Vengeance Is Mine Page 9

  Steve poured himself another half cup of coffee. He added three tablespoons of sugar and filled the mug with cream. He was about to make a salami and onion sandwich when he remembered that he was picking Michele up at ten-thirty. He wrapped the onion slice in foil and put it back in the refrigerator. He could always eat it later.

  Pete was still scratching at the front door. The sound carried all the way back to the kitchen. Steve figured he’d have to refinish the door before he moved out of his apartment.

  “Forget it, Pete. I just walked you ten minutes ago, and you’re not going out again until tomorrow morning.”

  Steve set his sandwich and coffee down on the end table and scooped up the miniature French poodle.

  “I know it’s frustrating, but you’ll just have to control yourself. Here’s a piece of salami for you. Maybe that’ll take your mind off Brunhilda.”

  Steve gave Pete a scratch behind the ears and set him down on the sofa. The people in the next apartment had a female St. Bernard, and Pete had developed delusions of grandeur.

  The other tenants at the Oaks couldn’t manage to hide their smiles when they saw a six-foot-three-inch cop walking a dog that could fit into a shoebox, but Steve had gotten over being embarrassed about it. He just told everyone that Pete was a German shepherd working undercover.

  Pete had been Diane’s dog. When they’d split up, she’d told him she was giving Pete to her parents. Steve had known how long that would last. Diane’s parents had a gorgeous high rise, and they didn’t like pets. Pete would have ended up at the pound in less than a week.

  Pete had been Pierre then. He’d gone to the doggie beauty parlor twice a month and sported baby-blue silk bows over his ears. Steve had saved him from all that sissy stuff. Of course, there was nothing he could do about the miniature part, but Pete seemed to like his new name, and the bows and the rhinestone collar were long gone.

  Steve finished his sandwich and drained his coffee mug. He was getting nowhere with his investigation. Of course, he’d checked out Michele’s lead right away, but Vera Kline had been home with guests all evening. Then, when he found out that both murders were committed by the same person, Steve began to look for the connection. Plenty of people in town had hated Ray, but Dale Kline was well liked. The Defenders of Decency were the only possibility he hadn’t scratched off his suspect list.

  Pete seemed to be enjoying the man-size chunk of salami. It would keep him busy for a while. Steve pulled on his work gloves and unwound the coil of barbed wire he’d brought home with him. The murder weapon was heavy and shaped like a T. Steve’s first guess had been a tire iron. The sharp points were baffling until he thought of barbed wire. A redneck might carry a roll of barbed wire in his truck, and a tire iron was standard equipment.

  Steve had gone to Matthew Hall Lumber this afternoon to ask about barbed wire. The clerk called it “bob wore” and brought out a roll. Matthew Hall carried only the Wyoming Starburst pattern, six points to a cluster, two inches apart. The clerk mentioned that a lot of people had barbed-wire collections. He’d seen one with seventy-eight patterns mounted on a varnished piece of bird’s eye maple at the Minnesota State Fair.

  Jim Berg had been even more helpful. He’d invited Steve to drive out to his place. There was certain to be some barbed wire somewhere in the back of the garage. There might even be all seventy-eight varieties. The garage hadn’t been cleaned out since his grandfather died.

  Steve had pulled on his oldest jacket and braved Highway 15. Carol and Jim lived on the family farm, halfway between St. Cloud and Kimball. Carol had made a fresh pot of coffee, and they’d carried the steaming mugs out to the unheated garage.

  After an hour of crawling over old furniture, they’d hit the jackpot. There were five rolls of barbed wire stuck behind Aunt Tillie’s canning jars. Jim had snipped off some strands of the single-prong variety and stuffed them in an old Coburn’s shopping bag. He’d looked positively trapped when Carol had insisted that he finish the job now that he’d started. The garage needed a good cleaning, and there might be some real collectibles in those piles of junk.

  Steve used pliers to hold the wire while he wrapped it around the end of the tire iron. Dale Kline’s murder had him completely baffled. His initial suspicions about the Mafia could still be correct. Dale had handled quite a bit of Ray Perini’s legal work. It was possible they’d been involved in some sort of scam together. It was the strongest tie between the two men, and Henry Corliss was positive that the same weapon had been used in both murders. It all tied together, but Steve wasn’t satisfied. Why would a hit man bludgeon Ray and Dale to death when guns with silencers were readily available?

