“What kind of car was it?”
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t know much about cars. But it was a big one. Nice car.”
“Color?”
“Mostly wood.”
“Wood?”
“Wood paneling. My husband’s car had the same thing. I’ve seen it here several times.”
“Really?”
“Before yesterday it was three weeks ago. He came walking up the road with another man. The other man was white. Probably one of those crazy artists, I thought to myself.”
“Artists?”
“Yes. They disappeared into the trees along that path you see there. Probably on their way to that nasty house of horrors they’ve made for themselves in there.” Mrs. Holte shuddered. “Ugh.”
—
The time was twelve thirty when Kevin Patterson stepped out of the SUV in front of the U.S. Bank Stadium. The concourse was almost deserted, but loud music and cheering could be heard from inside the stadium. Patterson assumed someone was doing a display of exhibition-shooting, something involving a gun. Four security men accompanied him to the VIP entrance, passing what remained of the line at the public entrance. Some stared as though not quite sure where they had seen his face before, because he didn’t play for the Vikings and he wasn’t a TV preacher either, he was just the mayor. But there were some who did recognize the face, and one voice called out: “Make America great again!”
Patterson smiled and waved back even though he knew the man was a Trump supporter and would vote Republican. And that the guy probably didn’t know that the slogan wasn’t invented by the Trump campaign team but had a long history and had been used by both parties at various times.
Inside the VIP entrance Patterson was led past the elevators and up to the private boxes and a large, rather provisionally furnished room. A window with a view of the podium and lectern out on the ground was obscured by a thick tarp.
A man wearing a pin-striped suit and with an accreditationID around his neck approached and introduced himself as Ted Springer from the Joint Terrorism Task Force. He assured the mayor that everything was under control and he would be able to walk out to the lectern at the arranged time.
Patterson walked across to the tarp, pulled it to one side and looked out. It was a fantastic stadium. In his speech at its opening he’d said that even an old cornball like him could get tears in his eyes looking around the place. He’d asked his speechwriter to take some of the best lines from that earlier speech and add them to the one he was due to deliver in twenty-five minutes. Suddenly something dazzled Kevin Patterson, a quick, bright flash. The man who had been the mayor’s chief of security for the last ten years must have registered it, because he leaned close to Patterson and asked in a low voice. “Anything wrong, sir?”
“No, no, it’s er…” Patterson began. “Have the private boxes been checked? I think I may have seen something up there.”
“They’ve been temporarily closed, sir. Do you want me to double-check with the security man there?”
“No, no. I’m sure everything is as it should be. There’s so much glass around here. Lot of glass, lot of reflections.”
Patterson looked at his watch. Twenty-four minutes.
—
There were four of them in the tiny room and the air stank of sweat, hospitals and some male perfume that Rooble Isack assumed came from the man in the sickbed.
“Well, Dante,” said Rooble, “do you want a deal or not?”
Marco Dante looked over at his lawyer, Al Gill. Rooble had heard about Gill. He was the type who would sell his own grandmother if the hourly rate made it worth his while. Until yesterday Rooble and the Aggravated Assault Unit had been concentrating on finding out who had shot Marco. Then JTTF entered the fray, asking that no stone be left unturned in the Gomez case, andsuddenly search warrants they would normally have had to beg for were being thrown at them. The Aggravated Assault Unit had found enough in Marco’s garage to charge him as a front man for the extensive sale of illegal weapons. If convicted he faced a possible four-year sentence.
“We want you to drop the charges relating to the front-man activity,” said Gill, shifting his gaze from Rooble to Rooble’s colleague and then back to Rooble again. “But if you want my client to provide you with information about Tomás Gomez you’re going to have to drop illegal possession of weapons and the sale of weapons too.”
“You mean you want us to drop everything?” said Rooble.
“Gomez is a killer,” said Gill. “He has already made one attempt on the life of my client and is certain to try again if it becomes known that he has provided you with information that could lead to his arrest. As a free man my client will probably be able to deal with this, but given Gomez’s gang connections he would be an easy target in jail.”
“Gang connections?” said Rooble. “Is Gomez a gangbanger?”
“Think of it as a foretaste of the kind of information my client will be able to provide you with. Do you want the rest, or don’t you?”
Rooble sighed. “Okay, all charges are dropped.”
