Broken Ice--A Novel Read online

  “Your call,” said Ellegaard.

  Patty the Manager looked to her guest relations specialist, Jill. The latter shrugged. Life sure is complicated outside the tanning booth.

  Then Patty said, “Nice try, guys. I’m not disturbing Coach Kozjek.”

  I looked at the ceiling and saw a shiny black half dome and hoped the camera inside wasn’t high resolution. I said to Ellegaard, “Give them our business card.”

  Ellegaard held out business cards in each hand. A folded hundred dollar bill was on the face of each card. The manager and Jill looked at each other, then the manager said, “I’d hate for Coach Kozjek’s privacy to be violated.” Jill nodded in agreement then led us up to the fifteenth floor in a service elevator lined with padded blankets.

  Ellegaard and I stepped out of the elevator and rounded the corner toward Gary Kozjek’s room. He stood waiting in the open doorway with arms crossed, his back pressed against the doorjamb, a plastic toothpick in his mouth. He wore a Warroad Warriors black turtleneck, blue jeans, and flip-flops. He had close-cropped gray hair and an assortment of facial scars that shined in the corridor’s fluorescent light. The most prominent scar was over his right eye, plastic-looking under the eyebrow. A close second traversed his chin. Both were courtesy of Kozjek playing nineteen years in the National Hockey League.

  I had never met the man, though I knew him intimately as Kozy, the former Minnesota North Stars defenseman whose poster covered my childhood bedroom door, whose hockey card lived in the ID window of my cowboy wallet, and whose name echoed in my head when I skated in pickup games on the rink in Lions Park. I idolized the man, mostly, because he was small like me. A five-foot-eight player is an anomaly in the NHL but practically unheard of for a defenseman, who are normally the largest and most brutish players in an often brutish sport.

  Kozy grew up in Warroad, and its favorite son had returned to coach high school kids to greatness. He was not a god but the god in Warroad, and had achieved all his dreams except two. He went pro in 1979, disqualifying himself from playing on the 1980 Olympic team that stunned the Soviet Union and went on to win the gold medal. And he had yet to coach Warroad to a Minnesota State High School Hockey Championship.

  Gary “Kozy” Kozjek looked up at Ellegaard then straight ahead at me, moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, then exhaled contempt. He saw how old we were, a couple of Minnesota boys who no doubt idolized him. Yet we’d interrupted him from his game-planning. Or rest. Or something else he didn’t want interrupted. Without saying a word, he lifted his back off the doorjamb and turned into his room. Ellegaard and I followed.

  Kozy’s suite had been retrofitted into a war room. Eight chairs surrounded a conference table. Forty-two-inch video monitors were mounted onto three rolling stands. Whiteboards lined the walls. At least I assumed they were whiteboards—sheets covered them—you never know if a maid or bellhop or private investigator is working for the other team.

  Kozy sat at the head of the table and spoke without looking at either of us. “What do you guys want?”

  Ellegaard slid him our card. Kozy pushed it back without looking at it. I said, “We’d like to talk to Luca Lüdorf and Graham Peters.”

  “Can’t help you. Lights-out was twenty minutes ago. And both boys have talked plenty to St. Paul PD. Why don’t you just ask the cops what they said?”

  “We will,” said Ellegaard. “But we’re working for Roger and Anne Engstrom. It’s in Linnea’s best interest if we question the boys directly.”

  “Well,” said Kozy, running his fingers over his scarred eyebrow, “we all hope Linnea turns up soon. But the Engstroms are not Warroad blood. And distracting Luca and Graham, after they’ve already talked long and hard to the police, that’s not in the best interest of Warroad.”

  My first encounter with my childhood hero wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. “So what you’re saying, Coach, is that winning tomorrow’s game is more important to Warroad than finding Linnea Engstrom.”

