The Big Law

He left the terminal, walked to the lot, loaded Kit into her car seat and drove north on 61. This morning, before leaving for the airport, he had called Jeff and told him about the letters. They agreed to meet, after Nina was safely off, at The Blue Water Cafe in town.

The streets in Grand Marais were quiet under an unseason-ably warm blue sky. Forty-six degrees. You could hear the snow and tourist dollars melt.

Broker went into the cafe, took a booth and sat Kit in his lap. Patiently, she pulled a string of napkins from the table dispenser. He ordered coffee and apple pie. He stared out the plate glass window at a seagull sitting on the tall Amoco station sign across the street.

Two rugged men in worn pile jackets, dirty jeans, and Sorel boots pushed up from the counter and stood at the cashier’s station to pay their checks. Carpenters. One of them, Lunde, had worked on Broker’s house last summer.

Lunde nodded. “How’s it going?”

Broker nodded back. “Just fine.”

“Well, have a good one.”

Last summer, as right now, the carpenter treated him with the aloof attitude locals reserved for soft-hand tourists with money. Except Broker had been born here, had graduated from Cook County High, had put his hand to kinds of work the carpenter couldn’t even dream of. The new crop of “locals” didn’t know him.

His coffee and pie arrived. He picked up a Cook County News-Herald that had been left in the booth and was showing Kit the picture of a wolf on the front page when Jeff pulled in.

Jeff, usually placid, looked mildly excited. He sat down, reached over and tousled Kit’s hair. “Hiya, Kitten.”

“Bo Bra,” said Kit, absorbed in Broker’s apple pie with both hands.

“How’d it go with Nina?” asked Jeff.

“Good. We didn’t have much time.”

“Well, you look better.” Jeff grinned. He didn’t grin for long. Broker handed him the Ziploc containing the two letters. Jeff started reading. Once, he looked up at Kit. He was a solid man sworn to uphold the law. He had deep reserves.

But push him far enough and you saw firing squads in his steady brown eyes. Broker saw one there now. When he finished, he folded and inserted the letters in their envelopes, which he returned to the plastic bag.

“You ever have one come back on you before?” he asked.

Broker shook his head. “Couple guys made threats on the inside, but nothing like this.”

“This could be-him? James? How the heck did he get Nina’s military address?” Jeff raised an eyebrow.

“No clue. But it’d be nice if the FBI could put those letters through their documents section. If it is James, the only access he had to computers and printers was in their custody.”

Jeff said, “You can give them to Garrison yourself.”

“How’s that?”

“John Eisenhower called, after I talked to you. Said he tried to reach you, but you must have left. Seems Keith put you on his visitors list.”

Broker came forward. “No shi-fooling.” Eyeing Kit.

“Except, the way he wrote you down was, Cook County Deputy Phil Broker.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. John thinks it’s Keith’s way of bossing you around one last time. You aren’t wearing a badge, you don’t get in to see him. And John says there’s a lot of people would love to talk to him.”

“Hmmmm,” said Broker.

“Yeah, hmmmm,” agreed Jeff. “About five minutes after John calls-Garrison calls, all warm and folksy, and says he’d like to chat with you before you talk to Keith.”

“Not like the FBI to reach out to a remote outpost like us,”

said Broker.

“Not like them at all, especially after the way they swooped down. I guess the threat of doing life in a federal joint hasn’t impressed Keith into giving up whatever they want,” said Jeff.

They both studied Kit as she heaved a fistful of apple pie into her face, some of which actually hit her mouth.

“John said the talk’s starting.”

“Talk, huh?”

“Yeah, word’s out about all the money on that tape. Now every cop in St. Paul is looking at every other cop, trying to figure out who was in this thing with Keith. Now that you’re on his visiting list, there’s talk it could be you.”

“The Russian mob’s man in Devil’s Rock. I must be in charge of the northern smuggling route.” Broker smiled.

Jeff sipped his coffee and leaned back. An amateurish wall mural, configured in the shape of Lake Superior, hovered over his head like an opaque blue thought caption.

“Do you suppose,” pondered Jeff, “that Keith is ready to clear his conscience?”

“You willing to badge me up to find out?” asked Broker, reaching for more than one napkin to clean up his daughter.

“Sure. You need to get out of the house anyway,” said Jeff.

They left the cafe and walked up the street to the sheriff’s office. In his windowless bunker, Jeff pawed in a desk drawer, found a silver badge and slapped it on the blotter.

“Okay, raise your right hand and swear.”

Broker covered Kit’s ears in a loose headlock with his left arm, raised his right hand and stated, “I’ll be damned.”

“Fine, you are now a sworn temporary deputy with the rank of investigator. You’ll only work one case, the death of Caren Angland. I can hire you for only sixty-seven days, after that I need a resolution from the board of commissioners.

“Your salary comes out of the discretionary budget, except we used that up when Lyle maxed out the tranny in the Ranger up the Gunflint last month, so I can’t afford to pay you.”

“No problem.”

“Go over to the courthouse and have a picture ID made.

I’ll call ahead. And I don’t have an extra pistol. County guidelines specify a forty-five automatic. One of which I happen to know you own. Don’t really see why you’d need it. Unless you’re the kind of hair shirt, bigoted savage who likes to strap iron when you go down to visit the Cities.”

“Hmm, have to think about that one.”

Sheriff Tom Jeffords, father of three, shook a stern finger in Broker’s face. “Sally and I will watch Kit, but you will spend no more than four, five days max, down in the Cities before checking back in. Your kid shouldn’t lose total contact with her parents.”

“Agreed.”

Jeff scratched his square dimpled chin. “And remember, you represent the least-populated, most remote county in the state. Keep us out of the newspapers.”

“Absolutely,” said Broker solemnly.

“There’s a powerful raft of, well-bullshit-in all this. Be nice if Keith would tell us what happened out there that day.”

Broker nodded, stood up and handed Kit the badge to play with. “Say good-bye to Uncle Jeff,” he said.

“Boo chit,” said Kit.

36

Broker woke slowly from a dream of running wolves. Their howls sounded like sirens echoing down rainy, neon-streaked city streets.