“We asked Scottie Thomforde’s co-worker and the bartender at Lehane’s to identify the T-Man from a photo array that included Tommy’s picture. Neither of them could do it.”
“Yet Mrs. Thomforde said he was at Lehane’s with Scottie.”
“No, she said Tommy and Scottie went out together. That’s not the same thing.”
“That’s true, I suppose.”
“If Tommy was the T-Man, who shot him?”
“The Babe.”
“I hate nicknames.”
“I don’t blame you—Brian.”
“I should invent a nickname for you,” Harry said.
“If you must know, all the women call me Long John.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yeah, but they could if they wanted to.”
“What I can’t figure out is, why dump Tommy’s body on your floor?”
“That confuses me, too.”
“It has to be some kind of a message.”
“Yes, well, I got the message. Take this.”
“What?”
I gave Harry a set of keys for my front and back doors. “If you and your people need to return to the house, you have my permission to come and go as you please,” I said. “Do whatever you want to do. Search the place. Drink my beer. Watch the ball game on my plasma TV. Whatever.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take off for a few days.”
Harry eyed me suspiciously. “And do what?” he said.
“I thought I’d go hunting.”
It was midmorning before the Feds and the other cops finally departed, giving my neighbors plenty of time to see them and their vehicles when they went out for their morning papers. Oh, well. As soon as they left, I dashed upstairs, showered, shaved, and dressed. Under my polo shirt and sports jacket I wore a white level II Kevlar vest with Velcro straps that was rated to withstand the blunt trauma of a .357 Magnum jacketed soft point. It had cost me six hundred dollars. I bought it on a whim, thinking I’d get about as much use out of it as the Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I mini-donut machine that I had purchased around the same time. I just wanted to own it.
Afterward, I packed a bag and carried it to my basement, where I unzipped it again. I rolled back a rug and removed four reinforced tiles to reveal a safe that was embedded in my floor. From the safe I removed my handguns: a Beretta nine-millimeter, a Beretta .380, and a Heckler & Koch nine-millimeter with a cocking lever built into the pistol grip. It was the same Heckler & Koch that I was carrying when I captured Thomas Teachwell in a cabin on Lower Red Lake. I holstered the nine just behind my right hip and the .380 to my ankle. I tossed the Heckler & Koch into the bag. I would have carried all three guns, but I only had two hands.
I also removed four packets of fifty-dollar bills from the safe, one hundred bills to a packet, twenty thousand dollars total. My father had called it “mad money” because he thought I was crazy for not putting it into a bank. Only time and experience had proved to me that it was always wise to have a little cash lying around. The safe also contained two sets of fake IDs. I took the best of them: a Wisconsin driver’s license with my photo and the address of a mail drop in Hudson, five credit cards, a health insurance card, a library card, and a card that indicated I was a member of the National Rifle Association. All of the cards were legitimate, including the name on each. I had taken Keith Kahla off a gravestone in Eau Claire and subsequently secured his birth certificate. Eighteen months ago, one of Harry’s less than ethical colleagues compelled me to hide underground for a few days. It wasn’t a pleasant episode in my life. Afterward, I enlisted the aid of a woman I knew who produced fake IDs for illegal immigrants out of a photography studio in St. Paul. I’ve been prepared to run ever since.
18
It was only 10:30 A.M., yet Greg Schroeder looked as if he had been awake since June. I found him in his office sitting with his feet resting on top of his desk in front of the far wall. His hair was unruly, his face unshaved, his clothes wrinkled, and he was smoking. He smiled when he saw me.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“If you say so, it must be true.”
“I was up all night babysitting your girl. Just saw the young one off on her band trip. What’s your excuse?”
I sat in the same chair as on the previous visit. Schroeder righted himself, crushed the cigarette in a crowded ashtray, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and removed a half-filled bottle of Booker’s and two glasses of doubtful cleanliness.
“You look like you could use a beverage,” he said.
“I thought it was a cliché, private eyes sitting in their offices drinking bourbon.”
“How do you think it got to be a cliché?” He poured us both a shot and slid my glass toward me. “Besides, it’s good for you.” He downed his shot in one gulp. I thought it was only polite to do the same. “Studies from several prominent medical institutions prove conclusively that two ounces of alcohol each day helps prevent heart disease.”