Ice Cold Heart

  ICE COLD HEART

  A MONKEEWRENCH NOVEL

  P. J. TRACY

  To PJ – you are always with me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  READERS AND FANS—you’re why I do what I do. Thank you for sharing the journey.

  Immense gratitude to all my colleagues at Michael Joseph/Penguin Random House and Crooked Lane. You are the best. Tom Weldon and Matthew Martz, thank you both for your unflagging enthusiasm and support; to the amazing folks in marketing and publicity at both houses, past and present: Jenny Platt, Olivia Thomas, Sarah Poppe, Ashley Di Dio, and their teams; Jenny Chen, who answers emails almost before I send them; and Meryl Moss/Meryl Moss Media, Noelle Brown, and Erika Lopez. Your work is so appreciated.

  In editorial, special thanks to my “Super Editor” Joel Richardson. I’m incredibly fortunate to have his skill and keen eye steering me straight and sometimes saving me from literary burning buildings. Nick Lowndes and Hazel Orme, thanks for making my job so easy when it comes to the finished product.

  To Ellen Geiger, longtime agent and pal, and Matt McGowan at Frances Goldin Literary Agency; David Grossman at David Grossman Literary Agency.

  To friends and family, who offer life’s rarest treasures: unconditional love and support. Ted Platz, Phillip Lambrecht, Tim and Louise Matson, Jeff and Stacy Montgomery, Kathy and Brad Gossard, Dennis and Mary Fruetel, Mike and Jodi Clark—thank you. There are many more and you have my gratitude, but I’m trying to keep this shorter than War and Peace. You know who you are. Love you all.

  And of course, PJ: beloved mother, best friend, mentor, and soul mate. Your memory inspires me in all ways, every day, and makes writing a pure joy.

  PROLOGUE

  PETER NEVER GREW tired of walking the rough forest trails near his home as twilight descended. There was beauty in shadows, especially on a night like this, when a voluptuous full moon was rising in a velvety purple sky. To him, it looked like a mammoth diamond, embellishing a royal cloak.

  As he walked, he admired the spires of pines vaulting high above the lower canopy of leafy oak and maple, all casting eerie silhouettes on the forest floor. He delighted in the first firebugs of the season, punctuating the encroaching darkness like tiny restless candles, as they swirled through the woods on their brief mission to mate and die.

  Eventually he stopped at the familiar clearing on the crest of a small hill, where the trees opened up to reveal a moon-spangled lake. He heard waterfowl flutter and fuss and squawk in their night-time nests. Bullfrogs were synchronizing in an amorous chorale, and a pair of cats let out ear-splitting yowls, which preceded a union.

  It was mating season for just about everything in the forest, but there was also plenty of death afoot. While mating rituals were loud and riotous, the art of death was largely silent. A finely attuned ear might pick up the hushed swoop of an owl’s wings as it dove in for a kill, the rustle of a clever fox pouncing through tall grass to take its quarry, and maybe even the faint pad of a larger group of predators, like wolves, stalking a vulnerable fawn. All were stealthy bringers of death, efficient, brutal and without remorse. Yes, death was mostly silent, until the cries of the dying pierced the air. They didn’t last long, and there were no sounds after that.

  He continued on to the abandoned cabin that had once sheltered hunters during inclement weather. How ironic that it now sheltered the hunted. The door creaked open on rusty hinges and he smelled mold, dirt, shit, blood. He trained his flashlight on the seven dishonest men and women, the traitors, who were huddled in the corner, bound, blindfolded and tethered to the wall. He’d also gagged them, because he had no interest in hearing their lies or their pleas. They still struggled, but very feebly now. Their cries definitely wouldn’t last long: he would make sure of it.

  He studied the pathetic tableau for a few moments, wondering if he shouldn’t take care of things now. None of them deserved the mercy of death, but keeping them here was getting dangerous. Moving them would be even more so.

  He heard the distant, guttural rumble of thunder—or had it been an explosion? Either way, it was most definitely a sign meant to guide him. The spirits were speaking to him.

