“The Saturn followed you when you left the Sergeant house, but the Horizon and the VW stayed. So I hung with them. In the morning, the woman left for work. The young guy and the chick in the VW van broke in the house. The Horizon stood watch. They came out, split from the Horizon, drove the VW to the Maplewood Mall, left it, got in a black Audi. I followed the Audi up here.” He pointed out the window, south along the shore to the cabin on the point.
“Did you take pictures of them going in her house,” asked Broker. That impatient stamping sensation was back in his chest.
“I always take pictures; got my Nikon in the truck,” said Garrison. “Just costs more now to get them developed.” He popped open the briefcase. It was custom-fitted to hold a cordless drill, screwdrivers, electrician’s pliers, coils of wire, screws, staples, other stuff Broker couldn’t identify. A stack of glossy, black-and-white, eight-by-ten photos slid out. And two VCR recording cassettes. The labels were dated and numbered-two days last week.
Broker picked up the top picture. David and Denise, the
“lawyers” from Chicago. They were using Ida Rain’s storm door for cover as they worked on the inner door. The next picture showed them coming out.
Seeing Broker eye the case on his knees, Garrison explained, “I paid a visit next door. Nobody home. Picked up this kit. Thing is, there’s no recording equipment. Just a TV, VCR, and lots of tapes. I don’t know how he’s doing it.”
Broker said, “The woman in the Sergeant house is Ida Rain, she’s an editor at the St. Paul paper and Tom James’s girlfriend…”
“Little shit James never mentioned a girlfriend,” said Garrison with a salutary nod.
“I get the feeling it was discreet. And you never checked,”
Broker said pointedly. “Ida Rain is in intensive care at Regions. Somebody beat her head in last night. Left her for dead. St. Paul Homicide called. She had my card on her refrigerator. I’ve been talking to her.”
Garrison rocked, exhaled, reflected, “Knowing Tom James sure is hard on women, ain’t it.” After a pause. “You think she has a line on him?”
“She’s the kind of woman who gets under a guy’s skin. It’s possible. She’s my best bet.”
Garrison nodded in agreement. “Good call. It’s the most likely security lapse, James gets lonely. Phones. Writes a letter.” He stabbed a finger at the picture in Broker’s hand. “I don’t think they did it. That blond kid isn’t in the bone-breaking end of the family. He’s an electronics freak. I figured he wired you and Rain.”
“Family?”
Garrison palmed another photo, one Broker had seen before, in the cemetery in Wisconsin. Keith shaking 388 / CHUCK LOGAN
hands. The distinguished guy with close-cropped hair in an expensive suit. Garrison pointed to the lean gentleman. “Nice Chicago family. There’s miles of insulation between Victor Konic and the Paulie Kagins of the world. Got this monster brownstone on North Lake Shore Drive. Banking. Imports.
The blond kid is his son, David; degree in computer science, Stanford. The apple of his eye.”
“This Russian Mafioso sent his kid to bug me?”
“A bunch of weight lifters with blue tattoos on their hands would kind of stick out up here. But they’re exactly the guys who could have worked on the Rain woman.” Garrison shook his head. “If she knew anything, they know it now…”
“Maybe,” said Broker. “She’s tough. Another thing, if these guys are such pros why’d they make it look like a shivering junkie with a claw hammer did it? Why’s she still above ground?”
Garrison glanced out the window, toward the cabin down the shore. “If they come back, we’ll find out.”
Broker ignored the dark undertone in Garrison’s voice.
“So the bureau finally is taking me seriously about James and the money.”
“Well, it’s tricky, isn’t it. Someone in the bureau actively discouraged my attempt to investigate your questions about James. I got used. On both ends. James hustled me. And the bureau kept me in the dark. I don’t like being used. So I walked. Now I’m taking you seriously. And I’m here to tell you you’re going about this all wrong.”
Broker studied the FBI man. “Who are you, the Good Fairy?”
“No. And neither are you. You’re the guy who went to Vietnam, dug up a pile of lost gold and smuggled it out of the country. You find things. That’s why Keith put you on his list.”
Broker engaged the weary knowledge in Garrison’s eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Same as Keith, same as the people he’s got following you.” Garrison grinned. “Stop playing cop. Be yourself.”
Kit barged into Broker’s knee, looked up, thrust out the carving. He picked her up, tousled her curls, smelled her innocent breath. He had been a happy exile in babyland.
Hiding out, up here in his smuggler’s cove. Now, here was Garrison, making sense. Kit would have to go into a compartment for a while.
“How do I know you’re alone?” asked Broker.
“You don’t. But we both know who is. Way out there, deep, alone.” Garrison squinted. “Don’t we?”
Broker went with his gut. “Yeah,” he said.
Garrison nodded. “To get Keith off the hook you need a motive these Russian bastards can understand. Like making a few bucks off his misfortune.”
“Are you that smart? Didn’t you tell me cops need big hearts and weak brains.” Broker grinned.
Garrison shrugged. “Well, you know-you work the edges long enough, you come to a place where your edges intersect with someone else’s edges…and you feel your way along the new edge and suddenly you’ve poked your foot into this little Manhattan Project.”
Broker met the ex-FBI man’s serious gaze, held it.
Garrison rocked back in the chair, swept stray wood shavings off his lap. His voice was quiet, resigned. “You may owe him. But clearing that debt don’t mean you can trust him. Not the way he is now. The only person you can trust is me.”
68
On the way into the house, they paused and studied the cabin on the point. Twilight pooled under racing Appaloosa clouds. Rollers thrashed the granite shore. No lights. No wood smoke. No black Audi. A phone company truck pulled down the drive. Too weary to even wave, the lineman patched the down wire and left.
Kit, trussed in layers of Polarfleece, resembled a ball of yarn with a tiny visor between a wrapped scarf, her cap and the hood of her coat. Alert little eyes peered out at the sudden, violent cold. Her lips emitted tiny burp-scented jets.
Broker’s own breath made a starched spinnaker in the rising wind.
Hatless, ears turning red, Garrison shook his head.
“Somebody should have told Keith the trouble with fucking heroes is they get people killed.”
“Watch your language,” said Broker. Habit. But he nodded, agreeing with Garrison’s assessment. He raised his chin toward the cabin. “If they come back I’ll roust them. I’m going to nail the guys who messed up Ida,” said Broker, hugging Kit.
“Do that,” quipped Garrison. He pointed to the moose in the Cook County insignia on Broker’s parka. “You got the badge and you’re wearing the outfit. Just walk in there, read THE BIG LAW/391
them their rights and give them the protection of the legal system?”
“Not what you had in mind.”
“We’re playing with Konic, we need some life insurance.
I was thinking more along the lines of taking hostages.”
“Well talk about it. What about this bug? Think we can find it?”
“They can afford the best-and the best is wafer thin, half the size of a playing card, receiver and transmitter. Let the guy who put it in find it.”
“If he shows up.”
They went inside, Broker peeled Kit out of her layers and opened a can of kids’ pasta rings and veggie franks, heated it on the stove. Half of it went on her bib, the other half made it into her mouth. Stranded at the sheriff’s office, she’d missed her nap. She was beat. He left Garrison in the kitchen opening a can of Hormel chili.