Want To Play? (Monkeewrench)

14

Magozzi was sitting alone in Mitch Cross’s office, phone hooked in his shoulder, drumming his fingers on a desk that looked sterile enough for surgery.

While Muzak bastardized the Beatles in his ear, he examined the room for evidence that a human being actually worked here, and found none. Not a single scrap of paper littered either the desk or the credenza behind it, which held a computer that looked new and unused. He could see his reflection in the dark monitor screen, and not a speck of dust. He slid open the top desk drawer an inch, saw uniformly sharpened pencils nesting in a neat row, points aligned, and a flat box of wet wipes.

The walls were white and empty, except for a single abstract painting that did absolutely nothing for Magozzi. No color, no life, just a few black blobs on a lot of wasted canvas that filled him with the childish urge to find some colored markers and try his hand at graffiti.

A copy of the crime-scene photo of murder number three lay perfectly centered on the desk in front of him. It was only a serendipitous act of placement – he’d tossed it there when he sat down – but it bothered him that the thing had seemed to position itself in perfect harmony with the obsessive-compulsive surroundings. He moved the photo until it was slightly crooked, and immediately felt better.

Crime-scene number three was the kind of childishly naughty image a teenage kid would dream up: a pudgy, middle-aged man sitting on a toilet with his pants puddled around his ankles and a bullet hole in his head. Magozzi decided it was probably the brainchild of the big tattooed guy, a case of arrested development if ever he saw one.

According to the SKUD game, the third victim was found in the restroom of a paddleboat during an evening party cruise on a river. He supposed there were even better places to lay a trap for a killer, but this one suited Magozzi just fine.

He’d been on one of the paddle wheelers years ago, a dinner cruise down the St Croix River back in the days when he and Heather did such things together. It had been bigger than he’d expected – three decks and seating for five hundred – and a lot less romantic. The interior decks were single, vast rooms with no private spaces where romantic – or homicidal – fantasies could be indulged. The restrooms were right out in the open, with access in plain view. If he had to, he figured they could cover a boat with just twelve officers, four per deck, although he was hoping for an even better scenario. Cancel the charter, fill the boat with cops in their best civvies, and let the bastard come.

The Muzak switched from Beatles to Mancini and Magozzi glanced at his watch impatiently. It had taken five minutes to find out that only a few of the great paddle-boats were still on the river this late in the year, and that only one – the Nicollet – was chartered for a party cruise tonight. Getting the rest of the information he needed was taking a lot longer than it should have.

The music clicked off abruptly and Mr Tiersval, the president of the paddleboat company, came back on the line. ‘Detective Magozzi?’

‘Still here.’

‘I’m sorry for the delay. We have . . . a bit of a situation here.’ The man’s voice was strained to the breaking point. ‘Tonight’s charter is the Hammond wedding reception.’

It took Magozzi a beat. ‘As in Foster Hammond?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus.’

If there was royalty in Minneapolis, Foster and Char Hammond were it. A near monopoly on Great Lakes shipping had filled the family coffers back at the turn of the century. Now they owned half of downtown Minneapolis if the rumors were true, and had more political influence than all the voters in the state put together.

‘There’s no way the Hammonds would agree to cancel this event, Detective. They’ve been planning it for over a year, and the guest list reads like a Who’s Who of Minnesota. I checked with our lawyers to see if there was anything I could do, but apparently the legal ramifications of canceling the charter are considerably more severe than having a man killed on one of our boats, if you can believe that.’

Magozzi believed it.

‘If I were to refuse to honor the Hammonds’ contract, they can, and most certainly will, sue the line into bankruptcy. On the other hand’ – and now a bitter sarcasm crept into his voice – ‘if we forewarn the passengers about the potential for danger and they still choose to board, the law holds us blameless if one of them dies.’

Magozzi nodded to himself. Sometimes the law was a bitch.

‘Can’t the police order us to cancel the charter?’

Magozzi smiled a little. ‘Not in this country. Not without an Emergency Powers declaration from the governor, and all we’re working with here is a suspicion of something that might happen, not a clear and present danger.’

‘Maybe the mayor could help you with that. He’s on the guest list.’

Magozzi covered his eyes with his hand.

‘I want you to know that if it were up to me, Detective, I would haul that boat out of the water myself and the hell with lawsuits.’

‘I believe you, Mr Tiersval.’ It was always something of a surprise for Magozzi to find genuinely decent people at the top of any corporate ladder. He’d probably watched Erin Brockovich too many times.

‘I called the Hammonds and explained the situation briefly. They agreed to give you a hearing if you can get over there within the next thirty minutes. Do you need the address?’

Magozzi didn’t. Everyone in the city knew who lived in the big stone mansion on Lake of the Isles.

Gino walked in just as he was hanging up the phone. He looked exactly one donut fatter than when Magozzi had left him out in the loft ten minutes earlier.

‘You broke bread with them,’ he accused him, pointing to his chin.

Gino dragged his hand across crags and whiskers and white powder fell to Mitch Cross’s immaculate gray carpet. ‘I’d break bread with Satan if it was a sugar donut. They made us hard copies of the game and registration info for every player who signed onto the website. Didn’t even have to ask twice. General MacBride had the printers going before I could open my mouth, and now we got two boxes out there stuffed with paper. You have any luck nailing down a boat?’

‘Yeah, and it was all bad. I’ll tell you about it in the car.’

When the elevator door slid shut on the detectives, Grace looked away toward the windows and concentrated on the pale strips of light an anemic sun painted on the floor. She wasn’t quite ready to meet the eyes of her friends, not just yet.

People were dying because of her. Again.

Mitch collapsed into a chair next to her. Outwardly, he appeared calm, but hysteria emanated from him like a toxic aura. ‘We are screwed,’ he finally announced.

The comment barely registered in Grace’s mind, but Annie was quick to respond with a scowl. ‘That’s a nice attitude, Mitch.’

Mitch raised his eyes to look at her. ‘What do you think is going to happen to Monkeewrench when this thing blows wide open?’

That comment registered in Grace’s mind and she turned to look at him. ‘What are you saying, Mitch?’ she asked carefully, knowing full well she was opening Pandora’s box.

Mitch blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m saying that Greenberg was pissed off just because we were creating a game about serial killers. When he finds out we’re responsible for a rash of copycat murders, Schoolhouse, along with about fifty percent of Monkeewrench’s income, is going to be a happy memory.’

Grace recoiled and stared at her old friend as if he were an unpleasant stranger. ‘I can’t believe I just heard you say that.’

Mitch scrubbed his unshaven face with his hands. ‘What? I’m the only one who’s worried? I’m talking about the future of our company, Grace. This is not a minor setback, this is a disaster.’

‘For God’s sake, Mitch, people are dying out there because of this game!’

‘Which I didn’t want to do in the first place, remember?’ he almost shouted, and then he saw the look on her face and would have given his life to take the words back.

Your fault, Grace. Your fault then, and your fault now.