sober.
The sheriff was a surprise. Tall and dark and sharp-eyed; not even close to the fair-haired, paunchy good old country boy Magozzi had pictured, although from the size of his shoulders he did look like he threw hundred-pound hay bales around in his spare time. The deputy was shorter, closer to the stereotype with a Santa Claus belly that must be making Gino feel positively svelte.
When he opened the door Gino looked over and said, ‘There he is. What did I tell you? Tall, dark, mean- looking guy.’ He gestured at Magozzi. ‘Short, blond, lovable guy.’ He stuck his thumb in his chest. ‘Just like you two. I’m telling you, it’s like we’re a couple sets of twins that got mixed up. Like that movie with Lily Tomlin and, who was it?’ He scratched his head.
‘Bette Midler,’ the deputy offered.
‘Yeah, her. Magozzi, meet Mike Halloran and Bonar Carlson. Jeez, guys, I’m sorry. He usually looks a little better than this.’
Bonar Carlson grabbed his hand. ‘I think you look very pretty.’
‘Thank you.’
Sheriff Halloran jerked his head toward his deputy. ‘I didn’t want to bring him, but it was either him or a good-looking woman.’
‘No choice, then.’ Magozzi shook his hand.
‘None at all. I hear you spent the night with one of your suspects.’
‘I guess there are probably a couple people in Outer Mongolia that haven’t heard about that yet.’
Gino said, ‘Anything’s possible. She got another e-mail, huh?’
‘Yeah. Tommy’s on it, or at least he was last night.’
‘He’s still here, hunched over his machines like a mad troll. I don’t think he’s been home since this thing started. His eyes are starting to move in different directions.’
‘Well, Sheriff, did Gino bring you up to date?’
‘Actually . . .’
‘Didn’t have to,’ Gino broke in. ‘Gloria told them everything before I got here, including your shorts size. We sent the slug over to the lab. David’s on his way in. He’ll run it first thing.’ He frowned at the board where he’d tacked up morgue and scene photos of the Mall of America victim. ‘There’s our girl from yesterday. Marian Siskel, forty-two years old, and you’re not going to believe this. She was mall security, monitored the closed-circuit cameras, just finished her shift and apparently decided to try on a few things at the Nordstrom sale before she headed home. Crime Scene got a ton of trace from the dressing room where she got hit. Said it’s gonna take them ten years to sort through it.’
Magozzi looked over the new photos, comparing the actual crime-scene shot of the dead woman in the car with the staged photo from the game. The similarities were uncanny. His eyes moved to the next game photo – a woman in an artist’s smock slumped on the floor beneath a classroom chalkboard. Halloran followed his gaze.
‘That’s the next one?’ he asked.
Magozzi nodded. ‘Only it won’t happen. Not today, at least. Governor closed all the schools.’
‘And the crime scenes aren’t giving you anything?’
‘Nothing we can use. We’re not going to catch him that way.’
The sheriff moved his big shoulders inside his jacket, as if he were trying to dislodge a weight, Magozzi thought. ‘We’ve got a funeral for our deputy Monday,’ he said solemnly, and Magozzi understood immediately that the deputy’s death was the weight he was carrying, and that it was probably way too heavy. ‘I’d really like to tell Danny’s folks this thing got put to bed.’
‘We’ll work it hard,’ Magozzi said.
Deputy Bonar Carlson was looking at the right side of the board, at all the crime scenes to come. ‘This is real bad.’
‘It’s a lot better than it was before you called,’ Magozzi said. ‘If the slug you took out of the Kleinfeldt woman matches the one we got from our victim yesterday, chances are pretty good that Brian Bradford is our man – or woman – and I think things could start to come together real fast.’ He told them about the call from Atlanta.
‘Five thousand names?’ Gino looked at him in disbelief.
‘Plus,’ Magozzi corrected.
‘Great,’ Gino said dispiritedly. ‘More lists. The troops are going to love that.’
‘The registration list was always a long shot. Not these. He’s on this one,’ Magozzi said. ‘He’s got to be.’
‘There’s a lot riding on those slugs matching up,’ Halloran said.
‘Just about everything,’ Magozzi agreed.
‘I almost forgot.’ Gino hefted two copy paper boxes from the desk. ‘Tommy finally cracked into the FBI file. All seven hundred pages.’
‘My goodness,’ Magozzi said. ‘Are there Cliffs Notes?’
‘Not exactly. But I took a peek. There’s a ten-page index of witnesses they interviewed. Looks like half of Atlanta, but at least it’s alphabetized.’
‘God bless the anal-retentive FBI,’ Magozzi said. ‘I don’t suppose there was a Brian Bradford on the list.’
‘Of course not.’
On their way out of the building Magozzi saw another brown shirt walking toward them down the hall. He figured it was one of the new Hennepin County deputies he hadn’t met yet, certain that he wouldn’t have forgotten any officer that filled out a uniform in quite that way.
‘Good grief,’ Deputy Carlson said, and he and Sheriff Halloran stopped dead and stared at the approaching woman. She had short dark hair and sharp brown eyes that were fixed on the sheriff, and not much else.
‘Morning, Sheriff, Bonar,’ she said when she was close enough for Magozzi to see the Kingsford County insignia on her heavy jacket. ‘Did the slugs match?’
Halloran blinked at her as if she were an apparition, opened his mouth to say something that was probably unprofessional, then changed his mind. ‘Detective Magozzi, Detective Rolseth, this is Deputy Sharon Mueller. She was the one who found the link to Saint Peter’s.’
She gave them a brief nod. ‘What about the slugs?’
Deputy Carlson sighed. ‘God, Sharon, were you raised by wolves? Say hello to the nice detectives. Shake their hands. Pretend you’re civilized.’
She gave Bonar an exasperated look, then quickly shook Magozzi’s hand, then Gino’s. ‘Okay. Now will somebody tell me about the slugs?’
‘They just went down to the lab,’ Magozzi said. ‘They’ll call when they’ve got something. We were just going to grab some breakfast.’
‘Good deal. I’m starving. What’s in the boxes?’
Gino shifted the copy paper boxes to his right hip. ‘Open FBI file on a case the Monkeewrench partners were involved in years ago. Light reading over breakfast.’
‘God, I hate reading FBI files,’ Sharon muttered and promptly started walking toward the exit, forcing the four men to hurry to keep up.
Gino was grinning, always content to walk behind a good-looking woman, Magozzi and Bonar trailed behind, and at the end of the line Halloran was shaking his head, wondering when the hell Sharon had read FBI files and what the hell she was doing there.
They were almost at the door when two men in suits hurried to intercept them. The taller one led the charge, long legs eating up the hall floor. Give him a big round shield, the man could be a Viking, Magozzi thought. He glanced at the younger, grim-faced man trotting to keep up, but careful to remain a deferential step behind. Silent, obedient attack dog. There, and not there.
‘Uh-oh,’ Gino said under his breath. ‘They sent the big gun today.’
‘Magozzi! Rolseth!’
Magozzi stopped reluctantly and waited, recognizing the taller man as Paul Shafer, special agent in charge of the Minneapolis FBI office. ‘Hey, Paul. I didn’t know you ever actually left the office. What’s up?’
Shafer was FBI first, Norwegian second, and human being third. ‘This.’ He waved a thin, official-looking folder. ‘You get the file, we get the name to go with those prints you ran.’
Magozzi tensed for a minute, then forced his shoulders to slump. ‘Aw, shit.’ He looked at the folder and sighed heavily. ‘Damnit, Paul, you sure you don’t want to give me that file in the spirit of agency cooperation or
