Dead Boyfriends (27 page)

I turned in the chair so I could look the woman directly in the eyes. “Debbie,” I said. “There is no Leeann Chin at Northtown.”

Debbie's mouth fell open for a brief moment, and I half expected her to call me a liar. Truth was, I didn't know if the popular chain of Chinese restaurants had a store in the mall or not. Then, instead of calling my bluff, Debbie closed her mouth and shook her head.

“Tell me the truth,” I told her.

Debbie shook her head again; with her lips pressed tightly together, she looked like like an errant child afraid to speak.

“Are you lying because you love Nye or because you're afraid of him? Because if you're afraid of him—” I rested my hand on top of hers. She tried to pull it away, but I held on tight. “If you're afraid of him, well, that's something I can take care of.”

“You?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Debbie shook her head.

“You don't know him. He's . . . He doesn't feel.”

He'd feel it if I put my hands around his throat and squeezed like he obviously did to you,
my inner voice said, but I kept it to myself.

“I can protect you,” I said. “You have my word.” I removed a business card from my pocket and thrust it into Debbie's hand. “That has my home and cell number.”

Debbie took the card but refused to look at me.

“Listen,” I said. “Listen to me, please. Will you listen?”

Debbie didn't respond.

“You're making a big mistake helping Richard Nye. He's no good, and he's going to hurt you. Hurt you worse than he already has. It's just
a matter of time. I think you know that. Here's the thing—you can get away from him. Free yourself. I can help. The lawyer I work for can help, too.”

“It's not that easy.”

“It would be a lot easier now with us than if you tried to do it alone later.”

I thought I saw Debbie's head nod.

“Think about what I said,” I told her. “Keep the card. If you need help or if you just need somebody to talk to, you can call me. You can call me anytime you want. Anytime. Okay? Will you do that? I want to help you.”

Again, I thought I saw Debbie nod her head.

“Please, please, don't lie for him anymore,” I said. “It's okay if you lie to me. It's okay if you lie to yourself. No one is going to do anything about it. But if you tell the same lie to the police or the county attorney, you're going to be in serious trouble. Do you understand?”

For the first time, Debbie looked me directly in the eye.

“Yes,” she said.

 

Richard Scott Nye was leaning against my Jeep Cherokee, his arms folded across his chest, when I left the bank. He was smirking.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

“Get your ass off my ride.”

I was angry and looking for any excuse at all to pop him one. Or two.

“Isn't this one of those soccer-mom cars?” Nye asked.

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into the neutral zone between my vehicle and a Ford Taurus. The smile stayed on his face.

“Touchy,” he said.

I unlocked the door.

“Wait, don't go,” Nye said. “I want to ask you something.”

I turned toward him.

“What did Debbie say?” he asked.

“She said exactly what you told her to say.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You should know that when you make up an alibi, people automatically figure you have something to hide. It's better to have no alibi at all.”

“I didn't do nothing. I ain't got nothing to hide.”

I moved to the open door of the Cherokee. Nye stopped me. He spun me around and gave me the look—unblinking eyes burning with their coldness, a run-or-die expression on his face.

“Listen, bitch,” he hissed.

I pushed him away and stretched my arms, giving myself room to maneuver.

Nye kept smiling while he took a few steps backward. His eyes found something behind my left shoulder. I knew what it was before I turned to face it: the gentleman from the Regis Center for Art.

“Meet my little friend,” Nye said, trying hard to sound like Al Pacino in
Scarface.

“What did I tell you, shithead?” the big Hispanic said. I could see it in his expression—he kicked my ass before and he was going to do it again. “Didn't I tell you?”

I remained still and waited. He approached rapidly, without caution, without fear, his head and shoulders leading the way, his fists clenched but hanging loosely at his hips. I tried to look scared. I didn't speak. I didn't move. I didn't so much as take a deep breath for fear that he might see it coming. As soon as he was in range, I raised my right leg and snapped a front kick to his groin, putting my heel where it would do the most damage. I kicked him as hard as I could. The force of the blow caused me to lose my balance and I had to reach for the Cherokee to keep from falling.

A lightning bolt of pain caused the bad guy to halt in his tracks. His legs locked. His hands moved to cover his groin. His mouth fell open,
but instead of screaming he gargled like a seal. While he was immobilized, I stepped forward and raised my leg again. This time I brought my foot down hard against his kneecap. It snapped like dry kindling, and he collapsed against the dirty asphalt.

I glanced behind me. Nye hadn't moved an inch. He stood there with his mouth open, watching as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

I grabbed a handful of my attacker's dirty hair and pulled up. His eyes turned toward me and I hit him with a closed fist. I hit him in the face again and again, remembering with each punch how he had pummeled me. I hit him until my knuckles were rubbed raw and began to swell. His blood dripped from my hand.

“Look at me.” I didn't mean to shout. I just couldn't help it. “Look at me.”

His eyes turned toward my face.

“If I ever see you again, I'll kill you.” I hit him again just to make sure he was paying attention. “If you ever go near the lawyer again, I'll kill you. Do you understand? Nod your head if you understand.”

He nodded.

“Don't make me tell you again.”

I released him and stepped toward Nye. Despite his prison muscles, he wanted nothing to do with me. He brought his hands up to fend off my blows and lowered his head. I hit him anyway, the heel of my fist catching him under the nose.

Blood spurted. Nye's hands wiped frantically at it. Like the Hispanic he refused to whimper or cry out.
Probably something you learn in stir,
I decided. I pushed him hard and he splashed against the asphalt.

