11
Stride swung his Bronco into a parking place at the twenty-four/seven fitness club on Miller Hill on Saturday morning. The strip-mall building faced the street through a series of floor-to-ceiling windows, and he saw half a dozen twenty-something girls in sweats and sports bras, jogging on treadmills as they listened to their iPods. The rhythm and noise of athletic machines deafened him when he went inside. He saw chests heaving and smelled perspiration. Stride scanned the pink-flushed faces, looking for Mitchell Brandt. Brandt worked at an investment firm in downtown Duluth and made money for clients playing the stock market like a lottery. He was also Tanjy Powell's ex-boyfriend and the man who had spilled the secrets about her sexual habits to the media after she cried rape.
If Tanjy had a relationship with Eric Sorenson, Stride wanted to know more about her background, in order to figure out whether Tanjy's disappearance was somehow connected to Eric's death. Brandt probably knew Tanjy's secrets better than anyone.
Stride spotted the stockbroker at a weight training machine in the rear of the club and squeezed between the obstacle course of fitness equipment to meet him.
"Mitchell Brandt?"
Brandt continued his bench-press routine without looking at Stride. The black lead weights banged furiously as he pumped the handlebars. He was wearing a sleeveless gray T-shirt with a Minnesota Twins logo and red nylon shorts. His limbs were sculpted and strong. Sweat beaded on his skin and left a V-shaped stain at the neck of his shirt.
"Yeah, who wants to know?"
"My name is Stride. I'm with the Duluth police. We met a few months ago."
Brandt sat up, breathing heavily. He grabbed a white towel, wiped his face, and draped it around his shoulders. He was about thirty years old, with curly brown hair cut short on his scalp and an angular, closely shaved chin. His eyes were as light as oak. He considered Stride. "Yeah, I remember. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to ask you some questions."
Brandt's face twitched. "About what?"
"Tanjy Powell," Stride said.
"Oh." Brandt relaxed and shrugged his broad shoulders. "That's kind of old news, isn't it?"
"She's missing."
"Missing? Well, I don't see how I can help you. I haven't seen Tanjy in months."
"This won't take long."
Brandt tugged at the sweaty collar of his shirt. His jaw flapped; he was chewing gum. "Okay. There's a coffee shop next door. How about you give me ten minutes to shower, and we'll meet there."
"I appreciate it."
Brandt swung his tree-trunk legs off the machine and glided toward the men's locker room. He was tall and well-built and exuded a macho I-don't-care attitude that women obviously found magnetic. Stride saw several young girls in the club casting an eye at Brandt as he left.
Stride ordered a cup of dark coffee at the shop next door, picked up a newspaper, and found a corner table to wait. Tanjy's disappearance was on the front page, but the article was short and below the fold. Stride was quoted, asking for help from people who might have seen or talked to her in the past week. He hadn't told anyone yet, including Abel, about the possible connection between Tanjy and Eric. For the time being, he had a back door to keep his hand in the investigation of Eric's murder.
Mitchell Brandt took twenty minutes to show up. He was dressed in a black silk shirt with a snug twenty-four-karat gold chain hung around his neck. He wore Dockers and black loafers and ordered a large skim latte with an extra shot of espresso. He sported enough expensive jewelry-an Omega watch, a sapphire ring on a non-wedding finger-to send the message that he had money. Before sitting down, he shook Stride's hand firmly and gave him a stockbroker's grin.
"How are you situated for investments, Lieutenant?" Brandt asked. "I'm tracking some interesting growth companies."
"Most of my assets are in a police pension."
"Well, if you want to make some real money, call me sometime. I work with a lot of the attorneys and executives in town. My clients do very, very well. I've turned people on to some hot med-tech companies down in the Cities."
"What's your secret?" Stride asked.
"I do my homework. I worked with the Byte Patrol guys here in town to build my own research software. It helps me find out everything there is to know about a business, good, bad, and ugly. I know more about these companies than most of their C levels."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Brandt sipped his latte. "So Tanjy's missing, huh? What's the deal? She drive into a lake or something?"
"What would make you think that?"
"She's not exactly stable. Sort of a New Age choirgirl stuck in the middle of a Stephen King novel."
"Meaning what?" Stride asked.
Brandt leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Come on, Lieutenant. You read the papers back then. This is a girl who insisted I go to church with her every night and then would have me tie her to the bed and put a knife to her throat while I banged her. She's not wired right."
"So why date her?"
Brandt chuckled and fanned himself with the sports section of the paper. "Are you kidding? I'd take her back right now if she walked in the door. She's Cleopatra meets Grace Kelly. The sex was bizarre, but it was ungodly amazing. I've never seen a girl climax like she does. You saw the Meg Ryan orgasm scene in that movie, right? Imagine that times ten. Tanjy could make the house shake."
Stride finished off his coffee. The blend was dark and smoky, and there were grounds in the last swallow. He watched the horny glow in Brandt's face and found himself getting angry. "If you thought she was making up the rape story, you could have come to the police instead of telling it to the papers," Stride told him coldly.
Brandt held up his hands. "You've got it all wrong, Lieutenant. The reporters came to me. They knew about me and Tanjy before I ever opened my mouth. I swear."
"How would they know that? Did you brag about it?"
"Sure, maybe a little, but I don't think any of my friends would have ratted me out. I figured the papers got it from Tanjy herself. That would be like her, you know, to blow the whistle on herself. That's part of the whole victim thing. Look, as soon as I heard about this rape story, I knew Tanjy was faking it. I mean, it read like a replay of our sex life. She had me do her in that very spot, down in Grassy Point Park, against the fence. For all I know, that's where she takes all of her guys. But I wasn't going to spoil her fun. The only reason I talked to the reporters is that they were going to run the story anyway, and I'd come out looking like a rapist myself. That's bad for business. If it was going to be in the news, I wanted to make damn sure everyone knew this was Tanjy's idea, not mine."
Stride had a hard time imagining Tanjy reporting a rape, then giving the media a tip to expose her as a fake. "How did you meet her?"
"Sonia introduced us at the dress shop."
"Sonia?"
"Sonia Bezac. She's the manager."
Stride felt a shiver. "Sonia Bezac runs Lauren's dress shop?"
"Sure. Do you know her?"
He had an erotic flashback. "Yes, I do."
"Don't tell me you're part of-?" Brandt stopped in midsentence.
"What?"
Brandt shook his head. "Nothing, never mind."
"How do you know Sonia?" Stride asked.
"She and her husband are clients. I go in the shop sometimes to talk about investments. It's just a few doors down from my office. I met Tanjy right after Sonia hired her, and we started going out."
"Was she a client, too?"
"Tanjy doesn't have any money. Her dad was a minister, and her mom stayed at home. She got a little cash after they died, but that was all going to tuition. Tanjy never has much in her wallet, but when you look like she does, it doesn't matter. Guys will buy you anything you want."