“If I were you, I’d watch it very carefully,” Garf said. He then turned and left the room.
Slob. Forgot to take his cereal bowl, Allen observed.
Alone now, he resumed his pacing. He was satisfied that the incident that had upset Jolene was just a fluke caused by the damn cat. Still, it left a spooky aftertaste.
It was clearly time to relocate Hank. Jolene needed some therapy or some medication to deal with the strain. And having a smart-ass like Garf around certainly didn’t help.
He glanced at the movie Garf had given him; B amp;W, 1930, German dialogue with English subtitles. He dropped it in his bag. He’d been glib, he had no idea what the film was about; only that it was referred to as a classic.
Chapter Thirty-four
J.T. and his family left for Iowa before dawn, towing the trailer full of ostriches. So, when Broker and Amy woke up in their respective bed and couch, on separate floors, they had the house to themselves. About nine A.M., Broker heard her thump around in the upstairs guest room, then the bathroom pipes banged in the wall as he made coffee.
She came downstairs barefoot in a burgundy terry-cloth robe too bulky to have fit in her travel bag, and Broker figured it was Denise’s. She sat at the kitchen table and he saw she had painted her fingernails and her toenails a moody purple. He stood at the counter. There was no “good morning,” no “hey, how you doing?” He held up a coffee cup. “Black? Or there’s Coffeemate.”
“Black.”
He poured two black coffees, brought the cups over to the table, sat down, and they faced each other. Her freckles were lifeless gray and her gray eyes were shot with red; her face was puffy, unshowered, just splashed with wake-up water; her usually tawny hair was a snarl of platinum wire, sticking up.
By contrast, his eyes were clear and calm. His face was smooth and ruddy. His hair was happily tousled. “So,” he said, “did you get your flight?”
“Yeah. .” she stared at the navy blue cup in her hands that was stamped with the legend ramsey county swat. Then she snapped her tired eyes on him. “. . And did you get what you were after?”
The remark smoked past his ear with the incendiary velocity of a.50-cal tracer round, blew out through the wall, scorched a dry cornfield, and streaked out over the curve of the earth. Broker veered away from the comment, which pained him because, after sidling in a little too close to Jolene last night, he was happy to have escaped with all his fingers and toes.
Jolene had been disfigured with alcoholic stress fractures. Amy, even frizzed with pique, remained clean and attractive-a rounded female who looked like she could bounce as opposed to sticking like a dagger.
But probably it was a little late to discover how much he appreciated her. “I have one last thing to do and then I’ll be going back to Ely,” he said quickly.
“Uh-huh,” she said in a neutral tone.
“Just got to talk to a guy, that’s all.”
“The boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I’m going to explain a few things; kind of truth and consequences, and then I’m done.”
“You mean threaten him.”
“Okay, I’m going to threaten him. But no rough stuff.”
A quick peek directly into Amy’s eyes gave Broker the impression she could literally smell Jolene on him. So he took his coffee upstairs and soaked in a long, hot shower. When he came down she was still sitting at the table.
“You had a call,” she said. “There’s a number by the phone. From that lawyer, Milton Dane. The
Glad for the distraction, Broker went to the phone and called the number on the pad.
“Law offices.”
“Milton Dane,” Broker said.
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Phil Broker, returning his call.”
Broker poured another cup of coffee, sipped; Milt came on the line.
“Hey, Broker, I heard you were in town.”
“I brought Hank’s truck back.”
“That’s what Jolene said.”
“How’s the arm?”
“Ibuprofen. And reps with tuna cans. Story of my life. How long are you in the Cities?”
“Over the weekend.”
“Look, could you drop by my office today? Take a quick deposition? It would save me the trouble of driving up north.”
“Sure,” he glanced at Amy. “I could be there, say-at ten.”
“Good. I’ll assemble the usual suspects.”
After getting Milt’s location, he said good-bye, hung up, and turned to Amy. “When’s your flight?”
“Six-thirty, check in at five-thirty.”
“You want to get out of the house, go into St. Paul?”
“And take a chance on running into Milton Dane, who is going to sue my ass off? No thank you. I’ll pack. Just get back in time to give me a ride.”
Driving west on 94, he decided it was time to let it go and head back up north. After seeing Milt, he’d call Jolene and nail down a time to have a sit-down with Earl Garf. Maybe someday he’d figure out a way to tie Garf to Stovall. But not today.
Then he’d take Amy to the airport.
When he got back to Ely he’d call her up. Dinner maybe.
And the idea of staying at Uncle Billie’s held a certain appeal as opposed to returning to his empty house, with children’s books and toys gathering dust in the corners. So, he’d stay in Ely for at least November. Go deer hunting with Iker. Try to kick back for a while. Let things develop.
He entered St. Paul, parked, and found his way to the twenty-second floor of the American National Bank building where Milt had an office.
The pert blond gatekeeper told him to go right in, that Milt was expecting him. Broker went through a door next to the reception desk. Milt appeared at the end of the corridor and waved him into his corner office.
Gingerly, they shook hands. Milt was clearly still favoring his arm. The corner walls were primarily glass and, twenty stories down, the east side of St. Paul spread to the horizon like an Amish autumn quilt. In the foreground, the window ledges were lined with travel souvenirs: African carvings, Southeast Asian brass dragons, and South American masks. Framed pictures on the walls portrayed Milt strapped in a life jacket, glowering through whitewater, swinging a kayak paddle.
And there was this tall guy in a gray suit, with beetle brows and a widow’s peak, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Milt’s desk. A guy who did not get up to greet him, who did not smile.
His name was Tim Downs and he’d been a homicide investigator with St. Paul and had gone to law school at night. He’d quit and hung out his shingle. Downs had been a cop with a nose for politics, the kind who kept track of everyone and everything.
Not missing a beat, still smiling, Milt said, “You two know each other.”
“Yeah,” Downs said, getting up.
“Yeah,” Broker said, nodding at Downs.
Downs nodded back and walked from the office, leaving Broker in flat-footed appreciation of Milt’s understated style.
“So, have a seat,” Milt said. “You want some coffee?” Milt asked. Broker shook his head.
