Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“You’ll have to stay in here for thirty days, but you’ll be safe.”

And sober, my inner voice said.

“Everything will work out,” G. K. said. “Only no more statements, okay, Merodie?”

Merodie nodded.

“I want you to promise not to talk to anyone except me and McKenzie here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

G. K. leaned back in the plastic chair and studied her client from across the small wooden table. Merodie refused to meet her gaze, looking at everything but G. K.’s face.

Merodie was hiding something, I decided. Something about Priscilla St. Ana. Maybe about everything. I wanted to learn what it was, but not now. Let her get straight first, I told myself. A few days of sobriety have been known to work miracles.

“What about Eli?” Merodie asked, breaking the silence.

“If the county had enough to charge you, they would have done so by now,” G. K. said. “Personally, I don’t think they have much of a case, at least not for murder. I know the county attorney, though, and he’s a sneaky little prick and he’s up for reelection, so . . .”

“No, I mean the funeral. Who’s going to take care of Eli?”

G. K. said she didn’t know but would check on it for her.

“Can I be there for the funeral? I have to be there.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you out.”

Merodie hung her head again, and for a moment I thought she would begin weeping. Instead, she said, “He was such a good-looking man.”

“I’m sure he was,” said G. K.

“We were going to be married. Did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Now he’s gone. Like everyone else I’ve ever loved. Gone, gone, gone.”

“Did you kill him?” G. K. was testing her one last time.

“I don’t think so,” Merodie replied.

G. K. slapped the table hard with the flat of her hand. The loud, unexpected noise not only startled the woman, it caused me to jump as well.

“Just say no,” G. K. shouted. The walls repeated her words.

Merodie rose slowly to her feet and looked straight at G. K. Her voice was firm. “No, I didn’t kill him.” In a smaller voice she asked, “Why do these things always happen to me?”

G. K. fluffed her hair off the back of her neck with both hands, cooling it. We were both perspiring freely in the heat as we moved around the corner from the front door of the Anoka County Correctional Facility and made our way to the parking ramp. The weathergeeks said we could expect lows in the eighties and highs approaching a hundred degrees for the rest of the week without even a hint of rain. During winter, we actually long for this.

“About Priscilla St. Ana,” G. K. said.

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll also talk to Merodie’s and Eli’s families, friends, neighbors, coworkers; examine their paper, you know, insurance, wills; try to get a handle on their relationship—everything a proper semiprofessional private investigator would do. Can you get me into her house?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll make some calls.”

We left the sidewalk and moved into the parking ramp. The shade didn’t provide any comfort at all. G. K. had parked nose forward on the second level. We had just reached the Cruiser when another vehicle pulled up, blocking our way. It was a civilian car, a ‘93 Chevy Impala that looked like it had been left out in a hailstorm. Twice. City of Anoka Police Officer Boyd Baumbach, dressed in full uniform, was at the wheel.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you on the sidewalk,” Baumbach said. “You filing a complaint or somethin’?”

“You’re blocking the way.”

He pointed his chin at G. K. “Who’s she?”

“Why? You looking for another woman to beat up?”

“Watch your mouth.”

G. K. stepped around me. “Are you the police officer who assaulted my client?” she asked.

“Your client?”

“I’m G. K. Bonalay. I represent Merodie Davies. Does the county attorney know you assaulted my client, or do I have to tell him?”

“I didn’t do nothing like that.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Baumbach looked hard at me. “I don’t care what you heard,” he said.

“Are you saying it’s not true?” G. K. said.

“I never touched that woman.”

“Will you testify to that under oath?”

“I ain’t testifying to nothin’.”

“We’ll see.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re very nervous, Officer,” G. K. said. “Why are you nervous?”

“I ain’t.”

“Sure you are you, Boyd,” I said. “I don’t blame you, either. Sooner or later you’ll have to answer questions under oath, and when you do, Ms. Bonalay is going to clean your clock. Then it’ll be my turn.”

“You want a piece of me? You want a piece of me right now, asshole?”