to claim the kid as a dependent.
“Need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Let’s run this name-Daniel Storey.” He handed her his notebook, with the name scrawled across a whole page. “And all spelling variations they come up with-for a new driver’s license…”
“In Minnesota I’ll need a middle initial and date of birth.”
“Skip Minnesota, run it on every other state in the country.”
“Alaska and Hawaii?”
“Yep.”
“And here I thought your brief return to law enforcement was winding down,” said Madge, squinting. She turned to her keyboard and ordered, “Get me a date of birth.” Her terminal routed to a state computer in St. Paul that could talk to all the systems in all the states.
“Working on it,” he said as he picked up a phone and called the Sawtooth Mountain Clinic. Thinking the feds would alter James’s DOB, but maybe not that much. Experience taught him that people falsifying ID changed the year of their birth but frequently hung on to the real day and month.
The phone rang. Calling this number made him think of ear infections. A receptionist answered, he asked her to get Doc Rivard. She said he was in emergency with a patient.
Broker left a message for Rivard to call him at the sheriff’s office.
“How’s it going?” he asked Madge.
“Zip for Alabama.”
Broker nodded, looked down a list of emergency numbers on the wall and called Regions Hospital in St. Paul. It took five minutes to get a straight answer out of a nurse on ICU.
Ida’s signs were improving, but she wasn’t “out of the woods”
yet.
Another phone rang, Madge took it, spoke, shoved it at Broker. He hung up on St. Paul, took the receiver.
“Broker, Frank Rivard.”
“Yeah, Frank, need a favor.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Our big scene before Christmas, Tom James. You treated him for a gunshot wound. The Kettle thing. Caren, right.
Ah, I need his date of birth.”
Patiently, Broker sat still for a lecture on the confidentiality of medical records. “Frank, it’s urgent.”
“You owe me, I’ll get back to you,” said the doctor. He hung up.
Broker tapped his pen on his spiral notebook. Looked around. “Where’s Jeff?”
“Conducting a sweep with the border patrol. There’s a party of winter campers missing out by Saganaga. He and Lyle took gear for three days,” said Madge.
“Uh-huh,” he said. But he thought, Good. He didn’t want Jeff and Garrison locking horns. He pictured Jeff and Lyle snowshoeing up the Gunflint, staring across Lake Saganaga into the Canadian mist.
Madge handled a few storm calls. Used the radio to reach a deputy patrolling the ritzy West End around Lutsen. Then Doc Rivard called back.
Broker wrote down: November 22, 1956. “What do you have for a physical description?” He wrote: five feet ten, 180
lbs., hair, brn, eyes blue. He thanked Rivard, hung up.
Turned to Madge. “How’s it going?”
She whistled. “I thought we’d need middle initials and DOB, but I’m getting hits without it.” Her fingers pounded the keys. “Alaska, Robert Store, that’s
“Nah,” said Broker, “too old.” He pushed the DOB note to her.
“Arizona, no record. Arkansas, no data. California, hello: Three hits: Arthur Story-not your spelling, but the second one is right on the money. Daniel Storey.”
“Date of birth?”
“Eleven. Twenty-two. Fifty-eight.”
“Is there a physical description?” Broker had a pleasant deja vu sensation from high school hockey, set up at the net and Jeff passing the puck right to him.
“Brown hair, blue eyes, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, five ten.”
“Address?”
“One seven three Valentino Lane, Watsonville, California.”
She gave the license number. “Just issued last week.” She looked up. “Happy?”
“Very. Thank you, Madge.” Broker wrote the address on a notepad and stuck it in his pocket. Briefly, he slumped in his chair. Shut his eyes. C’mon Ida.
Could be you found Tom James, girl.
He got up, walked to the bookcases, selected a road atlas, thumbed to the map of California, and checked the index.
Watsonville was below San Francisco, inland from Monterey Bay, near Santa Cruz…
Madge waved, pointed to a glowing light on the phone.
“Hit line one,” she said.
Broker tapped the extension. “What?”
“We got company,” said Garrison.
“I’m on the way,” said Broker, having full-blown predatory thoughts and intending to act on them. He hung up, turned to Madge. “Where’s the key to the evidence closet?” He pointed to his head. “I got a jacket but no duty hat.”
Madge opened a drawer, threw him a key marked with red tape. Broker went down the hall, ducked in Jeff’s office, found a used paper coffee cup and plastic spoon in the trash, took them, went back down the hall. He opened the closet, picked among the hangers and shelves, found a winter cap with ear flaps. Then, quickly, he stooped to the footlocker where Jeff kept evidence seized and tagged. He thumbed through plastic bags, found the one he wanted-a piddling amount of cocaine. Eased one end open around the staple, inserted the spoon, scooped a pinch and put it in the cup; folded the cup and stuck it in his pocket.
When he returned the key to Madge, she observed him in his new headgear and pronounced, “You look like Elmer Fudd.”
70
“The girl is with him,” said Garrison. He was looking through Broker’s spotting scope, which he’d set up on a ledge in the casement windows by the bathroom. Aiming through tangled birches. “Looks like they got stuck on the road, coming in.
They’re carrying stuff into the cabin. The chick don’t seem too happy.”
Broker banged cupboard doors, opened drawers, found a box of Ziplocs. Dumped the grocery bag in his hand. Five amber plastic four-ounce bottles rattled on the table. He grinned. “Just cleaned the local Health Food Coop out of inositol.”
“What is that stuff?”
“Inositol. B vitamin supplement. Back in the Stone Age, when I was on the job, they used it to cut coke.” Another lupine grin. “Right, you never worked narcotics.”
“I worked narcotics,” defended Garrison.
“Yeah-Jax beer and moonshine.” He spun bottle tops, shook white powder into the Ziploc. Weighed it in his hand.
“About twenty ounces,” he said to Garrison. “If this was coke, what’s it worth these days?”
“On the street?”
