The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 14

“Don’t you know who we are?” Jimmy asked. “We’re the Iron Range Bandits.”

“What is that? A garage band?”

“We’re in the news. We’re famous.”

I suddenly felt very tired. I let the barrel of the shotgun slip off of Skarda’s shoulder and sat at the kitchen table. It was flimsy and wobbled when I leaned against it as if one of its legs were shorter than the others. I set the Glock on top of the table within easy reach and draped the shotgun over my knees.

“Famous,” I said. “You’re happy about that? God help me, I’m surrounded by amateurs.”

“What’s wrong with being famous?”

“What’s your name again? Jimmy?” He nodded. “Jimmy, the last thing you want is to make the evening news. The very last thing you want is a nickname. See, the longer you stay out of jail, the less likely you are to go to jail. City cops, county cops, they have limited resources, only so many investigators. You pull a heist and they’ll be on it like white on rice. They’ll interview witnesses, examine the crime scene, study the film taken by hidden cameras, develop leads, talk to their CIs, check the strip joints and casinos and bars to see who’s throwing money around, inquire at local banks to learn who’s making large cash deposits, question the usual suspects—they’ll do all those things. If after a period of time nothing pans out—well, they’re going to have other crimes to solve, aren’t they? So they’ll redline your case, they’ll rededicate their resources and retask their investigators to the cases they have a better chance of clearing, follow me?”

Jimmy nodded some more.

“However, if the media gives you a nickname, ‘Iron Range Bandits Strike Again,’ suddenly you’re a priority. For one thing, you’re making the cops look bad; you’re hurting their professional pride. For another, a chief of police, a county sheriff, they have to run for reelection, right? Catching you helps their chances; letting you get away hurts them. Then there’s the very real possibility that they might just say screw it and ask the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to step in, and they have investigators and resources to burn. No, sir, you do not want a nickname. You have a nickname, they’re never going to stop looking for you.”

“What do you know about it?” Roy asked.

“He’s a big-time crook,” Jimmy said. He meant it as a compliment.

“Yeah, big-time,” I said. “I’m an escaped prisoner hiding out in the North Woods with the frickin’ Waltons. Doesn’t get much bigger than that.”

Six pairs of eyes regarded me cautiously.

“Oh, hell,” I said. “It’s not like I have many options. Ms. Skarda, I will take you up on your kind offer.”

I stood and tucked the Glock back under my belt. I broke open the 16-gauge, removed the two shells, shut it, and handed it to the old man. He took it from my hand as if he were planning to take it whether I liked it or not.

“Che Guevara,” I said. “Really?”

“He wasn’t afraid to stand up to the man.”

“Get a haircut.”

I handed Josie the key to the handcuffs, and she freed her brother. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged. She was shorter by about a foot, and her head slid beneath his chin. He hugged her back.

“I was so worried about you,” she said.

“Have you heard from Liz?”

Josie squeezed him tighter. “No,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“About Liz?”

“About everything. You can’t stay here, not in Krueger. Dyson’s right. This is the first place the police will look. Even if they don’t find you, so many people know you up here, can recognize you on the street—anyone can pick up a phone.”

“Drop a dime,” I said.

“What?”

I moved back to the kitchen table. Josie continued to hug her brother, but her eyes followed me.

“The correct phrase is drop a dime,” I said. “’Course, drop a dime, pick up a phone, it all amounts to the same thing—you can’t trust anyone. Welcome to my world.”

Josie gave her brother a quick squeeze before releasing him. “Have you eaten?” she asked. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“I’m starving,” Skarda said.

Josie moved toward the refrigerator. I took a deep breath while she did and smelled fried everything—you could pull a handful of grease out of the air.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“No one does. We use the cabin as a kind of staging area for our jobs. The only time we talk about our jobs is while we’re here.”

“When you’re here, who does the cooking?”

“I do. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Tell me something, Dyson. Why did you help my brother?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Tell me the truth.”