routine of hundreds of thousands who lived in this city, and even if some of them were carrying, she'd never seen one other in a pair of riding boots they were afraid to take off.
'I'm pathetic, Charlie, you know that?'
The dog at her side wagged his whole body at the sound of her voice. Apparently the stub that was left of his tail wasn't expressive enough.
Whatever had taken Charlie's tail and his courage had done so long before Grace had rescued him from an alley, and if anything, his paranoia exceeded hers. No matter how urgent the need or how intense the excitement, he usually went out of any door slowly, cautiously, sniffing the air for imaginary danger. The woman and the dog were incredibly alike. The single exception was the back door of Grace's house, which opened onto a small rectangle of yard enclosed by an eight-foot fence of solid wood. This was a secure place, populated by a single magnolia tree that Grace babied with a hose, and Charlie babied with a hose of his own.
In the mornings, they went out the front door, over to the garage, into the Range Rover, then off to the Monkeewrench offices on the third floor of Harley Davidson's Summit Avenue mansion, the dog's favorite place in the world.
It was only the third week in June, barely the first kiss of summer in an average year, and already Minnesota had racked up a record number of blistering dry days that had lowered the rivers and left burgeoning crops wilting in dusty fields. Every farmer in the state knew that the cycle of drought and flood was a problematic yet normal course of events that those who lived off the land had learned to expect over the centuries; but the media lived in the cities, and such extremes spelled ratings, turning every anchor desk into a doomsayer machine. Suburbanites were quick to jump on the bandwagon when watering restrictions turned their Kentucky bluegrass brown, and no-wake zones on the lakes and rivers kept them from the thrill of high- throttle boating.
Normally there was no weather condition that kept Minnesotans inside. They stood in the streets, videoing tornadoes that bore down on their houses; they broke the ice to swim in frozen lakes; they stripped to the furthest point that Lutheran decency would allow and jogged around the city lakes in summer. But not this year. This year the jogging and biking trails were almost always empty, there had been no tornadoes, no violent summer shows of thunder and lightning, and the city hummed with the constant undercurrent of air conditioners like a giant monster breathing.
Charlie started whining in the backseat of Grace Mac- Bride's Range Rover when she made the turn onto Summit Avenue.
'Soon,' she told him, going a little faster than the speed limit, the Gothic turrets of Harley Davidson's red stone manse already visible, two blocks away. By the time she pulled through the gate and under the portico, the black Town Car had already deposited the precious cargo of Annie Belinsky at the enormous wooden doors.
Annie always traveled by Town Car, particularly in the summer, when the drivers tended to be muscular, tanned college boys. She could have seduced them all, but didn't. She just liked to look at them.
This morning Annie was an overly voluptuous Fitzgerald heroine in ankle-length linen and lace. A wide-brimmed sunhat, balanced on her dark bob, and T-strap pumps clicked nicely on the slate walk.
If anyone had ever doubted that Charlie was a brilliant dog, all they had to do was watch the great restraint he always exercised when greeting Annie. His emotions wiggled all over him as he went within two inches of her and then stopped, eyes on her raised finger. 'Respect the outfit,' she reminded him, then bent and willingly offered her cheek to the big sloppy tongue. No one had ever told him to respect the face.