What I didn’t see was another car—not one—on the whole way north.
It was a pleasant drive, but I was starting to get tired and cranky just the same. I had been over eight hours in the Audi, and I couldn’t find a single radio station worth listening to. Finally I approached a sign set along the highway. libbie, sd, 1884. rules, regulations, and respect!
“That’s the town motto?” I said aloud. “Really?”
It was the exclamation point that annoyed me the most. I was a big fan of respect, but rules and regulations—not so much. If I had been a teenager growing up in Libbie, somehow I could see myself burning that sign to the ground. With Bobby Dunston acting as lookout.
I leaned against the frame of Chief Gustafson’s office door and watched him, my arms folded across my chest. He was sitting behind his desk, his feet up, and reading a two-week-old copy of Time. Except for the chief, the Libbie police station was empty and silent. It could have been a library, or a Christian Science Reading Room. There wasn’t even a bell on the door to announce when visitors arrived. Eventually his eyes lifted upward off the magazine and saw me standing there.
“Hi,” I said.
The chief tried to do everything at once—drop the magazine, lower his feet, stand, and reach for his gun—none of them smoothly. Still, it took only a moment before the fear slipped away.
“You startled me,” he said.
“This is the least secure police station I have ever been in,” I said.
“We’re kinda informal around here.”
“I noticed.”
“So what are you doing here, McKenzie? I thought you went back to the Cities.”
“I did. Like the man said, I have returned.”
“Yeah?”
The chief motioned toward a chair in front of the desk, and I settled in. He sat behind the desk and folded his hands on top of his blotter.
“So, any complaints?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I was wondering if anyone swore out a warrant for my arrest. Felonious assault, something like that.”
“You mean what happened the other day at the Rossini? The way I heard it—a couple of witnesses swore Church threw the first punch and you were acting in self-defense. Least, that’s what it says in my report.”
“What does Church say?”
“Not a word.”
“That surprises me. Usually bullies are the first to go whining to the law when things don’t go their way.”
“Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful. Hear me?”
“Sure.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I had a couple of interesting conversations yesterday, first with the FBI and then later with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. They seem to think there was something improper about how you were treated the other day.”
“They’re right about that.”
“And?”
“The last I spoke to them, we pretty much agreed that they have far more important things to do than rousting small-town police departments.”
“I appreciate that, I surely do.”
“How big is your department, anyway?”
“Three, plus a couple of part-timers.”
“I’m surprised a town this small can afford a police department.”
“We have contracts with a few local towns; that helps keep the price down. ’Course, with this other McKenzie defrauding the city, I don’t know what’ll happen. Tell me, is that why you came back? To help get the Imposter?”
There were several framed color photographs on the chief’s desk. In one, a woman with black hair and pale skin, her head tilted just so, stared straight into the camera; her smile was bright and warm. I reached for it.
“May I?” I said. The chief nodded his approval. I took up the frame and gave it a long look. “Very pretty.”
“My wife, Nancy.”
“One look and I can tell she’s far too good for the likes of you.”
You say something like that and most husbands will tell you that they agree, even if they don’t actually believe it. The chief’s reply: “The photo was taken a couple of years ago.”
“I can’t get over it,” I said. “The number of attractive women in this town. You must have more babes per capita than just about anywhere I’ve been.”
“We hold our own.”
“Gotta be something in the water,” I said. I set the photograph back on the desk. “You know it’s an inside job, don’t you?”
The chief didn’t say.
“The Imposter didn’t simply show up one day and decide to fleece Libbie, South Dakota,” I said. “He had an accomplice. Someone had to set it up, tell him who to talk to, who to avoid.”
The chief rubbed his face with both hands.
“I don’t believe that,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
The chief stopped rubbing.
“No, I don’t. I know there’s an accomplice. It’s the only way to explain how the Imposter got out of town. That doesn’t mean he’s from Libbie.”