Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 75

“I do not want your advice, McKenzie. I want you to find the bastard who sent the e-mail. If you can’t do that, go home.”

She hung up on you.

I sat there, staring dumbly at the cell phone in my hand for a solid ten seconds as the realization sunk in.

She hung up on you, after everything you’ve done for her.

I set the phone on the table and watched it some more.

“I’ll be damned.”

I made a third drink.

The cell played its tune again. I was sure it was Lindsey calling to apologize. I was wrong.

“Hi, McKenzie. It’s me. Danny.”

“Hello, Chief.”

“You can call me Danny again.”

“Thank you.”

She paused for a moment, said, “About what happened this morning. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I forgot. You don’t like to talk.”

“Talking won’t change anything.”

“It might help me decide what to do next.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I can go to the county attorney.”

“With what, Danny? What evidence do you have? None. Your witnesses, they can’t be relied on. There won’t be any charges.”

“We can at least get the allegation out there.”

“What good will that do, besides getting you fired? Besides getting you trashed by every newspaper columnist, every TV pundit, and every radio talk show rabble-rouser from one end of the state to the other? This isn’t some schmo off the street, Danny. This is the governor of the state of Minnesota. A popular sitting governor. You go after him, you had better have it wired seven ways to hell and back. We don’t.”

“We have to do something.”

“Well, I for one am going to take a long nap. Care to join me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.”

This time I hung up.

13

The world had been transformed by the time I woke up. The storm had given way to bright sunshine, the wind had abated, and snow was melting along the edge of the asphalt where the plows had done their work. There was plenty of foot traffic, people walking about without hats and gloves and with their coats hanging open. I watched them from the window of my room, wishing for a moment that I was among them. I glanced at my watch. Only three hours had passed since the snow shower began, but most Minnesotans will tell you—if you don’t like the weather, just hang around for a few minutes, it’s bound to change.

So, what’s next? my inner voice asked.

Go home, Lindsey Barrett had suggested. Why not?

You haven’t done what you came here to do.

The world’s not going to stop revolving if that happens.

It’s not about the world. It’s about keeping promises that you made.

My promise to Lindsey? I doubt any court would enforce it. A verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, that’s what my lawyer once told me.

Those are precisely the contracts you have to keep.

Who says?

You’re the one who chose this life. Maybe it was out of boredom or a need to feel useful or the conceit that you can personally make the world a better place to live, but you chose it. You can’t give it up because sometimes it’s difficult.

I suppose that’s true.

Winners never quit and quitters never win, remember? I’ll bet you a nickel they have that posted on the Victoria High School gym somewhere.

Words of wisdom.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Okay, now you’re being annoying.

I closed my eyes and shook my head and rubbed my temples in an effort to quiet my inner voice. I had been spending way too much time in my head lately, too much time talking to myself. You live alone, do most things by yourself, it’s probably inevitable. Yet at the same time, it couldn’t possibly be healthy, could it? If nothing else, you lose perspective.

I thought about mixing another drink while I tried to determine my next step and quickly vetoed the idea.

“Maybe I should go for a swim, instead,” I told the empty room. “Clear my head.”

That would necessitate going shopping for a swimsuit, but so what? I needed clothes, anyway. The shirt, sweater, and jeans I’d been wearing for three days were starting to get ripe. Besides, unlimited pool privileges came with the room; Florence told me so when I signed the register.

When you signed the register.

Why didn’t I think of that before?

Rufugio Tapia was behind the counter of Fit to Print. Jace Axelrod was on the opposite side, leaning against it while she spoke softly to him, and again I thought, Romeo and Juliet: “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!”