The Big Law

room, used the toilet, then washed his hands, dried them with a paper towel and studied his appearance in the full- length mirror on the wall. Unafraid of winter, he wore a new, reddish leather bomber jacket and a black T-shirt. Hair combed back.

Shoulders squared. Could be Colin Firth stalking out of the movie theater in Apartment Zero. New short haircut, contacts, his tan and, modestly, his new muscles-he could probably walk through the St. Paul newsroom and no one would recognize him.

Not walk. Stalk, baby, stalk.

He turned sideways and thumped his gut.

Abs still needed work.

Soon he wouldn’t have to suck it in. Soon it would be like a washboard. More crunches.

“Let’s go get paid, Danny,” he said, grinning at the mirror.

His light carry-on bag contained a change of underwear, a sweater, a toothbrush, toothpaste and a pair of latex gloves he’d bought at a sporting goods store in San Jose.

He had a little under twenty-four hours until the return flight to San Francisco tomorrow at 4:15.

Off the concourse, he stopped at a store fussed up with Minnesota bric-a-brac and bought a black wool ski mask, a pair of warm gloves and a pair of Snow Pac boots. Too cold in those woods for his California tennis shoes.

He inspected a stout canvas carry bag. Loon decal. Hefted it, felt inside. Should be big enough to hold the stuff. He bought two.

Local time was 4:30 P.M. On a Tuesday. She’d be home at six. Came home after work during the week like clockwork.

Catch her in the shower, like Psycho.

Outside. Now for a cab. He gave the cabbie a street intersection for a destination. Cleveland and St. Clair. Close.

Walking distance. He settled back in the seat. His main worry was that her car could be in the shop.

Nah, she scrupulously kept up the maintenance on the Accord.

The main problem was-and he’d wrestled with this the whole flight from California-just what was he going to do with her. His thoughts yelled back and forth like the cohosts on Crossfire.

In one scenario he became her protector and patron, generously forgiving her betrayals, flying her off to a new life, and a lot of expensive cosmetic surgery, in northern California. That pact got sealed with great sex.

The other method was less charitable. The pistol came out of the drawer of her bed table and Bang. End of story.

But the gun would make noise. He needed another way of dealing with her.

His mind still balked at the word kill. At intrusive techniques that broke the skin and let stuff leak out.

Overpower her. Use a garbage bag and duct tape. Wrap her head. No mess to get on him. Wear the rubber gloves.

The hard part would be talking to her. And not touching her. No sex, he told himself. NO SEX. Christ, that was a hardship after almost two months. But it couldn’t happen.

Fluids, fibers, body hair. Too risky.

Get the draft of the story in her desk.

Never take the gloves off.

Could propose to her.

Or kill her.

The Rainbow Cab lunged through the snowy night as Danny gave Ida her life, took it back, gave it over again.

Either way, around midnight, he had to be on the road to Lutsen. It would take four hours to get to the money pit.

Another hours to dig it up. Get back to Duluth in the morning. Pack the money, then take it to a Wrap and Ship, have them repack it. If they asked, say it’s books. They wouldn’t ask.

Here he paused.

Four, five in the morning, when he came out of the woods.

Broker would only be a few miles up the road. Sleeping.

No. He had to be absolutely disciplined on this point. But God, it would be nice to be rid of the man. And his brat.

Back to his schedule. The other reason not to dally up on the North Shore was because there was only one road in and out. Highway 61.

He leaned back and fantasized about her fragrant hair, slightly sweaty, tickling, spread on his bare thighs…

No. No. Think about the money. This was about the money. She had to go. Bury the money in his small oak woods-except for a few packets that he’d take to Reno-to celebrate.

This time next week he’d be taking a break from sanding the floors, having a cool Coors and looking forward to his first trip to Las Vegas.

So. Stick to the schedule. No detours. And drive the speed limit. A routine traffic stop would sink him.

His eyes had become accustomed to foggy nuances of green growing things. And rain. The snow-swept outskirts of the Twin Cities looked foreign. Unfriendly. A billboard whisked by. “AT LEAST YOU CAN STILL SMOKE IN YOUR CAR.”

WINSTONS. Danny laughed.

He felt like a visiting ghost. Thought of Ruby, the neighbor, her gifts of bread, wine and salt. Uh-uh. None of that shit.

Focus on Ida. She would clean her desk, put on her coat and take the elevator down to the second floor, where she would get off, enter the skyway system and walk a short few hundred yards to the drafty, creepy Victory Ramp where she parked.

When she entered the dark ramp she would slip her right hand in her purse and clutch the can of mace in her coat pocket. Unless she was packing “Roscoe.” In her other hand she would hold her keys so the longest one protruded between her knuckles, as she’d learned in a self-defense class.

She would approach her car from the rear and check the backseat. Then she would check the surrounding area, the shadows, the contours of the other cars. Only when she was satisfied there was no threat would she release the Mace and open the car door.

He’d seen her do it dozens of times. He depended on her being a strict creature of habit. She’d be there. The house key would be there, hidden under the flowerpot near the garage. The car would be there.

They wouldn’t miss her until after noon tomorrow. By then he’d have ditched her car in Minneapolis. Be in another cab on his way back to the airport.

It was going to work.

Every minute was another mile closer. No talking. Just go in fast and get it done. Best to not even let her see his face.

Do it and be free. He thought of the ocean and fog and palm trees. Ruby and her damn dead cat.

No other way. Ida was a loose end that someone like Broker would tug at until she started to unravel and…

They crossed the city limits of St. Paul.

Melancholy, nostalgia-he dared to call it love-informed his thoughts about Ida. Not enough to deter him but suffi-cient to serve up images of their relationship. Sadly, he realized she would be glad to see him. She’d think he’d come back for her. He shook his head. Probably why she tried to help that bastard Broker. See if she could get him back. He shook his head. The world was going to lose one great piece of ass.

They were making good time on clear main streets. Un-plowed side streets looked treacherous. He’d have to drive carefully. Fog had preceded the snow. The branches were cased in exquisite sleeves of ice. Stalactites of ice drooped from eaves. Quaint, but after California, how could anybody live here.