Broken Ice Page 20

  We fell asleep in the guest room on a bed that once belonged to Mel and Anne’s grandparents. We found each other sometime before dawn and made love then slept a few more hours. I woke to gray light filtering through the drapes and went into the kitchen to search for coffee. There was none. I left a note for Mel then drove the Volvo out of the garage and headed back to The Patch Motel.

  A cold front had frozen last night’s fog out of the air. The temperature on the dash read twenty-two degrees. I mourned the rear passenger window and thought of Kozy in the hunting cabin. I wondered if he’d light a fire to warm himself or if he thought the chimney smoke too risky and opted to shiver in candlelight.

  I had suggested he turn himself in. Might as well be warm and comfortable while the truth worked its way to the surface. Kozy could afford good lawyers—he’d probably make bail—he could tell the microphones and cameras he’s innocent. But Kozy feared that kind of fight. He’d skated in playoff games with broken bones and stitched-up flesh. He’d seen his own teeth get picked off the ice to be replanted after the final horn. But outside the arena, he’d lived as one of Minnesota’s elite. A star hockey player. Since he was a boy. He had no intention of relinquishing his status.

  Just after 8:00 A.M., I stepped into The Patch Motel front lounge. A crowd helped themselves to coffee and not much else. I filled a paper cup for myself then turned toward the fire and saw two surprises sitting on a leather couch: Ellegaard and Ben Haas. Other familiar faces meandered about, including SPPD officer Terrence Flynn and Woodbury Detective Jamie Waller. Char Northagen talked to a Warroad police uniform whom I assumed to be Officer Tony Stensrud. He was tall and hefty with a 1950s-style crew cut, pink cheeks, and dull eyes. The room buzzed—it was the first place I’d been in Warroad that buzzed.

  Haley Housh would have been flattered to know so many had ventured north to watch her casket lower into the earth. Maybe one of them could tell the rest of us how she ended up dead in a St. Paul cave.

  Jameson White stepped into the lobby and glared at me. I nodded, held up the universal “one minute” finger, then walked over to Ellegaard and Ben Haas.

  “Welcome to Warroad.” Ben Haas looked at me with red, puffy eyes that begged for sleep or sunglasses. Ellegaard offered a subdued smile of familiarity or perhaps fatigue. I said, “Did you drive up alone, Ben?”

  “My dad rode up with me. Didn’t want me to be by myself, plus he’s meeting with Marvin about some window thing.”

  “Anyone had breakfast?” They shook their heads. “Ellie, come with me for a minute, then we’ll grab some grub.”

  “Cool,” said Ben.

  Jameson White cleaned and redressed my shoulder in his room under white fluorescent light. Ellegaard gazed out the window at the low heavy clouds while I told him what had happened since leaving Minneapolis.

  “Man oh man,” said Jameson. “Getting kidnapped by a hockey coach. A teenage prostitute. Drug running. People getting shot by arrows. I am not cut out for this private eye stuff.”

  Ellegaard ignored him and said, “Annika’s doing a hell of a job at BrainiAcme.”

  “You don’t want me on that case anymore?”

  “I do, but there’s no rush. Sounds like finding Linnea might clear up a lot of questions for a lot of people, especially the ones who work in the police departments of St. Paul, Woodbury, and Warroad. You know, Shap—”

  I cut him off. “You think we should tell them where Kozy is.”

  “If a private withheld information like that when I wore the badge, I would have arrested him.”

  “It’s my information to withhold. To my best recollection, I haven’t told a soul about Kozy’s cabin in the woods. Not you. Not Jameson. Not Mel Rosenthal.”

  A train pounded the tracks then blew its long, low whistle. Jameson’s scissors snipped a piece of tape. Then the big nurse said, “Oh, I see what you guys are doing. Nils told us something we shouldn’t know so now we gotta pretend he never said it. Am I involved in a cover-up or something?”

  I said, “Whether you like it or not.”

  “All right. Then all I remember is you saying you spent the night at your lady friend’s. And when you woke up, someone had busted your car window. How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Ha! Guess I am cut out for the private eye business!”

  Ellegaard said, “We either tell the police where Kozy is and watch them run off in his direction, or we head toward the rendezvous spot to see if we can intercept Linnea coming or going or waiting. It’s a long shot, but if we find her, maybe she can give us the information to clear Kozy. Or to nail him.”

