Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5) Page 78

Thirty minutes later I was standing in the shower, letting hot water massage my aching back, wondering where I was going and how I was going to get there. Questions without answers. I had more money than I could ever spend and yet it didn’t make me happy. It was just there. Maybe if I spent more of it, tried to adopt a playboy attitude. Or better yet, got a real job that would justify my existence. But, no. I had to be a cop. I had to sift through the emotional and physical debris of other people’s lives, telling myself that it’s a noble undertaking, insisting that I’m making the world a better place. It occurred to me, as I gingerly changed the ban dage around my damaged ankle, that I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

A warm sun hung brightly in a cobalt sky and I thought it would be a good day to stay indoors, hang around the hotel, give my back and ankle a chance to mend. I didn’t need anyone else shooting at me; I certainly didn’t want to run for my life again—I wasn’t sure I could. I switched on the TV and watched the Cold Pizza morning show on ESPN, except I was having trouble getting into it. My mind kept wandering in no particular direction. It was somewhere in Wisconsin with the Dunston family when my cell phone rang. Ten minutes later I was in my car.

Karen Studder wore her hair down around her shoulders and had given more time and effort to applying makeup than when I first met her. She was wearing a tight V-neck sweater—emphasis on the V—and a skirt that did more to exhibit her shapely legs than cover them, and I thought, Is this for me? God, I hope not. I don’t deal well with temptation. I had wandered once before, with an enticing female cop in Victoria, Minnesota. That was eight months ago, and I had justified myself by insisting that I wasn’t formally committed to Nina then. Now I was committed-committed, and there was a difference. I reminded myself of that when Karen held my hand for a couple of extra beats after shaking it. When she called earlier, I had asked her to meet me for brunch at the Copper Dome on Randolph near Hamline, not far from the Cretin–Derham Hall High School. I had hoped it would fulfill my pledge of a meal and drinks, except now I didn’t think so.

Best keep your wits about you, my inner voice warned.

After we ordered and before our food arrived, Karen said, “Middleton, DuWayne H., has been in and out of prison most of his life, charged with major felonies that he pleaded down to minor felonies and minor felonies that became misdemeanors. He was released from the level four correctional facility in St. Cloud to his mother’s custody three months ago.”

“Any connection to Scottie Thomforde?” I asked.

“Not that I could see. I’m sorry I didn’t think to download DuWayne’s record for you. From what I read, it was always different crimes in different cities at different times, different prisons, different release dates, different parole units. Scottie was in Ramsey County; Middleton is in Hennepin.”

“And never the twain shall meet?” I asked.

“Not through the system.”

“Where can I find DuWayne?”

Karen gave me an address in North Minneapolis.

“Swell,” I said. I knew plenty of horror stories about the East Side of St. Paul, only they were like Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales compared to the North Side of Minneapolis. I felt my back tightening in anticipation of a visit; it hurt with every deep breath.

Breakfast was served; I didn’t give it much attention. Karen attacked her meal with fervor. Good for her, I thought. I hate picky eaters.

While we ate I reviewed my options. One of them was calling Greg Schroeder and the two of us busting in on DuWayne and putting a gun to his head. It worked with Dogman-G. Except I didn’t want a reprise of what happened in East Bethel. Another option was knocking on his door and asking politely for information. Except what was keeping DuWayne from putting a gun to my head? One shot and he could earn fifty large.

“You say DuWayne is living with his mother?” I said.

Karen said that he was in between bites of hash browns.

“How does it work, probation officers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you visit someone else’s… you call them offenders?”

“What do you have in mind, McKenzie?”

“I go over there alone, someone is going to get shot. Probably me. But if you go with me—”

“Wait a minute.” From the expression on her face, Karen knew what I was thinking and the idea didn’t appeal to her at all.

“We knock on the door all calm and peaceful, you flash your badge—why should there be any trouble? Especially if DuWayne’s mama is there. I mean, you make home visits all the time, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“How many of them end in bloodshed?”

“None so far, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“All I want to do is talk to the man. Besides, if he is running a contract on me, that’s an illegal activity. Wouldn’t you want to know about that?”

Karen paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. Slowly she lowered it to her plate and wiped her lips with a napkin.

“What contract?” she said.

I explained, making sure not to mention either Pat Beulke or Dogman-G.

When I finished, she pushed her plate away, folded her arms across her chest, and leaned back in the booth.

“I’m an officer of the court,” she said.

“Exactly my point,” I said.

Karen studied me for a long time. Finally she said, “If I do this, I expect a lot more in return than breakfast.”

“Sure.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe my badge will keep us out of trouble.”

’Course, it never worked that way when I carried one.