The Cold Nowhere

38

Maggie parked her Avalanche in front of the Seaway Hotel.

She hopped down and spotted an old man who went by the nickname Tugtug in a lawn chair pushed against the building wall. He had a coffee can between his legs and a sheepskin throw wrapped around his shoulders. Tugtug, who was blind, wore wraparound sunglasses and a camouflage bandana, and his scraggly hair and beard were snow white. He spent half his life at the Seaway and the other half outside City Hall, begging for handouts in both places.

‘Afternoon, Sergeant,’ Tugtug greeted her cheerfully. ‘How’s The World’s Smallest Policewoman this afternoon?’

‘You know, Tugtug, you say you’re blind, so how come you always know it’s me?’

Tugtug pointed at her truck by the curb. ‘I know that engine. You’re like some kind of crazy-ass NASCAR driver. One of these days, you might think about braking before you actually get where you’re going. I hear other drivers appreciate it.’

‘Uh huh. So how are you? Been a while since I’ve seen you.’

‘Been even longer since I seen you,’ Tugtug replied.

‘Well, I walked into that one. You warm enough? It’s almost dark.’

‘Yeah, manager says I can slip into one of the empty rooms tonight.’

‘How’s the coffee can business?’

‘A little slow, since you asked.’

‘How about one of my coupons?’

‘That would be much appreciated.’

Maggie reached into her jacket pocket. She didn’t give cash to beggars, because she knew it went straight into drugs and liquor bottles. Instead, she’d set up an account with a local diner, and she printed up special coupons for free meals that she passed out to the homeless around the city. Each month, the restaurant billed her. It was a private thing; she hadn’t even told Stride about it. She dropped a coupon in his coffee can, and Tugtug gave her a brown-toothed smile.

Nobody knew where he got the nickname. He claimed not to remember himself.

‘What brings you to our little Showplace by the Shore, Sergeant? I haven’t smelled any dead bodies lately. Nothing but the usual puke, weed, piss, and BO.’

‘Actually, I’m looking for Dory Mateo,’ Maggie said. ‘You know her?’

‘I do, but you won’t find her here.’

Maggie looked at him in surprise, but Tugtug was more reliable than a Garmin. ‘No?’

‘No, I heard her whiz by me this morning. Breathing hard. She ran toward the bank and kept running. She ain’t been back.’

‘You’re sure it was Dory?’

Tugtug cocked his head, as if the question were an insult.

‘She say anything to you?’ Maggie asked.

‘Not a word, and Dory usually has a couple coins for the coffee can, too. Not today.’

‘Was anyone asking about her?’

‘Just you.’

‘How about strangers coming or going?’

‘Well, it’s not like visitors generally introduce themselves. One gentleman left in a hurry. Couldn’t have been more than five minutes after Dory hightailed it. I said hello, but he didn’t say anything back.’

‘Do you remember anything about him?’

‘He smell a bit like de islands.’

‘What?’

Tugtug put a finger on the side of his nose. ‘I caught a whiff of coconut.’

Maggie laughed. ‘Well, you’ll catch a whiff from me, too, but that’s Hawaiian Tropic shampoo, not Jamaica, mon. Anything more specific?’

‘Sorry. I pay more attention to the ones that fill my coffee can.’

‘Okay, thanks, Tugtug. See you around.’

‘Wish I could say the same, Sergeant,’ he replied.

‘Damn, I walked into it again.’

Maggie headed into the Seaway lobby and jogged up the stairs to the second floor. If Tugtug said Dory wasn’t there, then Dory wasn’t there, but she wanted to check anyway. The hallway was empty, but she heard noises behind the doors. Loud television. Shouting matches. Sex. She’d always thought of this place as a crossroads for desperate lives, and it didn’t surprise her at all that Dory had wound up here.

She remembered seeing Dory shortly before Michaela was killed. Dory was still no more than twenty years old then, living in a garage apartment in a house owned by friends of Brooke’s parents. Somewhere, Dory had gotten money for a new stash of drugs, and she’d snorted until she was nearly catatonic, with blood running from both nostrils.

Even in her drugged state, Dory knew that something bad was coming. I told Marty to stay away from her. I said she was sleeping with Stride, but he said he’d kill them both. One day later, Michaela and Marty were dead. Like an awful premonition come true.

Maggie approached Dory’s door. When she saw that it was half-open, she stopped and listened. The room was quiet, but she was cautious. Every Duluth cop was cautious about Seaway doors. More than twenty years earlier, a team of officers had tracked a suspect to a second-floor room at the hotel and faced a hail of gunfire as they tried to arrest him. One cop was wounded by a shot to the chest. Another died of a bullet to the head.

She nudged the door open with the heel of her boot. It was a tiny room, and it was empty; there was nowhere to hide. Dory hadn’t taken anything with her when she left. Her clothes were strewn across the bed. The bottom drawer in the rickety dresser against the wall was open. The window to the street was closed, and the room smelled of stale smoke.

Maggie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. She had a bad feeling. Why did Dory run?

She went to the window and saw a dusting of cigarette ash on the ledge. Her eyes flicked to the open drawer of the dresser near the floor. It was only open six inches, enough to see a messy stash of cheap lingerie. Underneath a pair of white panties, a glint of rosewood jutted over the laminate surface of the drawer. Her breath caught in her chest. She squatted and pushed the underwear aside with her finger, and what she saw was the slight hook on the rosewood handle of a knife.

The handle was dark with stains, and beyond it, the steel blade was crimson with dried blood. She recognized the knife. It was a Victorinox chef’s knife, part of an expensive set.

It was the knife that killed Kim Dehne.