  Jameson said, “You’re done, Nils. Put your shirt on. If your pasty white skin’s exposed to these harsh lightbulbs much longer, we’ll be looking at your skeleton.”

  “Thanks, Jameson. We’ll meet in the lobby in ten.”

  “All right.” He put the bandage scissors and tape in his bag. He gathered up the old dressing then said, “Oh. Did you want me to leave?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Mind leaving my own room? Why would I mind that?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, it’s official, then. You’re buying breakfast. As they say in the theater, I will see you in the lobby.” He bowed, turned, and walked out. When the door shut we heard a “Ba ha ha ha!” from the hall.

  Ellegaard took his face out of the window. It had a big smile on it courtesy of Jameson White. He walked toward me and sat on the other queen bed. “So what do you think? Send the cops after Kozy or we go after Linnea?”

  “We could do both, you know.”

  “I got no problem with that.”

  I said, “But let’s leave Kozy alone for now. He’s sitting in a cabin in the woods with no running water or heat. My guess is he’ll come in on his own sooner than later. And I’ll go after Linnea while most of the town is at Haley’s funeral.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Whatever was wrong between Ellegaard and me had just healed. I said, “It’s good to see you out from behind that desk.”

  “Yeah. It’s about time, huh?”

  I stood and walked to the window, expecting to feel cold near the glass but felt none. The locally made triple-pane windows kept it outside. An even layer of gray domed Warroad. Frost still clung to the brown grass courtesy of last night’s fog. March had bent but didn’t break. Spring would have to wait.

  I said, “Before we go, I want to talk to Ben Haas.”

  Ellegaard said, “What about?”

  “Ben said his relationship with Haley was just physical. But Ben’s dad, Kozjek, and Graham Peters think Ben was in love with Haley. Now, it’s possible, maybe more than possible, that Haley Housh spread that lie. Or, maybe Ben has been lying. Either way, I don’t think he’s telling us everything he knows about Linnea. Maybe he can help us understand what we’re walking into.”

  31

  Joe’s Place was crowded with the good citizens of Warroad, out of town funeral-goers, and the ever-present throng of builders and designers visiting Marvin Windows. The air smelled of bacon, sausage, maple syrup, and pancakes. The din of flatware on plates overpowered the taciturn Minnesotans’ conversation. I asked Jameson White and Char Northagen to sit on either side of five-foot-four Ben Haas while Ellegaard and I sat across from him. The seating chart was designed to intimidate.

  We all commented on the clientele and menu, then Ben said, “I wasn’t going to come up here for Haley’s funeral, but my mom didn’t want one. It was in her will. She wanted a memorial on a houseboat on the St. Croix in mid-October when the leaves are at peak color. We’re supposed to scatter her ashes in the water. But my dad pointed out that’s seven months away, and I need to mourn now.”

  Char said, “Your dad’s right.”

  I said, “Ben, Woodbury PD found a few strands of Linnea’s hair in the dryer’s lint trap in your house.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  It was possible, but not true as far as
I knew. “Sure it’s possible. Maybe Haley borrowed a sweater from Linnea and Haley wore that sweater to your place. Or maybe the hair just floated over to Haley on one of their drives down.”

  “I guess. Maybe.”

  “Or … maybe Linnea spent some time at your house.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Jameson said, “Please pass the syrup.” Ben passed him the syrup.

  Ellegaard said, “The thing is, Ben, it doesn’t seem likely that your mom hid all that money in the laundry chute. And you say you didn’t hide it in there.…”

  “I had no idea it was in there. I told you that.”

  “Okay, then. Who did hide it? Roger? Possibly. If he knew someone was coming and that person was after it. But we think the more likely scenario is Linnea hid it in there. She was in contact with your mom. When she stole the money from Roger, she visited your mom and hid it in the laundry chute.”

  “What are you talking about? Linnea didn’t know my mom,” said Ben. “Linnea never even met my mom. If she did, my mom would have told me. We talked about everything.”

  I said, “You don’t know that, Ben. You and Winnie talked about a lot of things. But you don’t know if it was everything. I’m pretty sure your mom and Linnea were friends.”