  Kozjek removed the toothpick from his mouth. It was the expensive kind tipped with what looked like a tiny pipe cleaner. I don’t know how many teeth in Gary Kozjek’s mouth were real after his five-plus decades of hockey, but he seemed intent on keeping whatever was in there clean. “The people of Warroad make windows. That’s what keeps the town alive. But when the economy dips, Americans quit building houses. That’s not good for the window business. Things are getting better, but the great recessions hit Warroad hard. People lost their livelihoods. And some people lost a lot more than that. But if Warroad wins the state championship for the first time in over a decade, that’ll help rebuild hometown pride. I don’t expect you boys to understand that, you not being from small towns. No offense. You just don’t look the type. Trust me, a new state championship banner will help us more than finding the Engstrom girl. Nothing against Linnea, but her parents are not a good addition to the town.”

  There it was again. First Mike and Connie Housh with “Warroad’s been shit since the Engstroms moved to town,” and now Gary Kozjek saying the Engstroms weren’t a good addition to Warroad. I wondered how many more people from Warroad felt that way. I wondered if Anne Engstrom agreed. Maybe Linnea Engstrom did, too.

  Ellegaard said, “Do you hunt, Gary?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one. Do you hunt?”

  “Of course I do. Why?”

  “Deer? Pheasant? Waterfowl?”

  “All of them.”

  “What’s your deer gun?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You hunt bow season?”

  “Yeah. So what? Rifle season conflicts with hockey season.”

  “Did you bring your bow down to the cities?”

  “What the fuck is this? I didn’t do anything. You fuckers got a lot of nerve. You’re not even cops.”

  Something about Gary Kozjek rubbed Ellegaard the wrong way. Maybe it was Kozy’s cavalier attitude about a missing teenage girl. Maybe it was something more than that. “Put us in a room with Luca and Graham right now, or I’m going to the St. Paul police and tell them we suspect you of shooting Nils Shapiro with an arrow.”

  “What?!” said Kozy. “Who the fuck is Nils Shapiro?”

  “I am,” I said and glanced at my sling.

  Kozy looked at Ellegaard. “And you suspect me of shooting him with an arrow? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  I looked at Ellegaard. He wasn’t out of his fucking mind. He had simply found a substitute for his badge. “We’ll have your boys back in bed by 10:00,” he said. “It’s either that, or their coach spends the night being questioned at police headquarters. I don’t imagine that’ll help the Warroad Warriors hang another banner above the red line.”

  Kozjek rubbed his forehead. Then, for the first time since I entered his suite, he looked at me. “Someone shot you with an arrow, huh? Can’t imagine why.”

  That hurt my feelings.

  6

  Luca Lüdorf and Graham Peters traipsed into Kozy’s suite wearing black Warroad hoodies and gold sweatpants. Both boys grew up in Warroad. Both played hockey. Graham stood six foot four, Luca six foot two. Both were eighteen, so no need for parents to be present. That’s where the similarities between Luca and Graham ended. We shook hands and lied about how nice it was to meet one another, then Graham, Luca, Kozjek, Ellegaard, and I sat at the table.

  “You got ten minutes,” said Kozy.

  I said “Thanks, Coach,” then turned to the boys. “Hope we didn’t wake you guys up.”

  “Seriously?” said Graham. He smiled, exhaled a “puh” and leaned back in his chair, his long black hair falling past his shoulders. Graham had hockey hair. Hockey hair varies in style from year to year, but its defining characteristic is it’s too long in the back or too short in the front, depending on how you look at it. Some years hockey hair means a full-blown mullet, other years the front/back disharmony is less pronounced. But less pronoun
ced doesn’t mean subtle. Hockey hair is hockey hair—it doesn’t take an expert to know it when you see it.

  “So lights-out doesn’t mean lights-out?” said Ellegaard.

  “Nah,” said Graham. “Most guys listen to music or screw around on their iPad.” He scratched his beard—it was full and teased out Appalachian style. Graham added something about them not being babies and they couldn’t be put to bed, but I kept my eyes on Luca.

  Luca Lüdorf had blond hair, straight but coarse and a clean-shaven face. His hockey hair was less severe than Graham’s. Its most hockeyish feature was it spread out like a dove’s tail in back. Graham could pass for twenty-five, but Luca looked like an overgrown twelve-year-old, his lithe body just a stick to hold up his round, soft face. Luca looked down at the table and squirmed in his seat. I thought he might throw up.

  I turned my body toward Luca. A wave of pain pierced my shoulder. I gasped, and my eyes teared over.

