‘You bellowed?’ he asked, taking some small pleasure in the angry flash of her eyes as a titter spread through the crowd.
‘Detective Ma-go-zee . . .’ she started again.
‘That’s Magozzi. Ma-go-tse.’
‘Right. Kristin Keller, Channel Ten News. Detective, can you confirm that the man shot on the Nicollet tonight was using the restroom at the time he was murdered?’
Indelicate bitch, Magozzi thought. And definitely not a home-grown girl. Your proper Minnesotan never made public reference to bodily functions, no matter how vague.
‘I just got here, Ms Keller. I can’t confirm anything at this point. Excuse me.’ He started to ease through the crowd toward the gangplank, but swore he could feel her hot breath on his neck.
‘Was this another Monkeewrench killing?’ she shouted from behind him.
Oh shit. He stopped and turned around, saw her sly smile.
‘Our sources tell us that the murder last night in Lakewood Cemetery was identical to one in a computer game created by Monkeewrench, a local software company. Do you have any comment on that, Detective?’
‘Not at this time.’
Hawkins from the St Paul Pioneer Press spoke up. ‘Come on, Leo. We’ve had calls trickling in all day about that cemetery murder, from other people who were playing that game on the net. They all said that murder was right on, and now we’re hearing that this killing could be a match for another one in the same game.’
‘We’ve gotten the same calls,’ Magozzi said.
‘So the police department is aware of the connection between these killings and the game?’
‘We are aware of some similarities, and we are investigating.’
‘There were twenty murders in that game . . .’ Kristin Keller called out, and then her very own news chopper moved in overhead, drowning her out. ‘Get that fucking thing out of here!’ Magozzi heard her scream as he hurried through the crowd toward the gangplank.
McLaren met him on the main deck. ‘It’s really going to hit the fan now, isn’t it?’ he said dryly.
‘Yeah, and we’re going to get splattered big time.’
It had taken a murder to do it, but someone had finally upstaged Foster Hammond, and he had not been happy about it. The possibility of a murder at his daughter’s wedding reception might have given him a cheap thrill, but he’d lost his sense of humor when MPD had crashed the party en force.
The social event of the year was now a crime scene, the bride was inconsolable, twenty-five grand worth of food was going to end up in steam trays at a downtown homeless shelter, and Hammond’s illustrious guests had all been corralled into one salon for interviews, ‘like common criminals,’ he’d sputtered to Magozzi.
Magozzi was still patting himself on the back for holding his tongue throughout Hammond’s tirade, but when the bastard started talking about police incompetence he’d excused himself before he said something really inappropriate, like ‘I told you so, you stupid, arrogant prick.’
Now he was fifty yards away from the controlled mayhem that reigned on the Nicollet, staring into the inky black water of the Mississippi, wondering how the hell they were going to catch a cipher who lived in a cyberworld and killed in this one.
He looked up across the river and saw a million hiding places in the clusters of trees and underbrush, jagged rock formations, and dense shadows. The son of a bitch could be hiding there right now, watching him, gloating. But Magozzi didn’t think so.
With a deep sigh, he took one last look at the water and headed back toward the barrier of squads that were lined up side by side in the parking lot. Blue and red lights still flashed, bathing the side of the Nicollet with a jerky, blood-and-bruise rainbow.
Gino had finally extricated himself from the melee on the boat and was ducking beneath fluttering ribbons of crime-scene tape, heading toward him. He was overdressed for the twenty-degree weather in a puffy down parka, fur-lined cap, and fat snowmobile mittens that were good to seventy below. Two crime-scene techs followed him, carrying a gurney that held a black zippered bag.
‘You planning an Antarctic expedition later?’ Magozzi asked.
Gino glowered at him. ‘I’m sick of freezing my balls off. It’s only October, for crying out loud. Whatever happened to Indian summer? I swear to God I’m going to move south. I hate this friggin’ state. I hate winter. We’re going to have trick-or-treaters out in snowmobile suits next week and every time you open the front door you’re going to lose about a hundred dollars’ worth of heat –’
Magozzi interrupted a rant that could go on until spring. ‘So what have we got?’
Gino let out a tremendous sigh that filled the air around his face with billowy white clouds of frost. ‘Same ol’, same ol’. A nightmare from hell. What do you want first, gossip or facts?’
‘Definitely gossip. The truth hurts too much.’
‘Well, the mayor threw out his back bending over to kiss Hammond’s ass – apologizing, if you can friggin’ believe it, for causing such a ruckus. Stupid son of a bitch.’
‘Which one?’
Gino smiled unpleasantly. ‘Good question. At this point, I’d say they’re interchangeable. Anyhow, the mayor quickly recovered from said back injury in time to save face in front of his biggest campaign contributor by openly chastising McLaren and Freedman for, quote, “letting this terrible thing happen.” ’
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. Goddamn political asshole. Our guys were good, though. Just stood there and took it.’
‘Jesus Christ. Remind me to write them up some bonus time and hazard pay when we’re doing hours on this thing.’
‘I think a couple Purple Hearts would be more appropriate.’
Magozzi looked up and saw Red Chilton and two of his men disembarking from the boat. Even Red, normally unflappable, was looking a little worse for wear. Magozzi wouldn’t have traded places with the man for all the gold in Fort Knox. ‘How’s Red doing? I didn’t even see him when I was inside.’
‘Ah, you know Red. Master of détente. Personally I think he’s wasted in this field. He should be a diplomat.’
‘Any sense of who’s going to take the fall for this? I mean, when things shake out, people are going to wonder why thirty armed professionals on-site with a pre-warning couldn’t stop this thing.’
‘Well, that’s the good news. Anant says the vic was probably dead for hours, long before anyone showed up. Magnusson never mentioned his private head when he was giving the tour. Dinky little thing with one of those plastic accordion doors – everybody assumed it was just a closet. Of course, ignorance is no excuse – Argo and our guys both did sweeps before any of the guests were on board. But Red’s not passing the buck and neither are we. We’ll all just keep our fingers crossed and hope this gets lost in the shuffle, if you know what I mean.’
Magozzi nodded. ‘What else do you know?’
‘The only thing I know for sure is that Hammond’s lawyers are going to be up all night writing about fifty-two lawsuits. Wouldn’t surprise me if Hammond tries to sue the dead guy’s estate for emotional distress because he had the nerve to get killed. Of course, nothing holds water because Hammond was forewarned and he chose to ignore it.’
Magozzi smiled. ‘So Hammond’s going to be on the receiving end of some lawsuits.’
Gino winked. ‘Let’s just say he’s going to find out who his real friends are. If he has any. Hell, I might sue him for emotional distress – I was helping Helen with her history homework when I got the call. What if she fails her test tomorrow? She’ll be so damaged, her grades will start sliding, then she won’t get into college – we’re talking serious lost wages here. Anyhow, political intrigue and lawsuits aside, here’s the scoop, straight from the Grimm Reaper and your Hindu buddy. Same old shit – my words, not theirs – .22 to the head. With one new wrinkle. Guy’s got a fresh bite mark on his hand. Very recent. Like minutes premortem.’