Read Page 65

G. K. smiled triumphantly.

I said, “In Merodie’s original statement to the deputies, she said a man with blond hair had broken into her home and fought with Jefferson. She said it could have been a former boyfriend.”Advertisement

“Now, was that so hard?” G. K. asked.

“But in her second statement Merodie said she couldn’t identify the man. She said she wasn’t even sure that he had blond hair.”

“I don’t care. We’re looking for information that can be used to create reasonable doubt as to the guilt or innocence of our client. In this case, confusion is our friend.”

“So now we can place two people at the scene of the crime,” I said. “Nye and St. Ana.”

“Forget St. Ana. Nye is more than enough.”

That doesn’t make sense, my inner voice said, but I didn’t press the matter.

“I want you to meet me at the jail,” G. K. said. “Make it about five. We’ll hear what Merodie has to say. In the meantime, do you think you can find Nye? He was released to the Anoka County Department of Corrections a couple of months ago, but when I called, the flunkies refused to reveal his address to me. I think Tuseman is trying to keep him under wraps.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

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“I’ll find him,” I said, and headed for the door. “Oh. You got my message earlier, right? You know that Merodie is in isolation?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

“It seems that our girl has a bad temper.”

While waiting for the elevator, I punched Bobby Dunston’s code onto the keypad and my cell phone automatically dialed his office number. As usual, he was happy to hear from me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Geez, Bobby. Can’t a guy just call up to chat? You know, find out how you are, how the family is?”

“Yes, a guy can do that.”

“Well, then.”

“I’m fine, the family is fine.”

“Good.”

“Now, what do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

“I knew it.”

I told him about Nye.

“You don’t want to go through Corrections, you could probably find him through DMV,” he said.

“I don’t have the time.”

“More likely you don’t want to pay the nine fifty it would cost to do a search.”

“There’s that, too.”

“A guy with your money—you are so cheap.”

“A penny saved is a penny earned.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

I stepped aboard the elevator car and, as convention demanded, turned to face the doors. They were polished to a high gloss, and I was able to study the female rent-a-cop as well as the other passengers in the reflection. The rent-a-cop wore a regulation blue uniform shirt. It was a man’s shirt, and I remembered that when I was with the St. Paul Police Department some of the female officers would complain that they didn’t make a woman’s shirt in the same material and in a sleeve length that fit them comfortably. They also complained about the regulation men’s pants that had to be tailored because the manufacturer didn’t make them to fit the female body. Suddenly I could see his reflection in the elevator doors—Benjamin Simbi—and he was slowly raising his hands . . .

I wasn’t aware that the elevator car had reached the ground floor and that my fellow passengers had departed until the doors closed again and I was heading up. I quickly punched the button that stopped the elevator on the skyway level. I stepped out of the car so quickly that you might have guessed there was a bomb on board. Sweat streaked my forehead and puddled under my arms, and my breath was coming much too fast.

“I can’t go on like this,” I said aloud. “This is nuts.”

People moving past me on the skyway must have heard what I said but pretended not to. Which didn’t surprise me. I tend to ignore crazy people as well.

You need help, my inner voice told me. pqdm.com