Monkeewrench Page 9

  “Oh, well, that’s a relief,” Gino said. “Here I thought we were going to have a bunch of bodies cluttering up the city. Turns out we’ve only got five more to go.”

  Magozzi was longing for a chair. A recliner, preferably, and maybe a few beers, and certainly a world where people didn’t kill each other for fun. “I assume you’ve got some kind of a registration list for the players who signed on to your test site.”

  “Sure. Name, address, phone number, e-mail.” Annie pushed away from the counter and swished over to the one computer in the loft that looked like a human being might run it. The desk was deeply polished butternut, free of clutter, with a porcelain pot that held an artful arrangement of silk flowers precisely the same peacock blue as her dress. Magozzi wondered if she changed the flowers daily to match her wardrobe. “I’ll show you a list, for all the good it will do.”

  “And why’s that?” Gino asked, closing in on her desk.

  “A lot of the entries are pure fabrication.” She pointed to a name on her monitor, hypnotizing Gino with a white lacquered nail sprinkled with blue sparkles. “Take a look at this one. Claude Balls, and he lives on Wildcat’s Revenge Avenue.”

  “That is so old,” Roadrunner complained.

  “Tell me about it. People have no imagination anymore.”

  Gino leaned over Annie’s shoulder for a better look. “Your computer doesn’t catch things like that?”

  Annie’s plump right shoulder rotated in an amazingly sensual shrug. Gino nearly had a heart attack. “Registration of any kind became an exercise in futility a long time ago. Most programs only require that certain fields be filled in; they don’t cross-check to make sure the entries are legit. And why would you? Are you going to refuse potential buyers access to the site, just because they want some privacy?”

  “So there’s no way you can find out Claude Balls’s real name.”

  Annie smiled a little. “I didn’t say that. In theory, it’s pretty simple. Just trace back from where he signed onto the site, then get the membership records from his Internet service provider.”

  Magozzi addressed his shoes because he didn’t want to look at the Monkeewrench partners. Not right now. If he told them what he needed and saw the slightest flicker of hesitation cross the face of any one of them, he thought perhaps he might pull out his gun and shoot them. “I want a copy of that registration list. I also want copies of every murder scenario in the game, especially the staged crime-scene photos. Now am I going to have a problem getting this stuff from you people without a warrant?”

  “Of course not,” he heard Grace MacBride say. Her voice was shaking. She was standing perfectly erect, motionless, a tall, beautiful woman with a gun under her arm, and yet for some reason she looked totally helpless to Magozzi in that moment.

  “The man on the riverboat,” she said to Harley. “Print it.” And then she turned to Magozzi. “That’s the third murder. You’ve got to stop it.”

  Chapter 14

  Magozzi was sitting alone in Mitch Cross’s office, phone hooked in his shoulder, drumming his fingers on a desk that looked sterile enough for surgery.

  While Muzak bastardized the Beatles in his ear, he examined the room for evidence that a human being actually worked here, and found none. Not a single scrap of paper littered either the desk or the credenza behind it, which held a computer that looked new and unused. He could see his reflection in the dark monitor screen, and not a speck of dust. He slid open the top desk drawer an inch, saw uniformly sharpened pencils nesting in a neat row, points aligned, and a flat box of wet wipes.

  The walls were white and empty, except for a single abstract painting that did absolutely nothing for Magozzi. No color, no life, just a few black blobs on a lot of wasted canvas that filled him with the childish urge to find some colored markers and try his hand at graffiti.

  A copy of the crime-scene photo of murder number three lay perfectly centered on the desk in front of him. It was only a serendipitous act of placement—he’d tossed it there when he sat down—but it bothered him that the thing had seemed to position itself in perfect harmony with the obsessive-compulsive surroundings. He moved the photo until it was slightly crooked, and immediately felt better.

  Crime-scene number three was the kind of childishly naughty image a teenage kid would dream up: a pudgy, middle-aged man sitting on a toilet with his pants puddled around his ankles and a bullet hole in his head. Magozzi decided it was probably the brainchild of the big tattooed guy, a case of arrested development if ever he saw one.

  According to the SKUD game, the third victim was found in the restroom of a paddleboat during an evening party cruise on a river. He supposed there were even better places to lay a trap for a killer, but this one suited Magozzi just fine.

  He’d been on one of the paddle wheelers years ago, a dinner cruise down the St. Croix River back in the days when he and Heather did such things together. It had been bigger than he’d expected—three decks and seating for five hundred—and a lot less romantic. The interior decks were single, vast rooms with no private spaces where romantic—or homicidal—fantasies could be indulged. The restrooms were right out in the open, with access in plain view. If he had to, he figured they could cover a boat with just twelve officers, four per deck, although he was hoping for an even better scenario. Cancel the charter, fill the boat with cops in their best civvies, and let the bastard come.

