The phone on her bedside table rang. She checked the screen and recognised the number.
‘Yes, Fortune?’
‘Sorry to call so late, Myers. I’m at the Regency Hospital, I’m standing outside the mortuary.’
Marco Dante, she thought. He’s dead.
‘An ambulance brought in a body from the Rialto a few hours after we were there. They didn’t contact us because they didn’t see anything suspicious about the death. It isn’t the first time an overweight man past fifty dies of a heart attack or whatever while watching a dirty movie. But then they took a preliminary toxso... er, toxsilogical...’
‘Toxicology test,’ said Kay.
‘Yeah. And they found traces of... hang on, I wrote it down here. Tetrodotoxin. It’s supposed to be the same kind of poison you get when you eat those Japanese fish that haven’t been cooked properly.’
‘Fugu.’
‘Eh?’
‘Japanese pufferfish.’
‘Yeah. So I asked did they think the guy had been eating fish while he was at the movies. But even though those things mean certain death, it apparently works slowly, so the guy could have got the poison in him several hours before he noticed anything. And being as how this isn’t exactly the kind of fish you cook in your kitchen at home I figured that here is one restaurant that is going to be in deep shit. But now I’ve checked the guy out and when I saw his record I called you straight off.’
‘I get it. So who is he?’
‘Wes Villefort. Male, fifty-eight years, black.’
She groaned. ‘You gonna give me his height too?’
‘I’m saying black because he was the only black person there.’
The pimp, she thought. ‘OK. So, the record?’
‘Narcotics.’
Kay thought about this. She saw no immediate connection between narcotics and Dante, Karlstad and Patterson. The death might just be accidental. Or it might not.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ she said. ‘I’ll take a look at it in the morning.’
Olav Hanson headed down toward the river with his fishing rod in his hand.
He needed to calm down and think things over before tomorrow. And he and Violet had quarrelled after Sean’s visit the previous night. It ended with her leaving to spend the weekend at her parents. She would calm down, so that was OK by him, it meant he could fish the whole night through if he wanted.
The steep track was muddy. It always was, no matter how long it had been since the last rain. The moon dipped in and out behind the clouds, and in the dark it wasn’t easy to see where to put your foot without slipping. Having a bad knee on a tricky slope didn’t help and several times he had to reach out and hold on to tree trunks for support. A sound. He stopped. Something moving in the trees. Too big for a squirrel. He peered but saw nothing. Either it was the same dog as last time or his ragged nerves playing a trick on him again. He carried on unsteadily down the track. Events over the last few days had cost him, but with a bit of luck it might all be over by tomorrow. If Lobo really did make an attempt on the life of the mayor then, statistically speaking, the most likely outcome was that the problem would solve itself. Olav had learned this during a meeting that afternoon at which Springer said that the majority of so-called lone-wolf terrorists ended up being killed, whether or not they succeeded. Olav couldn’t care less about Mayor Patterson; with that statistical fact in mind he just hoped Lobo would turn up at the US Bank Stadium tomorrow armed with a rifle.
As he reached the river’s edge Olav saw that another fisherman hadn’t gone home yet. That was fine. It meant he wouldn’t be standing there alone on a dark night like this.
‘Catch anything?’ asked Olav as he pulled the cover of his rod off and made ready to cast.
‘Not yet,’ the man said without taking his eyes off his line. Olav seemed to recognise the voice, but he couldn’t immediately put a face to it. There were quite a few regulars among those who fished down here.
‘Perch bites better at night,’ said Olav. He heard a twig snap behind him and peered up into the trees.
‘Oh, I was hoping for something a little bigger.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Olav. He heard a single bark from the trees. So it was the dog. Olav could tell his pulse was high now because he could feel it slowing down again. ‘Yellow pike, you mean?’ said Olav as he stuffed the rod cover into his jacket pocket. He was looking forward to the fishing now. Showing how far he could cast. ‘You need luck for that, man.’
‘Not yellow pike,’ said the other. ‘I’m after the Milkman.’
At first Olav Hanson thought he hadn’t heard right, that his nerves were playing a trick on him. Then, slowly, the fisherman turned. The peak of his cap shadowed his face, but once he had turned round completely and raised his head, Olav saw who it was.
‘Remember me, Hanson?’
Olav swallowed. Wanted to say no. Then changed his mind when he saw the gun. Tried to say yes, but his mouth was so dry all that came out was air.
‘Thirty years, Hanson. That’s a long time, but you know what? I remember you like it was yesterday.’
‘I...’ Olav stopped right there, because he had no idea what to say. Maybe it was best to say nothing.
‘Remember how you gave me your personal word you would catch the people who killed my family?’
‘I... we... we sure tried.’
‘Three weeks ago I spoke to the man who killed my daughter. The girl in the wheelchair, remember? He told me how you interfered with the technical evidence, you changed witness statements and made sure the guilty men were never caught. That that’s what Die Man paid you for.’
‘Who... who is Die Man?’
‘That doesn’t matter. He is no longer with us. I stuck a needle through the seat and into his back at the movie theatre.’
Olav considered whether to try to go for the gun in his shoulder holster. He’d buttoned it in before he started down the steep track in case he slipped, and that would make it more difficult. No, this wouldn’t be like it was with the kid with the knife. But Olav had practised drawing the gun from the shoulder holster, and he was quick. A lot quicker than Joe Kjos anyway. Olav looked up at the sky. A dark cloud heading toward the moon. Olav moved his fishing rod into his left hand.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ Olav asked.
‘Ever heard of rogue taxidermy?’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to stuff you. Then display you. Somewhere public, for the enjoyment of the people. You’ll be a modern work of art, Hanson.’
The cloud slipped over, obscuring the moon, and in the darkness Olav Hanson went for his gun.
40
Gated Community, October 2016
The time was eight thirty and the sun shone from a cloudless sky down onto the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, more familiarly abbreviated to Arb. Gunnar Person, the senior gardener in the botanical gardens, registered that it looked like they were in for a fine autumn day. He stepped down from the golf cart and crossed the grass in the direction of a stand of trees. He liked an early start, liked being the first man at work. But today it looked like someone had beaten him to it. The park was fenced in, and it had opening hours, but the fence was low and the park covered a huge area. If someone wanted to get in, they got in. Right now the park was hosting a sculpture exhibition, with pieces on display across the whole area. They showed animals that looked like they were made out of folded paper. Origami, they called it. Only these were made of metal and they were life-sized. If you could say of such literally fabulous creatures that they had a life-size. Like that rearing, winged Pegasus Gunnar was headed for. But as Gunnar got closer, he saw that the figure of a large man had been placed on the horse’s back. He was half naked, and Gunnar was thinking it was probably something to do with someone’s stag party. The figure was held in place by the wings, with the upper body and shoulders resting against the horse’s neck. There was no way it was a comfortable position to sleep in, but the man was probably so drunk he didn’t notice.