got?”
“A name. Some chick. We got to check her out.”
Cantrell shook off his casual slouch, straightened up his back. “Let’s go.”
A few minutes later they were breathing the cold fresh air in front of J. T.’s truck. Cantrell looked in the direction of the two gray nuclear reactors poking above the trees. “Fuckin’ Broker,” he said. “You know, I ran into Debbie Hall last week.”
J. T. grunted. Debbie was now a lieutenant in St. Paul homicide. Years back, when she’d been a profane fireball, she and Broker’d had this explosive street romance.
“She confessed she’d made a pass at him, couple years ago when he and Nina were separated. She put it out there, and know what he said? He said, ‘If I wanna play games, I’ll go to a fuckin’ casino.’” Cantrell shook his head.
J. T. handed Cantrell a sheet of fax paper. A one-paragraph criminal history on Sheryl Mott from the St. Paul gang task force. “Griffin had a license number. I ran a DL, talked to Tommy in the gang task force,” J. T. said.
“Known affiliation with OMG. Suspected of transporting narcotics into Stillwater Prison…no charge…” Cantrell looked up. “Not much here. You talk to Dave at Corrections about the prison stuff?”
J. T. gave him a slow smile and shook his head. “I thought maybe…Rodney.”
Cantrell shrugged. “Hell, you don’t need me to talk to a piece-of-shit snitch like Rodney.”
“Wrong. I always…sort of scared Rodney. He’s poop-hispants terrified of you.”
“Yeah.” A rakish grin spread across Cantrell’s face. “Good ol’ Rodney,” he said with slow glee.
Cantrell followed J. T. back through Hastings, then up 95 to Stillwater, where he left his Outback sedan in the Cub parking lot. He got in J. T.’s car, and they drove a few blocks and pulled into the parking lot at the River Valley Athletic Club.
“Why here?” Cantrell asked.
“His scumbag body is a temple, remember,” J. T. said. “He works out here every Saturday morning, according to Lymon at Washington County. Check this: Lymon says Rodney is trying to go straight, they got him working full- time in a health food store-”
“You can sell a lot of dope in cute little bottles in health food stores,” Cantrell said.
“Whatever. Okay. We wait. He’s still driving that red Trans-Am.”
As they waited, Cantrell watched the midmorning female traffic alight from their SUVs and saunter into the club.
“Where do they get these chicks, man? Lookit that blonde-she’s got Spandex skin; she’s got makeup looks airbrushed on-”
J. T. nibbled the end of his pipe and said, “I hear they got this Stepford Wife production line pops them out at this new McMansion development a little ways west of town.”
Cantrell marveled, “Sounds about right; whatever happened to old-fashioned nasty pussy? I mean, they’re so
J. T. did not respond. Cantrell grumbled, took out a Pall Mall, studied it, then placed it behind his ear. “He was always lucky, Broker was.”
No response.
“Debbie said she talked to a guy who talked to a guy at ATF,” Cantrell said.
“Uh-huh.”
“’Bout the Prairie Island thing.”
This time J. T. looked up. “Yeah?”
“Said they found lots of this residue, like clay silicates or something. Wasn’t the usual shit they find when you blow off a lot of plastique…”
“And?”
“Just a stupid wild-ass guess, but the guy thought maybe those terrorists got short weight on their explosives. Somebody sold them a bunch of play dough mixed in with the Semtex. Guy said that’s why the shock wave didn’t stove in that cooling pool.”
“Bingo.” J. T. pointed his pipe at a red Trans Am that wheeled into the lot and parked six stalls away. The shaggy driver bounded out of the car in a silky blue wind suit and hefted his gym bag, looking like a young buffalo wearing lifter’s gloves.
“Rodney all right,” Cantrell said, sitting up. “What’s his last name again?”
“Rodney Jarue,” J. T. said. “Let’s give him a few minutes to settle in.”
They entered the club lobby and were immediately challenged by the lean, tanned redhead wearing horn-rims behind the reception counter. “Excuse me, but are you members?”
She kept her smile in place, but furrowed her brow ever so slightly. A big black guy traveling with a stringy well-preserved Elvis clone didn’t fit her normal Saturday-morning walk-in client pattern.
“I’ll make this easy,” J. T. said amiably, opening his coat so she could see the gold detective shield on his belt. He left out the part about taking the badge off a decorations wall mount in his den.
“You guys are
“Hey”-Cantrell scowled indignantly-“it’s just a job. Take it easy.”
Still wary but a bit more agreeable, she asked, “Is something wrong, Officer?”
“Nah,” Cantrell said, coming closer, leaning over the counter, staring at her blouse, which was very tight and had this string tie dealy that accentuated her bodice. “Say, I used to play racquetball here…”
“Things have changed. The new manager tore out two of the courts, put in a nursery,” the woman said. Then her eyes clicked on J. T.
“Look. We just want to talk to one of your members, kinda quiet like.” He dropped his voice a register, oozing sympathy. “You know, don’t want to bother him at work…in front of people…”
Her eyes darted back and forth between them.
Cantrell said, “Just be a few minutes.” They were already heading for the stairs in the right corner of the lobby. “Weights still upstairs?” Cantrell called to her as they started up the stairs.
“What’s she doing?” J. T. asked.
“Not sure. Possibly debating whether to reach for the phone.”
They jogged up the stairs, peered through the glass door to the right, where an aerobics class was in progress on a highly polished gym floor. To their left a long room with two rows of cardio machines stretched the length of the building, facing three wall-mounted TVs. Halfway down the machine room the club opened into another area with lots of stainless steel showing, half fixed weight stations, the other half free weights. Floor-to- ceiling mirrors lined one wall. They headed into the weight room.
“There he is, on the bench press,” J. T. said.
“Perfect,” Cantrell said.
Maybe a dozen people were scattered among the shiny equipment, four guys, the rest women.
“I love it,” Cantrell said, “the way they flex and sneak looks at themselves.”
Rodney had removed his jacket and lay on his back on the bench wearing a loose armless T-shirt with an “A.S.I.A. Security” logo on the chest. He was adjusting his grip on a bar that rested in the lift rack over his head. Two forty-five-pound plates were on each end of the bar, held in place by steel squeeze clips. He was just finishing up a few deep clarifying breaths, getting ready to lift the bar off the rack, when he looked up.
“Oh, bullshit,” Rodney said as his eyes scanned J. T. and then came to settle on Cantrell.
“Rodney? What’s this?” Cantrell said, bending down and pinching Rodney’s right biceps, where a band of subtle scarring and healing skin circled his arm. “Didn’t you used to have this barbed-wire tattoo?” He glanced over at J. T. “You know what? I think our boy is cleaning up his act.”
“I don’t have to say shit to you,” Rodney said. “You ain’t on the job anymore. I know my rights.” He focused his eyes upward, then powered the bar off the rack and slowly lifted it. Locked his elbows. Exhaled.
Cantrell shrugged, then reached over, deftly pressed the handles of the squeeze clamp, slid it off the bar. J. T. immediately did the same with the one on his side.
“Hey, don’t fuck around,” Rodney said.
Cantrell then reached over, grabbed a thirty-five-pound plate off a peg on a nearby machine, held it up. J. T. nodded, found a similar weight on his side. They quickly slapped the weights on either end of the bar behind the