  The Muzak switched from Beatles to Mancini and Magozzi glanced at his watch impatiently. It had taken five minutes to find out that only a few of the great paddleboats were still on the river this late in the year, and that only one—the Nicollet—was chartered for a party cruise tonight. Getting the rest of the information he needed was taking a lot longer than it should have.

  The music clicked off abruptly and Mr. Tiersval, the president of the paddleboat company, came back on the line. “Detective Magozzi?”

  “Still here.”

  “I’m sorry for the delay. We have … a bit of a situation here.” The man’s voice was strained to the breaking point. “Tonight’s charter is the Hammond wedding reception.”

  It took Magozzi a beat. “As in Foster Hammond?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.”

  If there was royalty in Minneapolis, Foster and Char Hammond were it. A near monopoly on Great Lakes shipping had filled the family coffers back at the turn of the century. Now they owned half of downtown Minneapolis if the rumors were true, and had more political influence than all the voters in the state put together.

  “There’s no way the Hammonds would agree to cancel this event, Detective. They’ve been planning it for over a year, and the guest list reads like a Who’s Who of Minnesota. I checked with our lawyers to see if there was anything I could do, but apparently the legal ramifications of canceling the charter are considerably more severe than having a man killed on one of our boats, if you can believe that.”

  Magozzi believed it.

  “If I were to refuse to honor the Hammonds’ contract, they can, and most certainly will, sue the line into bankruptcy. On the other hand”—and now a bitter sarcasm crept into his voice—“if we forewarn the passengers about the potential for danger and they still choose to board, the law holds us blameless if one of them dies.”

  Magozzi nodded to himself. Sometimes the law was a bitch.

  “Can’t the police order us to cancel the charter?”

  Magozzi smiled a little. “Not in this country. Not without an Emergency Powers declaration from the governor, and all we’re working with here is a suspicion of something that might happen, not a clear and present danger.”

  “Maybe the mayor could help you with that. He’s on the guest list.”

  Magozzi covered his eyes with his hand.

  “I want you to know that if it were up to me, Detective, I would haul that boat out of the water myself and the hell with lawsuits.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Tiersval.” It was always something of a surprise for Magozz
i to find genuinely decent people at the top of any corporate ladder. He’d probably watched Erin Brockovich too many times.

  “I called the Hammonds and explained the situation briefly. They agreed to give you a hearing if you can get over there within the next thirty minutes. Do you need the address?”

  Magozzi didn’t. Everyone in the city knew who lived in the big stone mansion on Lake of the Isles.

  Gino walked in just as he was hanging up the phone. He looked exactly one donut fatter than when Magozzi had left him out in the loft ten minutes earlier.

  “You broke bread with them,” he accused him, pointing to his chin.

  Gino dragged his hand across crags and whiskers and white powder fell to Mitch Cross’s immaculate gray carpet. “I’d break bread with Satan if it was a sugar donut. They made us hard copies of the game and registration info for every player who signed onto the website. Didn’t even have to ask twice. General MacBride had the printers going before I could open my mouth, and now we got two boxes out there stuffed with paper. You have any luck nailing down a boat?”

  “Yeah, and it was all bad. I’ll tell you about it in the car.”

  When the elevator door slid shut on the detectives, Grace looked away toward the windows and concentrated on the pale strips of light an anemic sun painted on the floor. She wasn’t quite ready to meet the eyes of her friends, not just yet.

  People were dying because of her. Again.

  Mitch collapsed into a chair next to her. Outwardly, he appeared calm, but hysteria emanated from him like a toxic aura. “We are screwed,” he finally announced.

  The comment barely registered in Grace’s mind, but Annie was quick to respond with a scowl. “That’s a nice attitude, Mitch.”

  Mitch raised his eyes to look at her. “What do you think is going to happen to Monkeewrench when this thing blows wide open?”

  That comment registered in Grace’s mind and she turned to look at him. “What are you saying, Mitch?” she asked carefully, knowing full well she was opening Pandora’s box.

  Mitch blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m saying that Greenberg was pissed off just because we were creating a game about serial killers. When he finds out we’re responsible for a rash of copycat murders, School-house, along with about fifty percent of Monkeewrench’s income, is going to be a happy memory.”

  Grace recoiled and stared at her old friend as if he were an unpleasant stranger. “I can’t believe I just heard you say that.”

  Mitch scrubbed his unshaven face with his hands. “What? I’m the only one who’s worried? I’m talking about the future of our company, Grace. This is not a minor setback, this is a disaster.”

  “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.

  Chapter 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.

  Chapter 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.