Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

I looked at my watch. Eleven forty-seven. Eleven forty-seven at night and I was sweating in my car, the windows rolled down, crickets chirping all over the damn place. I could have closed the windows and used the AC, but that would have been a dead giveaway. A car parked along a residential street with the engine running—I might as well hang a sign from both bumpers reading UP TO NO GOOD. AS it was, I was surprised the good folks in Mahtomedi weren’t more observant. I was surprised someone hadn’t already called the cops. I was surprised that the cops weren’t shining their bright lights inside my Audi and demanding that I state my business.

“It’s like this, Officer, I’m spying on my girlfriend.”

Yeah, that would go over big.

What the hell are you doing here? my inner voice wanted to know.

Just curious, I told it.

What else?

Angry, excited, afraid, jealous, guilty, hopeful. . .

Hopeful?

Especially hopeful, although hopeful for what I couldn’t say. I had been parked down the street from Nina’s home for the better part of two hours, and I couldn’t explain my motives to myself any better than when I first arrived. I guess I just wanted to see it for myself—Nina with another man. I could believe it if I saw it for myself.

What good would that do?

My God, you ask a lot of questions.

I looked at my watch again. Eleven forty-nine. How long does it take to eat dinner, anyway?

I turned on my radio and hit the scan button until it stopped at 89.3 FM, the Current, Minnesota Public Radio’s new alternative rock station. Some people have labeled it the radio station for music connoisseurs, and it certainly is that. The first hour I listened to it I heard Otis Redding, Chet Baker, Johnny Cash, the Jayhawks, Little Eva, Blind Willie Johnson, the Byrds, Chaka Khan, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and five bands that were new to me. I was hooked and remain so, although I must admit that as good as its selections usually are, sometimes the Current plays music of such stunning awfulness that I figure the DJ must have lost a bet. Like now. They were playing something I could only describe as Pakistani hip-hop.

I switched off the radio.

Where in hell was Nina? Didn‘t she know what time it was?

Eleven fifty-two by my watch.

A high-end Beamer captured my attention as it turned onto the street where Nina lived. I watched as it inched forward and turned into Nina’s driveway. Its engine was switched off and its headlamps extinguished. Nothing moved for five minutes. I imagined what a couple could be doing in a parked car for five minutes and my hands tightened on my own steering wheel. Finally, the driver’s door opened. A man slipped out of the car—Daniel the architect, if Jenness’s description held true. He moved around the car and halted. His body language told me that he was disappointed Nina didn’t wait for him to open her car door.

Attagirl, Nina.

He followed her to the front door and stood close to her while she worked the lock with her keys. The door opened. She turned to face him.

Don’t kiss him!

She didn’t. Instead, Nina took his hand and led him inside. The door closed behind them.

I stared at it for a long time.

You could kill him, my inner voice told me. It would be easy.

Yes, it would be easy. I’d get away with it, too. Simply wait for him to get into his car, follow him out of the neighborhood, pull up next to him when he stops at a light, roll down the window, say “Hey,” and when he leans over put two rounds between his eyes and drive away. No muss, no fuss.

Yeah, but what about the next one? Or the one after that? If I started piling up dead boyfriends, Nina was bound to get suspicious. And how long could I get away with it before Bobby Dunston carted me off to Oak Park Heights?

I shook the idea from my head.

You could beat him up instead.

But what if he wasn’t as soft as Jenness thought he was? There’s nothing worse than picking a fight with a guy to impress a woman and getting your ass kicked.

What other options do you have?

A voodoo priestess once taught me a simple way to hex my enemies. She said I should write the evildoer’s name nine times and insert the paper into the mouth of a snake.

Except you don’t have a snake.

“Nina.” I said the name out loud just to hear the sound of it. It didn’t do me any good.

I started the Audi, flipped on the headlights, and put it in gear.

Well, you saw Nina with another man. Are you happy now?

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