  Feeling profound relief and gratitude that he’d been granted direction, he slipped back outside, retrieved the shovel propped against the front log wall of the cabin, and began preparing the grave. It would be a long night of work, but he had the moon to illuminate his efforts and keep him company.

  As he shoveled, he never noticed the pair of eyes watching him from the shadows of the forest. It was only when the familiar voice spoke that he realized he’d been entranced by his work to the point of oblivion. Foolish, dangerous, potentially deadly.

  “Let’s not kill each other, Peter,” the man said. “It’s time to set aside the past and help each other.”

  Peter gaped at him. “How can you ever expect me to set aside the past?”

  “Things are ending, you know that, and we can’t stay here.”

  “I don’t want your help. I don’t need it.”

  “I think you might. I can understand why you don’t trust me, so as a gesture of goodwill, I’ve brought you a gift. I think you’ll like it.”

  Peter watched a figure emerge cautiously from the forest. From what he could see, he liked the gift very much.

  CHAPTER

  1

  MINNEAPOLIS DETECTIVE LEO Magozzi was relishing the early-morning peace of an empty homicide pen. On the days he didn’t hitch a ride with his partner Gino, he always made a point of getting to City Hall before anyone else. He’d brew a fresh pot of coffee, check in with any stragglers who were still in-house after pulling all-nighters on a case, then enjoy the solitude and the view of the street from his desk.

  When you weren’t tangled up in it, there was something oddly restful about watching downtown’s morning rush-hour. Vehicles, pedestrians, and light rail trains all swirled together in a chaotic, graceless dance, careening around each other as they forged ahead to their destinations. No matter how messy your mind was, the scene unfolding outside the window was a lot messier, and it brought some perspective that cleared your head. His was already clear this morning, so the view wasn’t therapeutic, it was theater, but equally enjoyable to watch. Especially this morning, because he wasn’t outside anymore, battling the subzero temperature and congested streets.

  A thin veil of snow was blowing over the city, more an ominous mist than proper winter precipitation. The snowflakes weren’t the plump, intricately lacy kind that floated happily down from a warmer sky—they were the bitter, constipated pellets that accompanied ungodly cold temperatures.

  In elementary school, Magozzi had always been fascinated by textbook photographs of magnified snowflakes, so dazzling in their beauty and diversity. He imagined that if he looked at one of these pseudo-flakes under a microscope he would see a contorted, angry emoticon with fangs and demonic red eyes.

  “It’s supposed to be too cold to snow,” his partner Gino Rolseth groused, as he walked into their cubicle, carrying the outdoor chill with him. He was mummified in a huge parka with a funnel hood that was suitable for an Antarctic expedition.

  “That’s a myth. It’s never too cold to snow.”

  “Obviously.” He began the long process of shedding his layers.

  “That’s it?” Magozzi asked with disappointment.

  “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”

  “I mean, where’s the fuming tirade over winter in Minnesota? At this point in January, you’re usually gnashing your teeth and tipping over desks. You speak for millions of Minnesotans and we count on you to give voice to our grievances.”

  Gino rubbed his cheeks, trying to thaw them. “This is what acceptance looks like, Leo. There comes a time when every warrior must lay
down his sword. It’s like struggling with a terminal illness—you fight like hell even when you don’t have the juice for it, and then you keep fighting some more. And one day it finally settles in, the fact that your destiny is no longer in your control. I’ve been defeated by Mother Nature and I’m at peace with that.”

  Magozzi tapped his pen thoughtfully on his desk. “It’s supposed to be seventeen below tonight,” he goaded him.

  “Really? I didn’t hear. I stopped watching the weather.”

  “We might not go above zero for the next seven days.”

  Gino took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then slammed his fist on his desk. “Goddamnit, Leo! Why did you have to shatter my happy place?”

  “Because it hurts me deeply to see you vanquished.”