  The college kids upstairs had their stereo on full blast, and the bass notes came through the ceiling loud and clear. It was impossible to tell which album they were playing. They all had the same rhythm. Boom, baboom boom, boom baboom boom.

  Pete whimpered and scratched at his ears. He didn’t like rock music. Steve got out his Walkman and patched in an extra set of earphones. Pete enjoyed Steve’s environmental tapes. His favorite was A Rainy Day on the Farm.

  “Come here, Pete.” Steve snapped his fingers. Pete came running, dragging his chunk of salami with him.

  “The lamb’s coming up in just a minute.”

  Steve adjusted the earphones to Pete’s small head and watched as he settled down to listen. The tape was a recording made during an actual rainy day, with cows mooing and raindrops pattering against the roof of a barn. Pete liked the part where the lamb bleated. He always wagged his tail.

  An hour later Steve gave up his effort. He’d wrapped the wire around the tire iron in every conceivable way, but he hadn’t come up with anything that approximated three sharp points a half inch apart. Of course, he still had to check into the other patterns of barbed wire, but it looked as if he’d better come up with another idea for the murder weapon.

  Steve took off his earphones and stuffed the barbed wire back into the shopping bag. He put it up on top of the television where Pete couldn’t get into it.

  All was quiet upstairs. Steve glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. When he’d been in college, he’d spent Sunday nights studying, but the kids upstairs seemed to do very little of that. They must have gone out to a party.

  “Guess I’d better get ready to go, Pete.” Steve took off Pete’s earphones and put them away. “Do you want me to bring a friend home with me? Her name is Michele. You’ll like her.”

  Pete’s tail thumped against the floor. Then his ears perked up as a rhythmic squeaking came from the apartment above.

  “I wonder when they study.” Steve shook his head. “C’mon, Pete. I’d better take you out for a walk before you get any more ideas about Brunhilda.”

  The four-story city parking structure was practically deserted as Les pulled his Lincoln into a space on the lower level. He was a little nervous as he got out of his car, even though the banks of fluorescent lights illuminated every corner. He’d stop at the Tattletale Bar and have a drink with the locals. If people saw the mayor wasn’t afraid to walk the streets at night, they’d feel reassured.

  Les turned up his collar and dashed across the street. It was cold tonight. He wished he could wear his favorite parka with the rabbit-fur collar, but it was getting a little mangy, and Trish said it wasn’t good for his image. The mayor of St. Cloud should always dress in a topcoat and hat.

  “What’ll you have, Mr. Mayor?” Pat Krueger grinned as Les stamped the snow off his shoes at the door and walked toward the long mahogany bar.

  “Careful of that stool on the end. Tony Getz broke it last night.”

  “A Cutty and soda, I guess. Make it light, Pat.”

  “I’ve got a good one for you, Les. One of those opticians from the convention told it to me last night.”

  Pat upended a bottle of Cutty Sark over a glass filled with ice. Then he spritzed it with soda, flipped a Hamm’s beer coaster onto the bar, and set Les’s drink down in front of him. The whole proc
edure didn’t take more than five seconds. Pat was the fastest bartender in town.

  Les picked up the glass and took a cautious sip. It was just as strong as it looked. People always thought they were doing him a favor when they mixed heavy drinks. He wouldn’t be able to cover more than three bars at this rate.

  “Guy walks into a bar and sits on a stool. ‘Gimme a Grain Belt!’ The bartender says, ‘Sorry, we’re all out of Grain Belt.’ The guy says, ‘That’s okay, I’ll pay double.’ The bartender says, ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me. We’re all out of Grain Belt.’ The guy nods. ‘Yeah, I heard you. I’ll pay triple.’”

  Les grinned. This was going to be good. Pat had a million jokes, and everybody in town thought he was funnier than Johnny Carson.

