By then the ambulance had arrived. And more cops. And bystanders. Before they reached us, though, Officer Healy had the presence of mind to search me for an ID. He found a wallet in the inside pocket of my black sports jacket and opened it. On one side was my driver’s license, conveniently tucked behind a plastic window, which told him that my name was Rushmore McKenzie and I lived across the river in Minneapolis. On the other side, also protected by plastic, was a second ID card that I used primarily to get out of speeding tickets. It proclaimed that I was a proud member of the St. Paul Police Department—retired.
“Oh, shit,” Healy said.
Bobby Dunston was playing hoops with his daughter in the driveway of his pre–World War II colonial in the Merriam Park neighborhood of St. Paul. It was the house where Bobby grew up; he bought it from his parents when they retired. It’s also where I practically grew up after my mother died when I was in the sixth grade. I didn’t have a family except for my father after that and the Dunstons had all but adopted me. It was the reason I never felt like an orphan even after my father passed.
It was approaching eight thirty, yet because of daylight saving time it was still light outside. Bobby was wishing that the damn sun would set already. His daughter was kicking his ass and he wanted to quit while he still possessed a shred of athletic dignity. He suggested, not for the first time, that he was a hockey player, not a basketball player. If he thought his second child would take it easy on him, though, he was mistaken. Katie Dunston had made the Central High School women’s varsity basketball team as a freshman and helped lead them to the City Conference finals. She was ferocious. Meanwhile, Katie’s older sister, Victoria, was sitting at a picnic table in the backyard and trash-talking him.
The girls bore little resemblance to each other. Victoria had a dark, almost brooding appearance like Bobby’s, yet possessed an expressive, outgoing personality that matched her mother’s. Meanwhile, Katie was all sunshine and wheat fields like Shelby but possessed the reticent characteristics of her old man. Victoria was the intellectual in the family; she was just finishing up her junior year of high school yet had already amassed enough Advanced Placement credits to qualify as a second-semester college freshman. Katie was the athlete; college scouts were already expressing interest in her. Victoria suggested that was fortunate because the only way Katie was going to get into a decent school was with an athletic scholarship. Katie’s response was to quote Princess Leia in The Empire Strikes Back—“You stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder!”
Eventually, Bobby became frustrated enough with Vic’s heckling that he told her if she could do better, she was welcome to try. The girls both oohed and aahed at that. They might not always get along as well as they could, yet it was forever the two of them against the world and the world often included their parents.
Bobby had to admit that he was being a poor loser, only he never felt so old in his life. Or proud. Katie was wearing her practice jersey with a bright red “4” on the back. Number four had been Bobby’s number on every jersey in every sport he had ever played.
“One more game,” Katie said. “First one to ten.”
“I’m coming hard this time,” Bobby said.
“You do that.”
Before he could check the ball, however, Shelby Dunston came out of the back door and dashed across the lawn to the driveway. She looked panicked, which came as a shock to every member of her family. Shelby never looked panicked.
She halted at the edge of the concrete apron and held out a cell phone.
“Mom?” Victoria said.
“What is it?” Bobby asked.
“McKenzie,” Shelby said. “He’s been shot.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet.”
Bobby took the cell from Shelby’s hand and spoke into it.
“This is Commander Dunston,” he said.
“Commander, this is Jean Shipman. I’ve just been informed that Rushmore McKenzie has just been shot outside a club on Rice Street.”
“What the hell was he doing on Rice Street?”
“Who knows.”
“How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad, I think.”
“Where is he?”
“On his way to Regions if he’s not there already.”
“The officer who took the call?”
“Jerry Healy. Seven-year man working out of Central. He’s accompanying the ambulance to the hospital.”
“Tell him to stay there; tell him to wait until I arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Suspects in custody?”
“No. I don’t— Major Crimes just received the call. Probably we wouldn’t have it this early except that Healy IDed McKenzie as one of us.”
“All right, you take lead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeannie, I want everybody on this.”
“I’ve sent Mason Gafford to the club; FSU should already be there—”
“Everybody!” Bobby shouted.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m heading to Regions Hospital now. I’ll call as soon as I learn anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know if Nina Truhler has been informed?”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.”
Bobby ended the call and stood staring at his wife and wondered what she was thinking. Shelby and I shared a bond that went all the way back to college. The joke was that if I had been the one who spilled his drink on Shelby’s dress instead of Bobby, all of our lives would be different. Bobby had never really given it much thought in the twenty-some years that had passed since then. Why would he? After all, he’s the guy who won the girl, not me. Yet now it seemed to matter immensely. Was it a joke? Well, of course it was.
Bobby and Shelby moved into each other’s arms and held each other as tightly as they ever had.
“I can’t believe this