  Kozjek said, “Play with pain, pal. Or go home.”

  I winced a smile at him, then said, “So guys, I know you’ve been over this with the police, but where were you after the game last night?”

  “Team came back to the hotel for dinner,” said Graham. “Wanted to go out, but Coach has a super strict tournament policy, right, Coach?” Kozy nodded. “Here we are in the big city, but gotta keep it tight ’til we win the championship.”

  Ellegaard said, “You were at the dinner, too, Luca?”

  Luca nodded. And what I initially assumed was nausea now appeared to be sorrow.

  “Talk to the gentlemen, Luca,” said Kozy.

  “Yeah,” said Luca. His voice shook. “I was at the dinner.”

  “And what about after dinner?” I said. “Do both of you have alibis through the night?”

  “Whole team watched film on Wayzata,” said Kozy. “We play them tomorrow. The boys got a bunch of alibis for that. Then everyone retired to their rooms. Graham and Luca room together. They’re each other’s alibis. At least from about 11:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M.”

  “Really,” I said. “Either of you two wake up during the night?”

  “I didn’t,” said Graham. “And, dude, the police asked us all this. They swabbed our cheeks and kicked us out of our room and took our sheets and towels and a bar of soap from the bathroom. They even took the fucking garbage from the garbage can.” He turned to Kozy. “Sorry for swearing, Coach.”

  Kozy nodded, accepting Graham’s apology.

  “What about you, Luca?” said Ellegaard. “Did you sleep through the night?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Really?” I said. “No one got up to pee? Check their email? Texts? Facebook? Snapchat? Jerk off? Hey, I remember eighteen. Volume management is a constant job.”

  “Keep it clean, Shap,” said Kozy.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Keep it clean.”

  I looked at Ellegaard, but his eyes were on Luca. “Sorry, Coach.” I waited for Kozy to accept my apology just like he had Graham’s. But the acceptance didn’t come. Some hero. I’d have to find a new one. “So, Graham, why was Haley Housh wearing your letter jacket?”

  “Oh, man,” said Graham, as if I’d just asked him to mow the lawn, “because she asked if she could wear it.”

  “When?”

  “Last week before we came down here. It’s a thing, okay? Girls ask to wear guys’ letter jackets.”

  “Who’s wearing your letter jacket, Luca?”

  “Linnea,” he said into the table.

  “Graham, what was the nature of your relationship with Haley?”

  “Oh, dude. Why you gotta ask me this? Ask the police. I told them. I don’t want to repeat it.” Graham looked to his coach. Kozy gave him a nod to continue. “All right. We had sex, okay? Since we were fifteen.”

  Ellegaard said, “I thought Haley was dating a kid named Ben Haas from Woodbury.”

  “She was. Relationships didn’t get in the way of our thing. We had an FDR.”

  “What’s an FDR?” said Ellegaard.

  “Full disclosure relationship. We can, you know, have sex with each other, but also see other people and talk about those relationships. Everything’s out in the open. Full disclosure.”

  “Does it work both ways?” I said. “Did Haley fully disclose her relationship with you to Ben Haas?”

  “I doubt it, because Haley didn’t have an FDR with Ben. She had one with me.”

  “Why can’t someone have more than one FDR?”

  Luca pounded his fist on the table. His voice shook. “Can we stop talking about Haley?! Nothing we can do will help Haley! You need to find Linnea! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Graham got small, or at least feigned it, as if the coach had just yelled at the team after skating a terrible period.

  “Luca,” I said. He stared at the table. “Luca,” I said louder. He looked at me. His eyes were wet. “I know this isn’t a new question, but do you have any idea where Linnea could be?” He shook his head. “Just take a second and think about it. No pressure. We’re not the police.” The boy with straight blond hair seemed to relax. “Did she ever mention friends in the Cities, people she knew before she moved up to Warroad and maybe kept in touch with?” Luca shook his head again. “Did she ever mention doing anything that wasn’t hockey tournament related? Going to a favorite restaurant or mall or park? Anything?” Again Luca shook his head.

