Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 45

Tapia and the young woman looked at each other like they had simultaneously discovered I was a raving lunatic.

“I’m not saying you won’t find any bigotry up there,” I said. “You will. Of course you will. You’ll find it everywhere you go. Only you’ll find less of it. In a big city, a white woman dating a Hispanic, a Hispanic married to an African American, an African American dating an Asian, an Asian spending time with a Jew, a Jew with a Muslim, a Muslim shacking up with a conservative Republican—we see it all the time, and most people don’t even notice, much less care.”

“This is my home,” Tapia said.

“Mine, too,” said Jace.

Good for them.

I changed the subject. Pointing at the front of her letterman’s jacket, I said, “Interesting name.”

“It’s short for J.C.,” she said. “People called me J.C. when I was a kid but now everyone just calls me Jace. Sometimes they say Jacey with a long e. But I like Jace.”

When she was a kid? my inner voice asked.

“J.C. and R.T.,” I said. “Sounds like a match.”

“We’re just friends,” said Tapia.

Who was he kidding? I wondered. Not the punks out on the sidewalk.

The young woman’s eyes widened at the lie, but she said nothing.

“Listen, kids, there’s something you should know. The earth spins on its axis at about a thousand miles an hour. You can’t slow it down and you sure as hell can’t stop it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tapia asked.

“It means, kiss the girl while you have the chance.”

A few moments later I was standing outside. I zipped my jacket to my throat and looked up at the dirty gray sky. The weather geek on the radio had predicted snow and I figured that sooner or later he’d be right.

I walked to my Audi without once looking over my shoulder through the large windows of Fit to Print. It would have cheered me to see the kids making out like bandits on the counter, but I didn’t think there was much chance of that happening.

What a shitty town.

Whatever was in the water that Suzi Shimek and Coach Testen were drinking, Lynn Matousek was having none of it. Her hair was thin and black with plenty of gray at the roots; she had a heavy, square body and a shiny face. She was only pushing fifty years old, yet could easily pass for sixty.

I introduced myself at the door and said, “May I ask you a few questions?”

“Are you a cop?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you a private investigator?”

“Something like that.” It’s illegal to pass yourself off as a law enforcement officer, but hell, anyone can be a PI.

“Which one of the assholes hired you?”

I was confused and probably looked it.

“My ex-husbands,” she said. “Which one hired you?”

“How many are there?”

“Three. I got three ex-husbands.”

“None of them hired me.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Lady—”

“What’re you doin’ here? Lookin’ for more shit t’ use against me in court?”

“I want to ask some questions.”

“You said that. ’Bout what?”

“Elizabeth Rogers.”

That slowed her down. “Beth? Why? After all these years why would you ask about Beth?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

“Why? Why now? Is this for one of those TV documentaries or something? Is this for—Are you working for the governor? Is this for that shithead Barrett? If it is, you can just get your ass outta here.”

I saw the opening and took it.

“It’s time the people of Minnesota learned just what kind of man they elected to office,” I told her. “I don’t know what party you’re affiliated with—”

“I ain’t affiliated with no party.”

“But I work for people who want to bring honor and integrity back to the governor’s office.”

“What people?”

“Real Minnesotans who want to take back their state.”

Lynn’s eyes grew wide. “Are you going to stick it to Barrett, that bastard?”

“This isn’t about Governor Barrett. This is about the truth.”

“C’mon in.”

I followed Lynn into her home, dodging debris as I went. Apparently she kept house the way some college kids kept house.

“Want a drink?” she called over her shoulder.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she mumbled. “Have a seat.”

I found one behind a coffee table stacked with newspapers and the remains of Chinese takeout—beef lo mein, I guessed. A moment later, Lynn returned carrying a bottle of Phillips and two glasses. She set them on the table in front of me, poured a generous amount of vodka into one glass and took it across the room, leaving me to serve myself.

“You wanna know who killed Elizabeth Rogers?” she asked.