“Eight.”
“You’re gonna take the test?”
“The detective’s test? Yeah, I was thinking about it.”
“I’ve been watching you the last couple of days,” he said. “You’ve got a good way with people. You keep your eyes open.”
“I try.”
“Okay, so let me ask you this. Do you have any problem with what I just did to that hustler? You think you could have done that yourself?”
“I honestly don’t know if I could, Detective. Maybe that’s something they teach you when they give you the gold shield.”
He thought about that for a moment, maybe trying to decide if he should take offense.
“I’m going to call the family tonight,” he finally said. “They’ll want to know if we’re any closer to finding the man who killed Elana.”
“Yes?”
“That’ll be you someday. When you make that call, you’re going to ask yourself something first. You’re going to ask yourself, ‘Am I doing everything I can to solve this case? I mean, no matter what, am I doing whatever it takes?’”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to want an answer yet. Not that night. He drove us the rest of the way back to the precinct without saying another word.
When I finally went home that night, Elana Paige had been dead for fifty-four hours.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
If they had such a thing as an “Indian summer” in the Upper Peninsula, it would probably have to happen in late August, when it’s supposed to be turning cold already. Of course, the whole idea of Indian summer borders on offensive, if you think of it as being just a false summer, in the same way that an Indian giver gives you something and then takes it away. There are plenty of real Indians in the Upper Peninsula, including my neighbor Vinnie Red Sky LeBlanc, and I’ve never heard him use the term. He just says niibin when it’s summer, and then dagwaagin when it’s fall. He won’t actually put a coat on until it’s biboon and there’s a foot of snow on the ground.
He was there at the Glasgow Inn when I got back home that night. Three hours on the road to get to Houghton Lake, then another two and a half hours after leaving the detective’s house. Plenty of time to think about everything he had said to me. I still wasn’t sure exactly what was bothering me, but now that I was home it didn’t seem to matter quite as much. I was back above the bridge, in another world.
Vinnie waited for me to get my cold Canadian and sit down by the fireplace. “How did it go?” he asked me. “Jackie told me you were going down there to get lucky.”
I just about spit out my beer.
“I did no such thing,” Jackie said, throwing his bar towel. “I said he was going down to have dinner with that nice-looking FBI agent. That’s all I said.”
“Five hours down,” Vinnie said. “Five hours back. Ten hours round-trip. If it was just for dinner, I hope it was the best meal of your life.”
“All right,” I said to both of them. “Enough of that. If you must know, it was a nice dinner and that’s all it was. We both realized it’s a bad idea to start something when we live so far apart.”
“I’m pretty sure you could have started and finished in one evening,” Jackie said. “I mean, I know you’re out of practice.”
“I come back home and it’s like I’m in high school again,” I said. “Why did I bother?”
“Give us a break,” Jackie said. “How often do we get to make fun of you?”
“Apparently never,” I said, “because I’m leaving.”
I got up and left my beer sitting there on the little table next to the overstuffed chairs. It was obvious they both thought I was bluffing. But then I opened the door.
“Where are you going?” Jackie said.
“Believe it or not,” I said, thinking this would be the worst thing I’ve ever said to the man, “I’m going to another bar.”
I’d been planning on going there anyway. Seeing the look on Jackie’s face as I walked out that door was just a bonus. I got in my truck and drove over to Sault Ste. Marie. I’d had more than enough time on the road the past couple of days, but I had to make this one last trip before I’d be able to sleep.
I took the main road through the empty hayfields. I rolled down the windows to let in the warm air. It was a dark night with no moon.
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, or “the Soo” as they usually call it around here, is the last stop on the road to Canada. The bridge was glowing in the night sky as I made my way along the St. Marys River to the Soo Locks. The lighted fountain in the park was on, and there were people walking up and down Portage Avenue. They were out enjoying the night, feeling it a little more than you would in most places for the simple reason that warm nights are a rare thing up here. So when they come, you make damned sure you make the most of them.
I parked the car in the lot next to the Ojibway Hotel. Leon Prudell’s new place of employment was right across the street. The Soo Brewing Company. He was standing behind the counter when I walked in. A bear of a man with comb-resistant orange hair.
Leon has always wanted to be a private investigator, going back to when he was a kid. The first time I met him, he tried to take me apart in the Glasgow Inn parking lot, when he thought I had taken his job away. Later, we were partners. That’s how I ended up with the Prudell-McKnight Investigations business card that I had given to Mrs. King. But that partnership didn’t last long, mostly because Leon’s wife didn’t like the idea of Leon mixing it up with dangerous characters. Much as she loved me, she still blamed me for almost getting him killed. Believe me, Eleanor Prudell is not a person you want to get on the wrong side of.
Leon tried to go solo as a PI. He even had an office over on Ashmun. That didn’t last, either. There’s just not enough business for an investigator up here. Besides, most people up here remember Leon Prudell as the goofy fat kid who sat in the back row, from kindergarten through high school. They don’t know that he’s actually the smartest man in town, and as loyal a friend as you could ever have.
He sold snowmobiles and outboard motors for a while. Then he worked in a movie theater taking tickets and selling popcorn to teenagers. I hated to see him there. Now he had this new gig at the microbrewery. He was learning to make beer, on top of all the other talents you’d never suspect he had. I hadn’t even known he was an accomplished guitar player, for instance, until the night he invited me to hear him record at the studio in Brimley. Typical Yooper, good at a dozen things but won’t brag about any of them.
“Alex!” he said as soon as he saw me. “Get the hell in here!”
He came out from behind the counter and gave me a big hug. That’s almost as dangerous as a hug from his wife.
“What do you think of the place?” he said, gesturing at the shiny brewing tanks. In the front of the store, they had grabbed every old couch and chair and beat-up table they could find and tried to create the ultimate hangout spot. There were a dozen people sitting around, some reading, some looking at their laptops, some eating pizza. All of them had big glass mugs of beer.
“We’ve got the pizza place down the street to deliver to us,” he said. “It works out great for everybody.”
“This is impressive,” I said. “It sure as hell beats the theater.”
“Oh God, tell me about it.”
When he introduced me to the master brewer, the two of them exchanged a meaningful look, like yes, this is the man I was telling you about. The brewer drew a little pony glass from the tap and slid it over the counter.
“Okay,” Leon said, “this is one of our staples. It’s a session ale, as they call it, but it really stands up. Are you ready to try it?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be honored.”