are tied. None of the Internet providers are giving up any subscriber information without a subpoena, and right now the only probable cause we’ve got is a hunch that our guy might be on that list. He could kill half the city before we get the legal thumbs-up to do that kind of privacy violation.’
‘Almost makes me pine for the days of J. Edgar.’
‘Damn right,’ Gino said dispiritedly.
Magozzi wiggled his toes inside his shoes, figured he could feel about half of them. ‘Monkeewrench could probably do it without subpoenas.’
Gino abandoned his pocket search and gaped at him. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘If they’ve got the know-how to erase themselves, they’ve got the know-how to get us what we need without subpoenas and never leave a trace. We’re out of time, Gino. We need information.’
‘Great. So we’ll bust the guy with inadmissible evidence and he’ll walk anyhow.’
‘If we get a real lead from their research, we won’t need the inadmissible evidence to bust him. We’ll find something else to nail him with.’
Gino grunted. ‘Maybe. But asking civilians? And possible doers no less, to help eliminate suspects in a multiple homicide? We might as well call a psychic.’
Magozzi shook his head. ‘I don’t see that we’ve got any choice. As it stands now, every potential lead is a legal dead end. The only possible way to find the source is to trace those dead ends back to where they came from. Monkeewrench can do that and we can’t. Even if we made Tommy break his sworn oath and several laws, he’s just one guy. The only guy in the department with a prayer of tracking who the anonymous players really are. It all takes too much time –’
‘And we haven’t got time, I know, I know.’ Gino stared at him for a long moment, then went back to digging in his pockets. ‘If one of the partners is the killer, he or she sure as hell isn’t going to help us out and trace themselves. We’d never know if we could trust their information or not. You think of that?’
Magozzi nodded grimly. ‘I thought of that. I’m still going to ask them. What do we have to lose?’
‘If they throw in a red herring to steer us away from one of them, we’re losing time.’
‘No more time than we are now, butting our heads up against brick walls . . . what the hell are you looking for, anyhow?’
‘This!’ With a triumphant grin, Gino pulled a plastic bag out of the last pocket he searched and dangled it in front of Magozzi. ‘Salvation. Nirvana. Consolation for all the bad things in life.’ He opened the bag and filled the air between them with the aroma of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Magozzi accepted one and bit into it. ‘I love Angela,’ he said around a mouthful.
‘I’ll tell her.’ Gino chewed happily. ‘Hope it doesn’t creep her out.’ He glanced over at a few more couples disembarking the ferry. ‘I suppose I should get back in there. Make sure McLaren isn’t pocketing the phone numbers of all the bridesmaids.’
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ Magozzi said. ‘Maybe one of the guests spotted a tattooed beefer on a Harley or a two-hundred-pound sexpot.’
Gino snorted. ‘This is Minnesota. Half the women here go two bills.’
‘Yeah, but they’re not that sexy.’
‘More’s the pity. What’s her name? Annie what?’
‘Belinsky. And with what you’ve got at home, you shouldn’t be noticing.’
Gino smiled a little. ‘I’d have to be dead.’ He tugged up the collar of his parka. ‘Damn, it’s cold out here. Here comes the doc.’
Rambachan was cautiously disembarking the ferry, his eyes glued to the substantial, three-foot gangplank as if it were a rope bridge over the Grand Canyon. Magozzi watched him dodge the press and head toward them, his normally cheerful face drawn and weary, his gait a little unsteady.
‘Good evening, Detectives.’ Rambachan bobbed his head politely. Magozzi could have sworn his complexion was slightly gray.
‘Dr Rambachan. I take it you’re not too fond of boats.’
He gave them a sickly smile showing fewer teeth than usual. ‘Excellent detective work. Yes, you are correct. I have a pathological fear of watercraft and become quite nauseous while on board.’
Magozzi marveled that a man who spent his days with putrefying corpses could actually get seasick on a docked boat. ‘Sorry to keep ruining your evenings, Doc.’
‘No rest for the wicked.’ Rambachan tried for a rakish smile, obviously delighted that he’d had occasion to use an idiom. ‘And not to worry. I have already telephoned my good wife to tell her I would be very late. These murders are becoming somebody’s bad habit and I would like to complete this autopsy tonight. Perhaps it will shed new light on your investigation.’
Magozzi wanted to kiss him. ‘We owe you, Doc. Thank you.’
‘This is my job, Detective. I will call you immediately when I have something to report.’ He turned to Gino and bowed his head slightly. ‘I was honored to work with you tonight, Detective Rolseth. You were very gentle with the guests while performing a very unpleasant duty.’
Gino, unused to compliments from any quarter, blushed and blustered, ‘Yeah, well, I could have done without it. Sucked rocks, is what it did.’
Rambachan brightened and looked at Magozzi. ‘Sucked rocks? Would this be in the book?’
Magozzi suppressed a smile and shook his head. ‘Probably not.’
‘Then you will explain at another time?’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Excellent. Then good evening to you both.’
Gino waited until the Indian was out of earshot, then turned to Magozzi with a broad smile. ‘What is with you two? You’ve got some little bonding thing going. I can barely understand the guy and you two chat it up like a couple of English lords over tea.’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s just so . . . polite. And so naive. It’s a nice combo. He thinks
Gino laughed out loud. ‘I hope you told him.’
‘Not yet . . .’ Magozzi’s cell phone chirped and he fumbled it out of his coat pocket. ‘Damnit. Hang on, Gino . . . Magozzi!’ he barked into the receiver.
He was quiet for a long time, and Gino swore he saw the beginnings of a smile.
‘No kidding. You got an address for me?’ He dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and scrawled down numbers and a street name. ‘Funny place for a multimillionaire to live. Great work, Tommy. Now go home and get some rest. I’m going to need you early tomorrow.’ He snapped the phone closed with a flourish.
‘Good news?’ Gino asked.
‘Grace MacBride, or whoever she is, has six guns registered in her name. One of them’s a .22.’
Gino nodded knowingly. ‘She did it.’
‘I’m going to head over there, see if I can catch her home, peg her from two to four, maybe take a look at the gun, and then ask her for some help with the registration list.’
‘Nice touch. Could you help us find a killer, unless, of course, you’re the killer, and if that’s the case, could I take a look at your gun?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘You got any other ideas?’
‘Yeah, I got an idea. Getting as far away from this case as I can. Jimmy and I were talking about that day- trading thing. Figured we could do it from Montana.’
22
Magozzi sped through side streets, turret light flashing, then picked up 94 East to St Paul. The freeway was nearly deserted at this hour – too late for the worker bees to be out, too early for the clubbers to head home – so he pushed the unmarked up toward ninety in the far left lane, wishing he had one of MPH’s new Grand Ams instead of the doggy two-year-old Ford sedan.
Then again, why was he in such a hurry? He knew damn well Grace MacBride was no killer, and even if she were, she certainly wouldn’t be wandering around her house drenched in blood carrying a smoking gun and looking guilty. The .22 registered in her name was the thinnest of coincidences – that particular gun was as common as