“Yeah, you're tough,” I said. I slid behind the steering wheel of my vehicle and started it up. I backed out of the stall. Nye saw it coming just in time to roll out from under the rear wheels. When he looked up, I gave him a wink.

“Bitch,” he said, but not too loudly.

 

 

As it turned out, Leeann Chin really didn't have a restaurant in the Northtown Mall or anywhere close to it. Which was good news because it blew Richard Nye's alibi all to hell and bad news because it was already late afternoon and I hadn't eaten lunch. I had my stomach set on Peking chicken with fried rice and had to settle for a chili dog with fries on the side at the Hot Dogs ‘R Us stand.

Afterward I did a tour of the local video stores. There were six within two miles of the mall. None of the clerks who worked at the stores were willing to reveal whether or not Richard Nye or Debbie Miller had an account with them until I claimed that Richard and Debbie were suspected of renting films, dubbing them, and selling the copies to other video stores. Suddenly each store was happy—and relieved—to report that neither of them was a member.

It pleased me to gain information that way.
Just like a semiprofessional private investigator,
I told myself. I couldn't wait to tell G. K.

 

There were police cars with decals plastered on the doors parked all over the place: County of Anoka, City of Anoka, Coon Rapids, Blaine, Fridley, Columbia Heights, Spring Lake Park, Ramsey, the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Mixed among them were other vehicles, mostly vans, with decals that were even more garish: WCCO, KSTP, KMSP, FOX NEWS, KARE-11. Some of them were even parked legally.

It took me five minutes to find an empty meter along East Main Street and another five to walk back toward the courthouse complex. As I approached the impressive crowd gathered in front, I thought,
Either Tuseman is giving a press conference or the circus is early this year.

Turned out it was Tuseman. He was standing in front of the entrance, his jacket off, his tie loosely knotted, his sleeves rolled up, the
wind in his hair, and smiling like a man who just won the Powerball. Flanking him were uniformed representatives of the various law enforcement organizations, including Lieutenant John Weiner. They all seemed excessively pleased with themselves as well.

Arranged around them was a semicircle of TV cameras and klieg lights and the operators of both. Still photographers from the
Minneapolis Star Tribune, St. Paul Pioneer Press,
and Associated Press stood or knelt next to them. TV reporters and representatives from WCCOAM and Minnesota Public Radio, each of them armed with a microphone, were scattered between the cameras, all of them vying for attention while trying not to block the camera lenses. Print reporters, their notebooks opened and pens poised, stood in back. Common folk, like me, watched from a distance.

I saw Genevieve Bonalay. She waved me to her side.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Shhh,” she hissed.

We listened to Tuseman. He was just getting warmed up, talking about the scourge of the drug methamphetamine; talking about its devastating long-term effects on the individual and its tremendous damage to the community. He spoke about how methamphetamine was spreading across the country, fueled by small rural labs and super labs in the Southwest and Mexico. He spoke about how he, personally, was dedicating the resources of his office to finding and punishing those that would “bring this poison into Anoka County, who would use it to poison our children.” It took him a long time to get to the point, and the media people were becoming increasingly antsy—just think of all the editing they'd have to do.

Finally, he announced what the media had been enticed there to hear. All of the law enforcement organizations present, under his direction, of course, had just that day executed the largest, most sophisticated “sting” in the history of Anoka County—Tuseman seemed to like
that word, because he used it a lot. The sting resulted in the arrest of “eighty-seven individuals involved in the manufacture and distribution of methamphetamine, also known as crystal meth.” The individual city, county, and state police organizations combined their resources in a coordinated assault—gue^s who did the coordinating—on suspected meth labs and stash pads throughout the county. The arrests were made with “lightning speed and precision” starting early in the morning and ending about noon.

Tuseman said the sting was the result of an intensive fourteen-month-long investigation by his office and the Anoka County Sheriff's Department. He said that the arrests were carried out without incident. Not a single shot had been fired; not a single officer was injured. What's more, Tuseman believed that these arrests would most certainly lead to even more arrests as suspects gave up fellow dealers and addicts in an effort to gain lenient treatment.

He said it was a great day for Anoka County, and he issued a warning to anyone who would bring crystal meth into
his
jurisdiction: “There is nowhere you can hide.”

“Muehlenhaus isn't going to like this,” I said.

A TV reporter asked a question. “Is it true that you relied heavily on the services of an informant during your investigation and the subsequent arrests?”

Lieutenant Weiner leaned in and whispered in Tuseman's ear. Tuseman nodded and said, “I cannot comment on that at this time. The investigation is ongoing, and we expect to make more arrests during the coming days.”

It sounded like “Yes” to me.

 

I couldn't believe the change in Merodie. After just a few days of sobriety, a balanced diet, and plenty of sleep, Merodie Davies looked ten
years younger. ‘Course, that meant she still looked a decade older than her chronological age, but what would you expect? She had been in jail only a week.

She greeted us when we entered Interview Room 109. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bonalay, Mr. McKenzie.” Her smile was bright and warm.

“Good afternoon to you, Merodie,” G. K. replied. “How are you holding up?”

“Oh, I'm getting along just fine. People have been very nice to me.”

G. K. pulled a red plastic chair out from under the wooden table and sat across from Merodie. She set her briefcase in front of her. I found a spot on the wall and leaned against it.

“Don't get too comfortable,” G. K. warned. “I intend to get you out of here as soon as possible.”