“Yeah.”
“I think we call him and tell him that we changed our minds. Tell ’im we thought about it and decided we’re out of the thug life. See what he does.”
“If you’re right, if Jamal and the doctor were tryin’ to make us their bitch—you know, they might go over t’ her place and do her themselves. Jamal in particular, he’s pretty ambitious.”
“Maybe we should go over there and watch,” Chopper said. “You know, just in case.”
“Be the cavalry riding to the rescue?”
“Buffalo Soldiers, that’s us.”
Greg Schroeder was sitting in his office overlooking U.S. Bank Stadium when his phone rang.
“Schroeder,” he said.
“This is Brian Wilson. You busy?”
“No.”
“Still want to interview Jenna King?”
“I do.”
“I’m in Brooklyn Park…”
By the way, Harry hated Brooklyn Park. That’s the suburb the FBI moved to about ten years ago. Granted, the ultra-modern five-story building was so much better than the hovel they had worked out of in downtown Minneapolis. Still, Brooklyn Park. The chance of being a victim of either a violent or property crime was one in twenty-nine; its crime rate was higher than 93 percent of the cities and towns in Minnesota. Probably the reason why the FBI’s campus was surrounded by an iron fence. Anyway …
“I’m still in Brooklyn Park,” Harry said. “I can swing by your office or I could give you Jenna’s address in St. Paul and we can meet there.”
“Why don’t you come here, first,” Schroeder said. “Do you know where I’m located?”
“I do. ETA in about thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready.”
The admin summoned Dr. Lillian Linder the moment that Nina entered the waiting area outside of the SICU at Regions Hospital. Less than a minute later, Lilly was by her side.
“So far so good,” she said. “We’ve been slowly reducing the drugs in McKenzie’s system. All his vitals are exactly where we want them to be.”
“How long will it take for him to regain consciousness?”
“Like I told you before, it depends on the individual. It could take a couple of hours. It could take all night.”
“Can I see him?” Nina asked.
“Of course. In fact, it’s been shown that hearing the voices of family members helps patients come out of a coma sooner; it exercises the circuits in their brains. What I want you to do—tell McKenzie who you are. Hold his hand and stroke his skin; that can be a great comfort to him. Talk to him about your day; talk to him as you normally would. Remember, though. He can hear you. If you tell him he’s a soulless jerk…”
“I’ll wait until he’s fully awake.”
“Good idea.”
Lilly led Nina into the room where they had been keeping me since Tuesday night; the glass wall had been rolled back. By then they had extubated me; the medical term for removing the tube they had pushed down my throat to help me breathe and the one they had shoved up my nose to draw out stomach contents. Lilly gave Nina a stool that she rolled as close to the bed as she could. She took my hand and brushed the hair off my forehead.
“McKenzie, it’s Nina,” she said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your wife. We’ve been in love since the beginning of time…”
Always watch the eyes, Detective Jean Shipman had been taught at the academy and by supervising officers when she was a rookie. Watch the eyes when questioning a suspect or whenever anyone was holding a gun. The eyes were always the tip-off.
Marshall Sohm’s eyes told her that he was anxious. They told her that he was angry. They also told her that he had been drinking. The combination made her wish that she had brought backup, Mason Gafford or Eddie Hilger, even Sarah Frisco. Only this was her case and she was going to solve it if it killed her—although she sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t. That’s why she adjusted the Glock she wore behind her right hip beneath her blazer when she settled on the sofa in Marshall’s living room.
Marshall sat in a chair on the other side of a coffee table from her. Shipman was glad for the table. It would give her a couple of extra seconds if everything went sideways, she decided.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Coffee?”
“Thank you,” Shipman said.
Marshall left the room and went into his kitchen. That gave Shipman a chance to get up and examine the large collection of photographs that had been arranged on the living-room wall. They were all family photos—Marshall and a woman that Shipman guessed was his wife, an older couple that could have been his parents, group photos of a dozen or more relatives gathered together, more couples with and without children, two men and a woman with arms wrapped around each other. Most of the pics, though, were of Elliot taken at various stages of her life, from infancy to college. In some she was alone, in others she was posed with her parents, in still others she was accompanied by Emma King. The shots Shipman found most riveting, though, were of a very young woman with long blond hair holding an infant that seemed to have been taken decades earlier plus a more recent photo of the same woman with her arms hugging Emma’s shoulders from behind. In that one her hair had been cut short. Shipman recognized her instantly. It was the same woman she had seen in the video taken at my building.
She heard Marshall approaching and quickly returned to her perch on the edge of the sofa. He entered the room carrying two mugs. He crossed over to where Shipman was sitting and offered her one of them.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted cream or sugar,” he said.
“Black is fine,” she said.
He grunted as if he disagreed and returned to his chair. He made himself comfortable and took a long sip from his own mug. Shipman didn’t think it contained coffee.
“You accused my daughter of murder,” he said, getting right to it, no chitchat, no
