Detective Tinker Lewis was buried under the down comforter, listening to the sleet on the bedroom window, being coaxed awake by the aromas of brewing coffee and frying bacon wafting up the stairs.
It had to be Sunday, otherwise Janis wouldn’t be anywhere near the stove. She could make coffee and fry a pound of bacon, and on a good day, three or four slices might be edible. Tinker was profoundly grateful that she attempted these things only one day a week. The kitchen belonged to him.
By the time he got downstairs she was standing with her hands on her hips, glaring down at a mass of greasy bacon languishing on a paper towel. ‘I suck at this. What kind of an idiot can’t fry bacon?’
Tinker sorted through the mess with a fork, looking for a piece that wasn’t either raw or burned black. ‘Maybe if you didn’t waste your time doing those silly heart surgeries, you could stay home and practice cooking, become a better wife to your poor beleaguered husband. I could buy you an apron.’
‘That’s all I’ve been waiting for.’ She looked up at him and frowned. ‘Why are you dressed for work? It’s Sunday.’
‘Cops die, we all work.’
He took one look at her face and wished he were agile enough to kick himself. Janis was on one of the transplant teams at the U, and they’d had a marathon surgery scheduled yesterday, maybe eighteen straight hours in the rarefied, isolated atmosphere of the operating room. No TV, no radio, no news from the outside world. He’d been sound asleep by the time she got home, and she hadn’t heard.
‘I’m sorry.’ He took her hands, sat down with her at the kitchen table, and told her one of the things that any cop’s wife dreads hearing. Someone out there was killing cops, and suddenly her husband was in the line of fire.
When he finished, she sat quietly for a while, still holding his hands. ‘So we’re inside saving a life yesterday, and on the outside, someone took two away. Sometimes I don’t even know why we try so hard to keep up.’
Tinker gave her one of his sad smiles. ‘So you saved the kid. I’m glad.’
‘He’s ten years old.’
‘I know. And now he’ll live to see eleven. That’s big time, Janis. It makes up for a lot.’
She closed her eyes for a moment, then got up and held out her hand, palm up. ‘Give it to me. Then make us something decent to eat if you’re going back out there.’
Tinker reluctantly unholstered his weapon and put it in her hand, then shook his head as she got the cleaning kit from a top cupboard and got to work. He’d taken care of that last night, but telling her that wouldn’t do a bit a good. It was some kind of peculiar ritual with her – checking and rechecking his weapon anytime there was a hint of something going down, maybe because it was the only way she could actively participate in keeping him safe. He had no clue how she’d learned how to do such a thing – probably just from watching him during those years he’d been on the street – but she did it meticulously and well. The irony of seeing those million-dollar life-saving surgeon’s hands ensuring the proper operation of an instrument of death had always disturbed him, and he’d learned long ago to turn away from the wrongness of it.
He was first to the phone when it rang. He saw Janis stiffen and stop working to listen, which she did whenever the phone rang during times like these. She relaxed a little when he said, ‘Oh, hi, Sandy. Good to hear from you.’ She started to tense up again a few minutes later, because Tinker wasn’t talking, and he had his little notebook out.
It took Tinker half an hour to get to downtown Minneapolis, a drive that normally took ten minutes. The sleet had put down a layer of ice on roadways and sidewalks that had barely been cleared after the big snow, and the Highway Patrol had travel warnings over half the state. For once, most Minnesotans had decided to listen, hunkering down until either the sun or the sand trucks came out.
The downtown streets were surprisingly empty, even for a Sunday morning, and a good thing, too, since the little Honda was sliding all over the place. The hot Sunday brunch spots were all closed, their overhangs dripping icicles, and for the first time since he couldn’t remember when, almost every church in the city had canceled Sunday services.
The sky was still raining ice when he slid to the curb in front of one of the old office buildings serving as temporary quarters, while the county sucked toxic mold out of parts of its new kazillion-dollar complex. Heads were still rolling over that one.
The uniform he had requested was waiting on the sidewalk, bundled up in winter gear, ice crystals sparkling on the fur of his cap. Tinker thought he looked like a Christmas decoration someone had forgotten to take down.
‘You Detective Lewis?’
‘Right.’
‘Chalmers, out of the Second. You want to give me the word on this before you make me break down the door of a government building?’
Tinker held up a key ring. ‘Turns out his wife had an extra set, so we’re legal. You weren’t briefed?’
‘I was just told to get my ass over here. Homicide calls, we’re there, especially after yesterday. Sarge figures anything you’re taking a look at might have something to do with what happened to our boys in the park.’
‘I don’t know about that, but anything a little off-kilter sets me on edge, and I want to look at it. And straight up, this guy’s a friend of mine. Steve Doyle. A parole officer. He had a meet set up with a new parolee yesterday afternoon, and hasn’t been seen since. His wife got caught down in Northfield by the storm, didn’t get back until late last night, and found him gone. No calls, no messages, no luck tracking him down. She called me at home first thing this morning.’
Chalmers took off his cap and banged it on his leg, releasing a shower of ice crystals. ‘Well, friend of yours or not, I gotta ask. Any chance this guy just checked into the No Tell Motel while the wife was out of town?’
‘No chance at all.’
Chalmers looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded and moved toward the door. ‘Then let’s get out of this weather and see what we can see.’
The building was as deserted as the streets, and had that musty smell of crumbling brick and old plaster. Chances were the county would be one of the last tenants before some kind of remodel happened.
The parole office was straight ahead, and the door was wide open. Tinker took a look at the open door and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. You could lose a pay grade for leaving a government office unlocked, especially a parole office. These places held a lot of information you couldn’t find anywhere else in the system: confidential witness information, victim addresses, and a lot of sealed files, especially on juveniles.
He unholstered his weapon, then felt a little silly when Chalmers followed suit. For all he knew, maybe Steve had been working late, then decided to stay put once the freezing rain started to fall. Or maybe another parole officer was putting in some weekend time to catch up on his workload and they’d walk in with weapons drawn and scare the poor guy to death. Which served him right, Tinker thought, for not at least closing the door.
He looked at Chalmers, sensed that his thoughts were traveling the same road, then the two of them shrugged at each other and moved forward, stopping on either side of the open door, listening. They both flinched at the sudden scurrying sound of some small animal inside the wall, then grinned at each other a little sheepishly. Truth was, the most alarming thing here was them.
But then they stepped through the doorway into the empty office and saw the first of the blood.
There wasn’t a lot of it; just a trail of drops and streaks that led straight to Steve Doyle’s desk. Officer Chalmers looked at the blood trail and actually scratched his head. ‘So, we got a crime scene here, or a really bad paper cut?’
‘Damned if I know. Too much blood for a paper cut; not enough to send someone hightailing for ER.’
‘Tough call.’
While Chalmers made a slow circuit of the office, Tinker walked over to Steve’s desk and stood very still while his eyes moved to take it all in, and suddenly it wasn’t a tough call at all. There were too many things wrong here. A coffee mug upended on the desk; a pool of liquid eating away at the wood finish. A muted television left on in one corner, its screen showing a raucous studio audience on its feet, shaking their fists, pointing at something or someone, yelling in complete silence. And, most telling of all, Steve’s coat, still hanging on a tree near the desk, the limp, empty fingers of gloves poking out of the pockets.
Chalmers sidled up next to him and looked around at the TV, the spilled coffee on the desk, the abandoned coat. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘Me either.’ Tinker pushed a blinking light on the phone with the end of the pencil. There were seven messages.
