Magozzi nodded grimly. ‘I thought of that. I’m still going to ask them. What do we have to lose?’
‘If they throw in a red herring to steer us away from one of them, we’re losing time.’
‘No more time than we are now, butting our heads up against brick walls . . . what the hell are you looking for, anyhow?’
‘This!’ With a triumphant grin, Gino pulled a plastic bag out of the last pocket he searched and dangled it in front of Magozzi. ‘Salvation. Nirvana. Consolation for all the bad things in life.’ He opened the bag and filled the air between them with the aroma of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Magozzi accepted one and bit into it. ‘I love Angela,’ he said around a mouthful.
‘I’ll tell her.’ Gino chewed happily. ‘Hope it doesn’t creep her out.’ He glanced over at a few more couples disembarking the ferry. ‘I suppose I should get back in there. Make sure McLaren isn’t pocketing the phone numbers of all the bridesmaids.’
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ Magozzi said. ‘Maybe one of the guests spotted a tattooed beefer on a Harley or a two-hundred-pound sexpot.’
Gino snorted. ‘This is Minnesota. Half the women here go two bills.’
‘Yeah, but they’re not that sexy.’
‘More’s the pity. What’s her name? Annie what?’
‘Belinsky. And with what you’ve got at home, you shouldn’t be noticing.’
Gino smiled a little. ‘I’d have to be dead.’ He tugged up the collar of his parka. ‘Damn, it’s cold out here. Here comes the doc.’
Rambachan was cautiously disembarking the ferry, his eyes glued to the substantial, three-foot gangplank as if it were a rope bridge over the Grand Canyon. Magozzi watched him dodge the press and head toward them, his normally cheerful face drawn and weary, his gait a little unsteady.
‘Good evening, Detectives.’ Rambachan bobbed his head politely. Magozzi could have sworn his complexion was slightly gray.
‘Dr Rambachan. I take it you’re not too fond of boats.’
He gave them a sickly smile showing fewer teeth than usual. ‘Excellent detective work. Yes, you are correct. I have a pathological fear of watercraft and become quite nauseous while on board.’
Magozzi marveled that a man who spent his days with putrefying corpses could actually get seasick on a docked boat. ‘Sorry to keep ruining your evenings, Doc.’
‘No rest for the wicked.’ Rambachan tried for a rakish smile, obviously delighted that he’d had occasion to use an idiom. ‘And not to worry. I have already telephoned my good wife to tell her I would be very late. These murders are becoming somebody’s bad habit and I would like to complete this autopsy tonight. Perhaps it will shed new light on your investigation.’
Magozzi wanted to kiss him. ‘We owe you, Doc. Thank you.’
‘This is my job, Detective. I will call you immediately when I have something to report.’ He turned to Gino and bowed his head slightly. ‘I was honored to work with you tonight, Detective Rolseth. You were very gentle with the guests while performing a very unpleasant duty.’
Gino, unused to compliments from any quarter, blushed and blustered, ‘Yeah, well, I could have done without it. Sucked rocks, is what it did.’
Rambachan brightened and looked at Magozzi. ‘Sucked rocks? Would this be in the book?’
Magozzi suppressed a smile and shook his head. ‘Probably not.’
‘Then you will explain at another time?’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Excellent. Then good evening to you both.’
Gino waited until the Indian was out of earshot, then turned to Magozzi with a broad smile. ‘What is with you two? You’ve got some little bonding thing going. I can barely understand the guy and you two chat it up like a couple of English lords over tea.’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s just so . . . polite. And so naïve. It’s a nice combo. He thinks How to Talk Minnesotan is a linguistics book.’
Gino laughed out loud. ‘I hope you told him.’
‘Not yet . . .’ Magozzi’s cell phone chirped and he fumbled it out of his coat pocket. ‘Damnit. Hang on, Gino . . . Magozzi!’ he barked into the receiver.
He was quiet for a long time, and Gino swore he saw the beginnings of a smile.
‘No kidding. You got an address for me?’ He dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and scrawled down numbers and a street name. ‘Funny place for a multimillionaire to live. Great work, Tommy. Now go home and get some rest. I’m going to need you early tomorrow.’ He snapped the phone closed with a flourish.
‘Good news?’ Gino asked.
‘Grace MacBride, or whoever she is, has six guns registered in her name. One of them’s a .22.’
Gino nodded knowingly. ‘She did it.’
‘I’m going to head over there, see if I can catch her home, peg her from two to four, maybe take a look at the gun, and then ask her for some help with the registration list.’
‘Nice touch. Could you help us find a killer, unless, of course, you’re the killer, and if that’s the case, could I take a look at your gun?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘You got any other ideas?’
‘Yeah, I got an idea. Getting as far away from this case as I can. Jimmy and I were talking about that day-trading thing. Figured we could do it from Montana.’
22
Magozzi sped through side streets, turret light flashing, then picked up 94 East to St Paul. The freeway was nearly deserted at this hour – too late for the worker bees to be out, too early for the clubbers to head home – so he pushed the unmarked up toward ninety in the far left lane, wishing he had one of MPH’s new Grand Ams instead of the doggy two-year-old Ford sedan.
Then again, why was he in such a hurry? He knew damn well Grace MacBride was no killer, and even if she were, she certainly wouldn’t be wandering around her house drenched in blood carrying a smoking gun and looking guilty. The .22 registered in her name was the thinnest of coincidences – that particular gun was as common as potholes in this city – but it was an excuse to drop in on her, and he decided not to examine his reasons for wanting to do that too closely.
‘Alibi. The registration list.’ He said it aloud, as if giving voice to the feeble rationalization would make it more believable. His excessive speed was easier to justify. The broken car heater had mysteriously kicked in with a vengeance at eighty-five mph, and it was the first time he’d been warm since leaving City Hall.
He braked at the Cretin-Vandalia exit and turned off the turret light. By the time he drove the few blocks to Groveland Avenue, the temperature in the car had already dropped ten degrees and the plastic steering wheel started to feel like a circle of ice.
Even deep in the residential district, there were a few people out in spite of the cold. A group of preteens who should have been home in bed on a school night; a couple walking a long-haired dog so close to the ground it looked legless; a die-hard jogger who harbored the delusion that running past dark alleys and shadowy doorways was a healthy pastime. All of them wore gloves, even the kids, which made all of them smarter than he was.
He put one hand between his knees to warm his fingers and steered with the other, dreaming of his gloves at home on the closet shelf.
Grace MacBride’s house was as modest as any in this quiet, working-class neighborhood, which seemed a little strange in view of her net worth. What was a multimillionaire doing living in a tiny two-story stucco with a detached garage? Another contradiction to add to the collection.