'Not particularly. I was hoping we could grease the wheel a little. What about that buddy of yours you used to play poker with? Doesn't his son work for the Feds?'
Bonar clucked his tongue. 'Not anymore. Poor kid had some nervous troubles a while back and had to resign. I think he's managing a Dairy Queen in Fond du Lac now.'
'Sorry to hear that.'
'It's not all bad. We can probably get free ice cream whenever we're in the neighborhood.'
'Terrific. In the meantime, let's fax off the morgue shots and prints to the Milwaukee SAC anyhow, cover all our bases.'
'Sure, we can go the horse-and-buggy route if you want. Or you could just call Sharon in Minneapolis and tell her to run it through.'
Halloran pretended he hadn't heard that and started shuffling through papers on his desk. 'What's the SAC's name again? Burt somebody?'
'Eckman.'
'That's right. You want to put together a package while I jot him a note?'
Bonar cocked his head curiously. 'You've got a direct line to the FBI, and you're not going to use it because ... ?'
Halloran continued sifting through papers urgently until he found a blank fax cover, then began filling it in with a surgeon's concentration. He ignored Bonar for as long as he could, until he was hovering over Halloran's desk like a sadistic Goodyear Blimp.
'Call her, Mike. Purely business.'
Halloran laid down his pen very carefully. 'Do not try to come up on that kind of crap sideways, Bonar. Sharon and I don't talk anymore, and you know it.'
'Yeah, I know it, and it's a damn shame, if you ask me.'
'I didn't.'
'You're going to have to talk to her sometime. Technically, she's still a Kingsford County Deputy.'
'Only until Monday.'
'Huh?'
'That's when her leave expires. If she's not at roll call Monday morning, she's out.'
That put Bonar right back down in his chair, staring at his old friend across the desk. 'Jesus, does she know that?'
Halloran nodded shortly. 'Official notification went out a month ago. Certified. She got it.'
'You sent her a letter telling her she was out?Aletter!'
'Thirty days' notice in writing. That's the law.'
'A phone call might have been nice.'
Halloran laid down his pen and looked Bonar in the eyes. 'This is the way it is. I've got a department to run; I've got a hole in the roster I've been working around for months, ever since Sharon took her so-called 'temporary leave,' and I've got a phone that rings anytime a deputy of mine takes the trouble to dial the number. Sharon stopped returning my calls months ago, and I got tired of talking to her machine. Now. Do you want to keep riding me about Sharon, or do you want to hear my other idea on how to ID our three sinkers?'
Bonar leaned back and folded his arms across what he could still find of his chest. 'I'd really like to keep riding you about Sharon, but if it'll make you happy, I'll listen to your idea first.'
IT WAS THE THIRD YEAR the Minneapolis Police Department had sponsored a Fun Fair for the Youth in Crisis Program, and this one promised to be the most successful yet. It was nearly four o'clock already, but the park was still jammed with parents and kids, and most of the cops who weren't on duty were either volunteering at one of the booths or enjoying the festivities with their own children in tow.
Detective Leo Magozzi had just finished his volunteer stint selling hot dogs in the food tent, and now it was time for some real fun. He bought three tickets for the dunk tank from a new hire out of Fraud, politely laughed at his lame'drunk tank' crack, then got in line under the bright August sun with about twenty other people, including Chief Malcherson. Tall, light-haired, and icy-eyed, the man looked far too Nordic to carry off summer wear. It was the first time Magozzi had ever seen the painfully genteel man in anything other than a very expensive suit, and it was a little unsettling. Even the Chief himself seemed slightly at odds in his alien skin of lightweight shirt and slacks, his hand straying every now and then to his tieless collar, as if searching for a missing body part.
'Afternoon, sir. I'm glad you could make it today,' Magozzi greeted him.
Malcherson gave him just a hint of a droll smile. 'I'm happy to be here, Detective. Although I must admit I'm feeling slightly guilty about standing in this line, planning to willfully contribute to the discomfort of one of our own.'
'You're in good company, sir.'
'I see that. And itis for a good cause.'
'That's exactly right, sir, and if it makes you feel any better, I know for a fact that Detective Rolseth is delighted for the opportunity to make such a substantial contribution.'
That, of course, was bullshit, and everybody, including Chief Malcherson, knew it. Gino Rolseth, Magozzi's partner and best friend, was mad as hell to be the main attraction today, but he really hadn't had much say in the matter. Earlier in the week, an anonymous donor had offered to match this year's Fun Fair proceeds, but only under the condition that Gino take the perch above the dunk tank.
Gino had immediately thrown a world-class fit, refusing flat-out, but once word got out in Homicide, everybody was quick to remind him that his refusal would be tantamount to ripping food from the mouths of needy children in danger of turning to the streets, et cetera, et cetera.
Nobody knew who was behind it-they all had their theories- but one thing was certain: It would be the only case Gino would be working until he figured it out.
Magozzi and Malcherson both cringed a little when they heard a loud salvo of hoots and hollers coming from the front of the line. A few minutes later, skinny little carrot-haired Detective Johnny McLaren was practically jigging toward them, a bright blue snow-cone smile plastered on his sun-pinkened face.
'Man, was that great! You should have seen the expression on his face when the ball connected and he went down. Glad I'm on vacation next week, is all I have to say.' He turned toward Malcherson. 'Come on, Chief, you've gotta know who's behind this. You took the call, right?'
Chief Malcherson's expression was stone. 'I truly have no idea, Detective. I was hardly in a position to press the matter of identity, given this very generous individual's adamant wish to remain unnamed.'
McLaren smirked a little and rocked back and forth on his feet, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. 'Okay, sure, Chief. The whole gift horse thing. Well, good luck, guys. I'm going to go buy myself another ticket.'
'I CANNOT frigging believe that you, of all people, my own partner for Christ's sake, actually participated in this travesty.' Gino was sitting morosely at a sunny picnic table with Magozzi, slurping the sticky remains of a snow cone out of its limp paper holder. He'd exchanged his soaked swimming trunks and T-shirt for jeans and a vintage bowling shirt that had seen better days, probably sometime during the Korean War.
Magozzi did his best to look contrite. 'The Chief and I were actually having second thoughts there for a while, but when we saw your own daughter dunk you, that pretty much nailed it for us.'
'Yeah, but I've got an avenue of remuneration for that little traitor-Helen's going to be fifty before I let her get her learner's permit. Damnit, I knew I should never have let her go out for Softball.'
'Well, if it's any consolation, I'm feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. Hell, I had no idea I could still throw like that.'
Gino glared at him. 'Yeah, right, and neither did the Chief, who I just found out was an all-star frigging pitcher at the U of M. I'll tell you what-you find out who the comedian is who set me up and maybe I'll think about forgiving you.'
'The Chief doesn't even know who it is.'
Gino scowled and scrubbed at his blond brush of wet hair. 'Yeah, right. You know what I think? I think this whole thing was a departmental conspiracy, and ten bucks says McLaren was the mastermind, the little Irish rat. I bet there isn't any anonymous donor, and you guys are all busting a gut right now.'
'Nope. I saw the wire-transfer number on Malcherson's desk the other day. Looked legit to me.'