  Detective Johnny McLaren walked into the office in a smart tweed overcoat. It wasn’t appropriate for the weather and it definitely wasn’t appropriate for McLaren, who could come into work wearing a polka-dot sharkskin suit or a garbage bag without anybody giving him a second glance. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold and clashed horribly with his carrot-colored hair. “Who’s vanquished?”

  “Gino. He gave up bitching about the weather.”

  “Who hasn’t? There’s no point—plus dwelling on it just pisses you off more than you already are.”

  “You are looking straight-up debonair this morning,” Gino praised him. “Did you get kidnapped by a stylist or did Gloria finally convince you to stop Dumpster-diving for your wardrobe?”

  “Funny, Rolseth, but the joke’s on you. There’s a live wire waiting to zap you.” He whistled and twirled his finger around his ear. “Nutters. Some self-proclaimed psychic who says she’s here to report a homicide that hasn’t happened yet. She won’t talk to anybody but you and Leo. Apparently you two have a lot of street cred with crazy people.”

  “How the hell do you know this? You just walked in.”

  “Gloria told me. It’ll be coming down the pipeline any minute, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

  Magozzi thought of their administrator, a big, bold, gorgeous African-American woman who kept Homicide tuned like a Formula One Ferrari and McLaren in a perpetual state of lovesickness. She was the perfect combination of street fighter and benevolent despot, and there was nothing that didn’t go through her first. “Gloria doesn’t cotton to bullshit of any kind. Why didn’t she kick her out?”

  “She desperately wanted to, but the new department regs are cramping her slash-and-burn approach. The lady’s ID checked out and she’s an upstanding, tax-paying citizen with a successful fortune-telling business downtown, a few blocks from here. And where would we be if we didn’t take premonitions seriously?”

  “In front of a judge, being gutted by a lawyer from the American Civil Liberties Union and getting the Minneapolis Police Department sued into insolvency for prejudice against charlatans,” Gino snarked.

  Magozzi nodded. “If we don’t talk to her, we’ll be on Death Row by nightfall. So did you end up getting a new furnace, McLaren?”

  “Yeah, and it cost me a bundle. But since you took ten grand off the house’s list price, I actually made five off the deal. Better than a night of poker.”

  “That kind of pisses me off, you cheap bastard, but you’re welcome. When’s the house-warming party so I can drink all your beer and revel in the fact that I don’t own it anymore?”

  “Next month sometime, but you don’t have to bring anything, Leo, you already covered that in spades. Rolseth, you’re still on the hook. Top-shelf booze is good, in case you’re struggling to come up with the perfect gift.”

  Gino grunted. “I’m not struggling, I have a six-pack of malt liquor freezing in my trunk right now with your name on it. I just have to go down to my basement and dig some ribbon and a bow out of Angela’s Christmas stash.”

  McLaren gave him an appreciative smile. “Don’t worry about the ribbon or the bow.”

  “Are you sure? It would be the most expensive part of the gift.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  MOVIES HAD FIXED a very specific image of fortune-tellers in Magozzi’s mind: headscarves and kaftans, heavy make-up, unruly, flowing hair, either gray or dyed black, and excessive amounts of jangling costume jewelry. And they always had thick Eastern European accents. But if you passed Blanca Szabo on the street, you would only notice a pleasant-looking older woman in ordinary clothing: slacks, a sweater and a black scarf arranged neatly around her neck.

  She was sitting in a chair in the hallway, gaze fixed on the opposite wall, either having a vision or simply resting her eyes. No costume jewelry, just a single, heavy gold necklace with a large amber pendant framed in metal curlicues that undoubtedly held some meaning for the séance crowd.

  “Ms Szabo?”

  She looked up and nodded. “Detective Magozzi, Detective Rolseth. I asked for you both because you’re known for solving difficult cases. I appreciate you seeing me. I know how busy you are.”

  She was so wrong about that. There hadn’t been a homicide in almost a month. Some psychic. Although she did have an accent, which was most likely Eastern European, given her name. “How can we help you?”

