Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 8

“Who?”

The air conditioner was working hard, but my hair and pillow were matted with sweat. I swung my legs off the bed and sat on the edge.

“Merodie Davies,” the voice said. “I understand you were present when the police arrived at Ms. Davies’s home the other day.”

“I didn’t know her name. You are who, again?”

“G. K. Bonalay, her attorney. Were you present?”

“I was there.”

“I understand you attempted to intervene when Officer Baumbach assaulted Ms. Davies.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘assault’ exactly, but, yeah, I did that.”

“Mr. McKenzie, I am told that Officer Baumbach arrested you and held you prisoner in the Anoka Public Safety Center for thirty-five hours without charging you because you intervened. Is that correct?”

“Ms.—Bonalay, did you say?”

“G. K. Bonalay.”

“My arrest was off the books. How did you hear about it?”

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. McKenzie, can we meet?”

“For what purpose?”

Her reply didn’t sound lawyerly at all.

“I’m going to get those guys,” she said.

I didn’t hesitate. I should have. I should have disconnected my phone. I should have left town. I should have done a lot of things. Instead, I said, “When and where?”

2

G. K. Bonalay was having a good day. She told me so to explain her dazzling smile. Seems the coke dealer she was defending was sentenced to eighteen months after pleading guilty to one count of possession. He could have earned ten years, probably should have, but she had muddied the waters sufficiently enough that the Hennepin County attorney cut her client some slack to get the case off his desk. Now she was giddy with success. ‘Course, it’s precisely because of deals like that that most cops have such a low opinion of defense attorneys. I’m not one of them. I reconciled myself a long time ago to the fact that they’re a necessary evil. Besides, if they, the cops, prosecutor, jury, and judge all do their jobs properly, everybody gets exactly what they deserve—the bad guys go to prison, the good guys go home, and those in between get reduced sentences.

There was a lot of feline in G. K., in the easy grace of her movements, in her intelligent green eyes. I noticed it immediately when I saw her ascend the stairs leading to the second-story loft of the Dunn Bros. coffeehouse on Third Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. She moved as though gravity were merely a suggestion, not a reality. She seemed so young that at first I thought she was a college girl, albeit a well-dressed one—red equestrian-style jacket, black pleated skirt, and black hose and pumps. She was deftly balancing a large ceramic mug filled with mocha on a saucer with one hand while carrying a heavy leather briefcase in the other. The loft was empty except for a man and woman, both dressed in suits, who sat across from each other at a small table, leaning in and talking low, their foreheads nearly touching, so it wasn’t hard to pick me out. She walked to the table where I was nursing a French vanilla IceCrema.

“Rushmore McKenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for meeting me.” She set down her drink and briefcase and offered her hand. It was soft. “I’m G. K. Bonalay. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.”

We both sat.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“What did you expect?”

She waved her hand as if it were an unimportant question.

“How do you like to be addressed? Rushmore? Rush?”

I cringed at both names. “Just McKenzie,” I said. “How ‘bout you?”

“Hmm?”

“What does the G stand for?”

“Oh. Genevieve. My friends call me Gen. Do you want to be my friend, McKenzie?”

“Is that a trick question, Genevieve?”

“Not at all. Today I’m everyone’s friend.”

“Why is that?”

She told me about her drug dealer. She assured me that the guy deserved prison time, but not ten years.

“The sentencing guidelines the legislature passed are so screwed up. Everyone’s trying to prove they’re tough on drugs, which means you can now get more time for possession of an eight-ball than you can for first degree sexual assault. That’s nuts.”

“How long have you been an attorney?” I asked.

“I passed the bar nearly eighteen months ago, but I’ve been practicing law for much longer.”

“Can you do that?”

“With proper adult supervision, yes, you can, which is how I got this.”

G. K. opened her briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of photocopies an inch and a half thick held together at the top with a two-hole metal clasp. She set the file in front of me. The top page read:

Case #07-080819

Merodie Anne Davies

Offense: Homicide

She smiled and patted the document as if it were the latest Nevada Barr mystery and she was recommending it highly.

“Everything Anoka County has on Merodie,” she said. “Coroner’s report, incident reports, supplementals, witness statements . . .”

“Am I missing something?”