  Ben forked a piece of waffle and said, “No. They weren’t friends. She would have told me.”

  “Maybe Winnie was like a second mom to Linnea and felt guilty about that so she hid their relationship from you.”

  Ben put the forked waffle back on his plate. He looked sick. This is how Ellegaard and I had planned it. I’d beat Ben up until he rolled over and exposed his soft underbelly. Then Ellegaard would go for the kill. No one expects Ellegaard to go for the kill. That’s what makes him so good at it.

  I said, “Did your mom date?” Ben looked at me without moving his head, the way a dog does when chewing a bone. With just his eyes. Nothing but his eyes. He didn’t respond. “You don’t know, do you? She didn’t tell you she dated. But she didn’t tell you she didn’t, either. Right? So maybe she did date while you were with the band or at your dad’s or otherwise occupied. Or maybe she didn’t date and instead spent time with Linnea Engstrom.”

  In a flat, defeated tone, Ben said, “Are you saying—”

  “No. Not at all. Your mom’s relationship with Linnea was strictly mother/daughter like. I’m just saying you weren’t around all the time. Your mom had time to see Linnea.” Ben’s face had gone pale, not easy for a pasty white Minnesotan in March. He dropped his fork and it clanked off his plate.

  Ellegaard said, “Did you know Haley Housh was a prostitute?”

  Ben’s eyes closed. His chin trembled, then he grabbed his stomach. “I—I don’t … I feel sick.” He pushed his chair away from the table and ran toward the bathroom.

  Jameson sighed, put down his fork, and said, “You guys have a strange way of making a living.”

  Char said, “What in the hell was that about?”

  “We were trying to get an honest reaction out of our young friend.”

  “And did you?”

  Ellegaard said, “I think so. Ben’s been lying. He was in love with Haley.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I can tell you if he was in love with Haley,” said Char. “I’ll just ask him when he comes back. No matter how he answers, I’ll know.” Ellegaard and Jameson and I caught each other’s skeptical glances. “You guys wouldn’t understand. But trust me. I’ll know.”

  Jameson said, “Why does it matter anyway?”

  I said, “Because missing Linnea Engstrom and dead Haley Housh and the arrows at Crestmoor Bay and the arrow in my shoulder are tied together. We’re looking for the thread.”

  “I told you,” said Char, “when Ben comes back, I’ll just ask him if he was in love with Haley. You didn’t have to do that to the kid.”

  But Ben didn’t come back. Ten minutes later, I walked into the men’s room. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere in the restaurant. Ben Haas had run.

  * * *

  The Patch Motel was used to hockey teams and ice fishermen and contractors, all of whom stayed in clusters and knocked on each other’s doors for meetings and drinks and dinner. The Patch Motel was not used to thinking about security. So when Char Northagen asked the front desk clerk which room was the Hasses’, the front desk clerk told her.

  I knocked on the door. No one answered. Then Char found the housekeeper and asked for more towels in room 128. She waited at the vending machine. When the housekeeper delivered the towels, Char entered the room as if it was hers. The housekeeper left. I knocked on 128 while Ellegaard stood watch in case Ben or Raynard Haas returned.

  Housekeeping had cleaned the room. The queen beds were made. The trash was empty. Architectural drawings lay on the small table next to an architectural model of a flat-roofed house with clean lines. It looked like a rectangle, except for one side that curved from one corner to the other. A wall of windows looked out on something beautiful, I supposed. Maybe it would be built on the bluffs of the St. Croix River or in the hills above Duluth looking out on Lake Superior.

  Char said, “It must take them forever to build those models.”

  “Haas probably has a junior architect do it. Unless he likes the smell of glue.”

  A black suit, size thirty-six short, hung in the closet next to a starched white shirt and dry-cleaned tie still in its cardboard holder. Ben Haas’s funeral duds. A wool, charcoal herringbone topcoat and that damn Sgt. Pepper’s–looking thing hung next to it along with a few more shirts in dry cleaning bags. Raynard Haas’s runway model clothes.

  A mandolin with a small, wooden, peanut-shaped body rested on the credenza. It had no sound hole but did have an electronic pickup, a couple knobs, and a quarter-inch output. It looked good for travel and quiet practice in a motel room with thin walls.