  “Okay, now the bartender is starting to get mad, see? He doesn’t have any Grain Belt, and this guy doesn’t seem to understand. He says, ‘Tell you what, mister. Spell Bud, like in Budweiser.’ The guy goes, ‘B-U-D.’ Then the bartender says, ‘Spell soda. Like in Scotch and soda.’ The guy goes, ‘S-O-D-A.’ The bartender says, ‘Now spell frig, like in Grain Belt.’ The guy goes, ‘F-R-I-G—Hey wait a minute. There’s no frig in Grain Belt.’ The bartender says, ‘That’s what I been trying to tell you. There’s no friggin’ Grain Belt.’”

  “Oh, God. That’s a good one.” Les laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. “I bet you’ve been telling that all night.”

  “Nobody’s been in except a couple tablefuls of college kids. Those murders sure killed business, no pun intended.”

  Pat leaned across the bar even though Les was the only customer. “I brought my Beretta to work with me tonight. I don’t give a damn if it’s illegal or not. And I made Barbie put that little twenty-five I bought her for Christmas in her purse. Hey, what’s the scoop, Les? You think that new cop is gonna catch the killer soon?”

  “He’s a good man, Pat. Came with the highest recommendations from the Minneapolis PD. I have every reason to believe an arrest is imminent.”

  “No kidding?”

  Les shook his head. “You tell everybody that Steve Radke is on the ball. Hey, not to change the subject or anything, but how about that hockey team of yours? You think I should make a little bet?”

  “It’s a sure thing.” Pat grinned. “We’re up against Searle’s Surlies, and Dave Busch cut open his knee in practice.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Les plopped a five down on the bar, and Pat handed him the punch-out spread sheet. Before he left the bar, Les had picked the Tattletale team to win by eight, eleven, and seventeen.

  After the steamy warmth of the Tattletale it was even colder outside. Les wished he’d followed his instincts and taken his choppers instead of the thin leather gloves Trish insisted he wear with his topcoat. The heavy leather mittens lined with fur were too bulky for driving, but they would have kept his hands warm on the walk to the Paradise Lounge.

  A plastic bag full of garbage had blown up against The Granite Trio, Tony Caponi’s thirty-two-ton sculpture that decorated the mall. Les picked up the bag and put it in the trash receptacle by Herberger’s Department Store.

  Someone coughed nearby, and Les whirled around. A nun was standing by the huge plate-glass window, staring at the display of double knits.

  “Oh, good evening, Sister.” Les tipped his hat. The nun smiled, and Les hurried across the street. He wondered if she’d seen him come out of the Tattletale. He certainly didn’t want the clergy to think he was a heavy drinker.

  Les didn’t think of it until he was at the door to the Paradise. It was cold out tonight. If the nun were still there when he walked back, he’d offer to give her a ride.

  “Hey, look what the wind blew in.” Ida Ludwig grinned as she rinsed out glasses behind the bar. “Jerry just went up to the Sportsman to see if they’re gonna lock up early. Nobody’s out tonight.”

  The Paradise was deserted except for two people huddled in a booth in the back. Les was about to speak to them when he caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. The man was Otto Simonitsch, a manager at Holes-Webway. And he had his arm around a woman who was twenty years younger and forty pounds slimmer than Mrs. Simonitsch.

  Ida wiped her hands on her apron and gestured toward the booth in the back. “Shirley’s gone to Rochester. You know what they say, When the cat’s away . . .”

  Les nodded.

  “I hope Shirl’s having a good time in Rochester. You know what they say, turnabout’s fair play.”

  Ida cracked up. Les noticed that she’d kept her girlish giggle from high school. It sounded strange coming from a woman over thirty, but Ida was a good egg.

  “How about a St. Cloud Snowshoe, Les? It’s our specialty.”

  Les didn’t know what a St. Cloud Snowshoe was, but he wouldn’t hurt Ida’s feelings for the world.

  “Sure, but make it light, will you. Ida? I’ve got to drive home tonight.”

  Les watched as Ida poured equal parts of peppermint schnapps and brandy into a glass. She added a dash of crème de menthe for color and floated a bright green cherry on top. Les’s stomach churned as he took the smallest sip possible.

  “Hey, Les! Good to see you, buddy. It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there.”

  Jerry Ludwig had barged in through the door and slapped Les on the back so hard that half his Snowshoe spilled onto the bar. They’d been best buddies at Tech High.

  “Aw, hell, I’m such a klutz. Ida? Mix Les another one, will ya?”