  “I’m here about a murder. But it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “That’s a pretty difficult job, even for us,” Gino said, but his sarcasm went unnoticed.

  “I’m a medium. I communicate with the dead.”

  Gino’s eyes slid over to Magozzi’s. “Uh-huh. So if this person isn’t dead yet, how are you communicating with them?”

  “Obviously I’m not communicating with the victim, I’m communicating with spirits. Sometimes they show me things that will happen.”

  “I guess that was a stupid question. So you talk to dead people and see into the future. That’s a unique skill set.”

  Magozzi gave him a subtle jab in the ribs. “Ms Szabo, our job is to solve murders that have already happened.”

  She shook her head and folded her hands in her lap. “I just want to save her. I’m certain you do, too.”

  “You haven’t told us anything we don’t know,” Gino said impatiently. “Somebody is going to get murdered. It happens in Minnesota about a hundred times a year. So unless you have some specifics …”

  “I saw a younger woman, very beautiful. She’s in trouble, trapped somehow. She can’t move, she can’t breathe, but it doesn’t feel like drowning. She knows that because she almost drowned when she was a little girl.”

  “That’s pretty specific.”

  “Most of my visions are specific.”

  “Great, so how about an identity or a location?” Magozzi asked.

  She closed her eyes, presumably channeling one of her imaginary spirit friends. She didn’t seem mentally ill, but that term covered a broad spectrum.

  “It happens in a room. A nice room, but not a large one,” she finally said. “There’s a mirror that absorbs everything that happens, but it hasn’t revealed its secrets to me yet.”

  Damn mirrors were always such uncooperative witnesses, Magozzi thought.

  “The woman is terrified, but she’s also sad. However, the sadness has nothing to do with her murder. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Why did you come to us?” Gino asked. “If you don’t have a specific location or an identity for the victim, what makes you think it’s going to happen here? Why not in Canada or Timbuktu?”

  “It’s a feeling I have.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gino clapped his hands together. “Well, thanks for coming in. We’ll start canvassing the city for sad women. This should be a slam-dunk.”

  She gave Gino a disappointed look. “You think I’m a charlatan.”

  “It’s not personal, Ms Szabo. I just don’t believe in magic.”

  “I help people. Isn’t there magic in that? I bring them closure and peace of mind by being their interpreter for a language Google Translate doesn’t have in its database. And what’s the harm in that?”

  “Like I said
, it’s not personal. It’s just my job is to find the truth, so I have problems with people who manipulate it for personal gain.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed shrewdly. “My clients would disagree with you. You know, there are three types of people who come to me: the desperate, the vain and the curious. The desperate want hope and healing, the vain want to hear good things about themselves and their lives, and the curious either want proof that I’m a fraud, or a reason to believe what I do is real. I make them all happy.”

  “I can agree with you there. Sounds like you don’t actually buy what you’re selling either.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Detective. I am a true believer and I know what I do is real, even if you don’t. I’ve known it since I was very young.” She gave him a faint smile. “You and I, we’re not so different as you think. We both read people for a living, you in the service of justice, me in the service of well-being.” She stood and laid a card on her vacated seat. “Thank you both again for seeing me. I hope you can save this poor woman.”

  They watched her walk down the hall.

  “I guess she put you in your place,” Magozzi said.

  “She made a couple interesting points, I’ll give you that, but she’s still full of crap.” Gino picked up her card. “Blanca Szabo, Medium and Spiritual Guide. That’s all it says. No contact information. How are you supposed to book an appointment?”

  “She’s a psychic. If you need to get a hold of her, she’ll find you.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  PETRA JURIC LOVED planes, but she hated air travel with a blinding passion. There was something so fundamentally wrong about it. It didn’t matter how much you flew, how used to the ever-changing caprices of airport security you were, how many flightways you’d walked down, it was, at its very core, unnatural and eerie and dehumanizing, and travelers’ demeanors reflected that the second they stepped into an airport and turned into compliant automatons.