  Then the tears came hard. Luca tried to hold them in. His failure angered him. “Why can’t anyone find her?! What’s wrong with the police? Don’t they have cameras everywhere? Doesn’t her cell phone leave a trail? Or credit cards? What the hell is wrong with everyone?!” Luca cried like the boy he appeared to be. He put his forearm on the table and rested his head on it. Kozy glanced at me. His face said, are you proud of yourself? Graham looked at the crap painting over the in-room refrigerator.

  We listened to Luca sob, then Kozy said, “Two more minutes.”

  Ellegaard said, “When did you all first hear Haley and Linnea were missing?”

  “I heard this morning,” said Kozy. “A little after 7:00 A.M. I guess around 6:00, Roger woke up and noticed Linnea wasn’t in their suite. He started making calls.”

  “Yeah,” said Luca, wiping his eyes with the black sleeves of his hoodie. “Mr. Engstrom called me at 6:30. He thought Linnea might be with me.”

  “Mrs. Housh texted me about Haley last night,” said Graham. “I told her I hadn’t seen her and said she was probably with Ben Haas, but I didn’t have his number. She didn’t either and was pretty mad ’cause Haley wasn’t answering her phone or responding to texts. Said something about Haley being in big trouble and sending her back to Warroad.” Graham half smirked. “Guess, in a weird way, that’s what she’s going to do.” Graham combed his beard with his fingers without a hint of sorrow in his eyes. It was all matter-of-fact to him. The only emotion he had shown was in reaction to Luca’s outburst. And that wasn’t exactly sadness. It was closer to embarrassment for his teammate and friend.

  “You heard Luca,” said Kozy. “Both boys were woken up early with this. It’s time for them to get to bed.”

  “Almost done, Coach,” I said. “Graham, I know you had an FDR with Haley, that you were seeing other people, but I got to tell you, you don’t seem too upset she’s dead.”

  Graham nodded. “Yeah,” he said and nodded some more. “I can’t fake it. Not in my DNA, you know? I’m not upset. I’ll be honest with you—I never liked Haley Housh. I liked her body and I liked that she was willing to share it. But the rest of her I could have done without.”

  “Why’s that?” said Ellegaard.

  “She was a climber. Nothing in Warroad was ever good enough for her. That’s why she slept with me—I’m a ticket out of there. Same reason she was sleeping with Ben Haas. His parents are rich. His mom’s some BFD at 3M. And his dad’s a bigwig architect. Dude’s going to Stanford. Haley had him wrapped. Dude would have married her if she wanted him to, and I’m not just
saying that. She told me they talked about it. Messed up, I know. But Haley knew the right time to ask for stuff, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you mean in bed?” I said.

  “Well, usually it’s in the backseat of a car, but yeah,” said Graham, like I was an idiot.

  “Did you tell the police about Haley being a climber?” said Ellegaard.

  “Nah. It never came up.”

  “What about you, Luca?” I said. “What is your relationship with Linnea like?”

  Luca took a breath to calm himself and said, “I love her.”

  The poor kid. When love has its grip on you, you shouldn’t make financial decisions, operate heavy machinery, or play contact sports. “Does she love you?”

  Luca nodded and sniffled. Kozy pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table and handed it to him.

  “Does she tell you that?” I said.

  “Every day.”

  “Is the relationship sexual?”

  Luca nodded.

  Ellegaard handed Luca and Graham business cards and told them to call or text if anything else came to mind. The boys left with the same loping gaits they walked in with, Graham’s big hockey hair just inches under the top of the doorframe. When they were gone, Kozy said, “That’s it. No more questions for these guys ’til after the tournament.”

  “Thanks for tonight,” I said. “One more thing: Did you or one of your assistant coaches check in on the boys last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does anyone check in to make sure the boys are in their rooms at midnight or whenever?”

  “No. Why would we do that?”

  “I remember going on class trips in junior high and high school. Sneaking out was always our main goal.”

  “This isn’t a fucking trip,” said Kozy. “It’s a hockey tournament. It’s the hockey tournament. These guys have been going to ’em since they were eight years old. Their goal isn’t to sneak out. It’s to skate their asses off and win. You know how many college and pro scouts are here? They’re not going to jeopardize this team or their town or their futures to sneak out and fuck around.”