  I checked the pad of paper on the nightstand between the beds. Nothing. Nor were there any indentations on the top sheet. If anyone wrote anything incriminating on a pad of paper and had seen a detective movie since 1930, they knew to remove the indented sheets below.

  Char said, “So what exactly are we looking for?”

  “No idea. A bow and quiver of arrows would be a good clue.”

  “I don’t see anything unusual.”

  We checked the dresser and nightstand drawers. They were empty. Neither Ben nor his father had unpacked for the short stay. We checked their bags, but found nothing of interest. I returned to the closet. A few dirty clothes sat in a pile on the floor near Ben’s blue Jack Purcell sneakers. I picked up an oxford button-down shirt and checked the breast pocket. Nothing. I picked up socks and underwear one by one. Nothing there, either. I picked up a well-worn pair of Levi’s with a twenty-eight-inch inseam. I checked the pockets and removed a folded lavender Post-it note, stuck to itself with its own adhesive.

  On it, two long numbers were written in red ink.

  Char looked over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

  I put the Post-it note in my pocket. “The GPS coordinates of Linnea and Miguel’s rendezvous point.”

  32

  We drove north on Highway 313 for six miles, turned right on Warroad’s 410th Street, which wasn’t much of a street, then stopped cold when we saw Ben Haas’s Toyota Highlander parked on the shoulder of frozen mud and sand. It was 10:30 A.M., half an hour before Haley Housh’s funeral, and the outside temperature on the Volvo’s dash read sixteen degrees. I looked at my phone—it still had a signal. It was a mile and a quarter on foot to the rendezvous point through fields and woods. He had half an hour on us and was probably there already.

  Char and Jameson stayed back at the hotel. Jameson said the mile plus on frozen, uneven ground might wreck his knees forever. Char said she knew how to perform an autopsy and save the life of someone shot by an arrow, but she didn’t know how to hunt someone when they might be hunting her back.

  “If Ben returns to his car before we do,” said Ellegaard, “he’ll
see the Volvo and know we’re onto him.”

  “Yeah. Shit.” We drove back a quarter mile then took a left on 580th Avenue. Warroad had a couple dozen streets. I don’t know how the hell it numbered them up to 410th Street and 580th Avenue.

  We got out of the car and stood at the Volvo’s open hatch. Minnesotans who embark on a road trip between November and April do so with winter gear in the car. Natural selection has taken care of those who don’t.

  We geared up with a base layer of Kevlar. It would do little to stop a broad-head arrow, but you never knew what projectile might be flying your way. Ellegaard body-holstered his Glock 22. I shoved my Ruger LC9 in my pocket. The Ruger is small and light. A lot of cops carry it when off duty. I’d been off duty seventeen years. We threw on parkas and hiking boots and each slung a pair of binoculars around our neck. Mine were normal. Ellegaard’s were thermals. I shut the Volvo and locked it, despite its missing rear passenger window.

  We walked back on the gravel road and Ellegaard said, “Lay it out.” It was a game we played studying for exams when we were Minneapolis police cadets. We kept to the facts or at least what we thought were facts.

  I said, “Haley Housh and Linnea Engstrom disappeared from outside the Xcel Center Tuesday night after a Warroad hockey game.”

  Ellegaard said, “Haley Housh was found dead in a downtown St. Paul cave the next morning.”

  “Roger and Anne Engstrom hired us to find Linnea.”

  “You were shot with an arrow outside the cave where Haley Housh was found dead.”

  “Linnea was dating Luca Lüdorf.”

  “Haley was sleeping with Graham Peters and dating Ben Haas and sleeping with men for money.”

  “Roger Engstrom and Winnie Haas were killed with arrows in Winnie’s home on Crestmoor Bay.”

  Ellegaard said, “We found about a hundred thousand dollars in cash in Winnie Haas’s laundry chute.”

  I said, “Linnea Engstrom disappeared during the hockey tournament and upset Luca Lüdorf. Guy Storstrand was cut from the Warroad team by Gary Kozjek. Linnea and Guy are close friends.”

  “Joaquin Maeda hosted Call of Duty private lobbies so he, his cousin Miguel in Mexico, and Linnea could chat online.”