‘For God’s sake, Mitch, people are dying out there because of this game!’
‘Which I didn’t want to do in the first place, remember?’ he almost shouted, and then he saw the look on her face and would have given his life to take the words back.
Your fault, Grace. Your fault then, and your fault now.
15
Magozzi felt like Chicken Little in the Twilight Zone. He and Gino had just told a roomful of people that the sky was falling, and all they did was sit there with small, condescending smiles that seemed to make allowances for his stupidity.
They were sitting on a plum settee in a room Magozzi figured was about a foot too short for regulation basketball. Char and Foster Hammond sat directly across from them, looking tan, fit, and composed, flanked by the twenty-eight members of the wedding party, plus the groom’s parents.
‘Well, Detectives, we certainly appreciate your concern.’ Foster Hammond gave them a practiced, gracious smile. For a minute Magozzi thought he was going to pat him on the head for being a well-intentioned, if ill-advised, public servant. ‘But I doubt very much that this . . . individual would attempt such a thing at this particular event. It would be sheer insanity.’
‘He’s a psychopathic killer, Mr Hammond,’ Gino blurted out. ‘Sheer insanity goes with the territory.’
Magozzi looked around the room, measuring faces for some sort of normal human reaction. Nothing. Not one eye flickered at the phrase ‘psychopathic killer.’ Even the bride and groom looked cool and aloof, insulated by upbringing and money from common, nasty things like homicide.
Hammond gave him an elegant shrug. ‘I’ve no doubt about that, Detective Rolseth, but unless he’s very anxious to be apprehended, I don’t think we’ll be seeing him this evening. This event has been highly publicized over the past few months, much to our dismay, I might add, and there will be media present. On the periphery, of course.’
Of course, Magozzi thought. God forbid the reception be sullied by the obvious presence of people who worked for a living.
‘It took me months to get those devils to agree to stay on the sidelines. The bane of my existence.’ Hammond was still speaking, a little more animated now. ‘And what a spectacularly ironic twist! All that unwelcome publicity mandated that we take the most stringent security measures, given the stature of some of our guests. And thank God we did.’
‘The power of the press,’ Gino said with sarcasm that was totally lost on everyone present but his partner.
Foster Hammond paused to take a dainty sip from a crystal tumbler and when he looked up again, his expression was deadly serious. ‘This really is a dreadful turn of events, Detectives. Pointless, brutal killings in our beautiful city.’
‘It is, sir,’ Magozzi agreed, wondering if Hammond believed there were other kinds of murders besides pointless, brutal ones. ‘That’s why we’re here, trying to prevent another one.’
Hammond nodded emphatically. ‘And I’m sure you’re doing a fine job, which is why I’ve always been a generous sponsor of the Minneapolis law enforcement community. And you will let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
Anything but cancel his daughter’s wedding reception, was the clear implication. People like Foster Hammond and family heard only what they wanted to hear, cooperated only if it fit into their agenda. It was time to be a sycophant, trade compliments and convince the King that preventing this murder fit into the agenda. Anything else would be a waste of time.
In the end, they settled for a modest contingent of officers on board, as long as they were suitably attired. Hammond had even agreed to a warning announcement after the ceremony, and again at the entrance to the paddleboat landing.
Magozzi had been watching Tammy Hammond, the bride-to-be, when he said this, and caught a disturbing flicker of perverse excitement in those cool blue eyes.
The entire drive back to City Hall, Magozzi and Gino were shaking their heads, trying to make sense of what had just happened back at Hammond Manor.
‘I haven’t been snubbed like that since ninth grade,’ Gino said.
‘What did you do in ninth grade?’
‘Asked Sally Corcoran to the prom. She was the most popular girl in the senior class.’
‘That was stupid,’ Magozzi offered genially.
‘Hammond scares the shit out of me, you know? He reminds me of a mongoose. Just when you think you’ve slithered around and got him by the balls, you realize he’s already got you by the neck.’
‘Very poetic, Gino.’
‘Thanks. I’ll put it in my journal,’ he said dispiritedly. ‘Jesus, I always wanted to believe people like that are real, real as you and me and Joe Pig Farmer down the road. Never mind the gossip, the rumors, the bad press . . . You ignore that because you want them to be just folks.’
‘Everybody wants to believe that.’
‘And why? Because they run the show and you want to believe that the people running the show have your best interests in mind.’
Magozzi stopped at a red light and looked over at Gino. ‘And you don’t think Foster Hammond has our best interests in mind?’
Gino stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter.
16
The room was an olfactory museum of hundreds of meetings just like this one. Fast food, sweat, and the now-forbidden cigarette smoke – all these smells and more seeped from the plaster walls and rose from the uneven waves of the warped wooden floor.
Which is as it should be, Magozzi thought. Rooms where cops gather should smell like bad food and frustrated men and women and late nights and pisser cases, because smell was memory, and lingering smells were a memorial; sometimes the only one a crime victim got.
Magozzi looked over his audience from his perch on the front desk. Patrol Sergeant Eaton Freedman was in a crisp uniform custom-tailored to wrap itself around the three hundred pounds of coal-black muscle packed into his six feet nine inches. The rest of them – eight detectives besides him and Gino – wore low-end off- the-rack slacks and sport coats. Nobody wore their good suits on the job. You never knew what you might have to kneel in, or crawl through.
Chief Malcherson was another matter. The offal he was sometimes forced to crawl through was almost entirely political, and required a different uniform – designer suits and silk ties and shirts so starched the collars left a red necklace of abrasion around his throat. He had a thicket of white-blond hair that looked good on camera, and a bloodhound face that didn’t.
He was standing in a front corner now, intentionally setting himself apart from the men and women under his command, his expression more hangdog than usual. Today’s suit was a dark charcoal, double-breasted, suitable for mourning.
It wasn’t a designated task force. Not yet. Task forces were long-term, and Magozzi was praying this thing wouldn’t come to that. What he needed right now was manpower, and the chief had been disturbed enough by the murders to give it to him. Or maybe it was the media that really frightened him. Either way, now that Magozzi had laid out the Monkeewrench connection and passed out copies of the SKUD game photos, everyone else in the room was disturbed, too. Apparently the idea of murder as a game was universally chilling.
‘Any questions so far?’ he asked.
Nine heads lifted at the same time. The amazing synchronized head-raising team.
‘This is unbelievable.’
The other amazing heads turned to look at Louise Washington, the department’s showcase detective. Half Hispanic, half black, a woman and a lesbian to boot, she satisfied multiple minority groups. That she was damned good at her job seemed incidental to everyone except the cops who worked with her.