  “No! Uh . . . that’s not necessary, Jerry. There’s plenty left here, and Trish’ll have fits if I get a load on tonight.”

  “I’ll bet she will.”

  There was a touch of coldness in Jerry’s voice. Les knew he’d never liked Trish, even in high school. Of course Jerry’d never say a bad word about her—you didn’t bad-mouth a buddy’s wife—but Jerry was smart enough to realize that the reason they never got together anymore was that Trish didn’t consider the Ludwigs their social equals.

  “How’s your hockey team coming, Jer? Your boys are playing the Flatiron team, aren’t they?”

  “No contest.” Jerry shrugged. “The Flatiron Welders are strictly an amateur team. We’ll take the trophy, no sweat. It’s gonna be just like that winning season we had in high school.”

  “Yeah.” Les grinned. “Those were the good old days, huh, Jer? I couldn’t play hockey now to save my life.”

  “You didn’t play much then, but you sure roughed up the competition. Seems to me you spent most of the season in the penalty box.”

  Les laughed and raised his glass in a salute. One glance at the green liquid inside made him set it right back down on his napkin again.

  “Hey, Les.” Jerry straddled the next stool and leaned close. “You think they’re gonna catch that killer soon?”

  “You can bet on it, Jerry. I’m not supposed to say anything but it’s a hell of a world if you can’t share good news with your buddies, right?”

  “Right.” Jerry nodded and leaned closer.

  “I talked to Steve Radke this morning, and he said he’s got it all wrapped up. It’s just a matter of gathering a little more evidence before they make the arrest.”

  “Jeez, I’m glad to hear that.” Jerry sighed deeply. “It hardly pays to open when all your regulars stay home with their doors locked and their guns in their laps. Ida? Open me a Grain Belt, will ya, honey?”

  “A Grain Belt?” Les began to smile. “That reminds me, Jerry. Boy, have I got a joke for you!”

  It was nearing ten o’clock when Les left the Paradise. He’d placed a five-dollar bet on Jerry’s team, and he still had more ground to cover.

  The Sportsman sign was off. Eddie must have figured it wasn’t worth it to stay open any longer. Les decided he might as well walk over to the Locker Room for a quick one. Then he’d better shag tail for home. Trish would be back from Margaret’s by eleven at the latest.

  Les frowned as he noticed another nun standing in front of the To
wnhouse Bakery. Was there some sort of church function going on downtown, or was this the same one he’d seen earlier? It was impossible to tell. With those black wool coats and veils they all looked the same. She was staring at the five-tier wedding cake on display. Les grinned in spite of himself. A nun staring at a wedding cake. He’d heard that the Catholic Church was adopting more liberal attitudes, but that was ridiculous.

  “Excuse me, Sister. I’m Mayor Hollenkamp. Could I offer you a ride?”

  The nun turned to smile at him sweetly. “No, but thank you for asking.”

  There wasn’t any more he could say. She hadn’t offered any explanation of why she was standing there, and Les didn’t want to be rude and ask her. He tipped his hat and walked away. If she was waiting for people to pick her up, Les hoped they’d come soon. The wind was starting to whip down the mall, and the temperature was dropping. Les’s cheeks were red and he was shivering by the time he reached the Locker Room.

  “Les! C’mon over here and join us. John? Open a bottle of that Danish beer for the mayor.”

  The Locker Room was lively as usual. It looked as if every hockey player in town were there, along with four or five tables of college girls. Les felt every one of his thirty-eight years as he picked up his beer and walked past the fresh-faced kids to join the owners, Mark and Ron, at a table in the back.

  “I can’t believe they’re old enough to drink.”

  “Everyone gets carded at the door, Les. They’re all over nineteen.”

  “I guess they just look younger as I get older.” Les grinned at Ron and took a long pull at his beer. It was heaven after that St. Cloud Snowshoe that Ida had mixed him.

  “It’s sure crowded in here. Seems like the murders didn’t even put a crimp in your business.”

  “Are you kidding?” Mark grinned. “Take a look around you, Les. We’ve got football players, rugby players, wrestlers, all kinds of jocks. There’s not a guy in here that weighs under two hundred pounds. With muscle like that, the Locker Room’s the safest place in town.”