you to it tomorrow, if you wanted.”
Stevens leaned back in his chair and studied the man. Tried to gauge the odds he was telling the truth. The odds that this T-Bird was Sylvia Danzer’s.
He’d been working the Danzer murder for nearly a week now. Had spent most of it retracing the Moose Lake sheriff’s work, reviewing the BCA agent’s notes, calling old contacts and reopening wounds. Hadn’t come up with much but what was in the report: The Danzers weren’t newlyweds, but by all appearances, they were happy together. Neither had had an affair. Stevens had even talked to their accountant. Neither Elliott nor Sylvia Danzer had any particularly eye-opening debts. They were comfortable financially; neither had any unusually large life insurance policies. As far as anyone could guess, there was no reason for Sylvia Danzer to have murdered her husband.
After a couple days of paper cuts and dial tones, Stevens had exhausted the high-percentage plays. Time to play the long shots. He had the Danzers’ pictures printed up and sent around to every jail, drunk tank, and correctional facility in the state, along with a description of the Thunderbird and a rundown of the crime. Asked the guards and wardens to pass out the pictures, get the inmates talking, figuring maybe someone knew someone who knew something. The play netted about a hundred oddball claims in the first two or three hours, mostly desperate criminals looking for a reduced sentence. But then there was Ernie Saint Louis.
Saint Louis was a chocoholic serving a three-to-nine for marijuana possession with intent to traffic. He told Stevens he’d trade information for candy bars and a good word to the judge, so Stevens drove down to the federal lockup in Waseca with a bag full of chocolate bars and agreed to hear the guy’s story.
Saint Louis rummaged in the bag and came out with a Milky Way bar. Opened the wrapper and took a bite. “Sure, I seen it,” he said. “I seen that old T-Bird every week for about five or six months.”
Stevens nodded. “Good,” he said. “Where?”
“North.” Saint Louis chewed. Looked across the table at Stevens. “I had a real good thing going,” he said. “It was just pot, anyway, no big deal.”
Stevens leaned forward again and looked through the man’s file. He’d been picked up in Big Falls, maybe thirty miles from the Canadian border. Had nearly eight kilograms of marijuana stored in his Ski-Doo. “You ran drugs across the border,” Stevens said.
Saint Louis shrugged. “Just pot, like I said. No big deal.”
“And you saw this Thunderbird somewhere.”
“In the bush, man.” Saint Louis blinked, shook his head. “Just rusting away. Two years in a row. A damn shame.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “You get a good look at it?”
Saint Louis shrugged again. “Wasn’t really concentrating on seeing the sights.” He winked at Stevens. “Kind of time-sensitive cargo.”
“So what the hell was it doing out there in the bush?”
“Figured it was abandoned.” Saint Louis shook his head. “Somebody got tired of it, drove it out on that old logging road and forgot about it. Was my guess, anyway.”
“Abandoned it. An old T-Bird.”
“Crazy, right? It was that same car, though. Same vintage, everything. Just rusting away in the bush.”
Stevens stared at the ceiling, thinking. Saint Louis chewed, loudly. Finished his Milky Way bar and sat forward, his eyes hopeful. “Could take you there tomorrow, if you want.”
Stevens pushed his notepad across the table. “How about you just draw me a map?”
16
T OMLIN SETTLED INTO a rhythm. A few days a week doing taxes for senior citizens, a couple contract jobs for friends at big firms. A robbery every few weeks, when the money got low.
Or, more and more, whenever the mood struck him.
It wasn’t just about the money anymore. Not even close. It was about the excitement, the power, the quick jolt of electricity he felt when the pretty tellers wilted at the
Stevens leaned back in his chair and studied the man. Tried to gauge the odds he was telling the truth. The odds that this T-Bird was Sylvia Danzer’s.
He’d been working the Danzer murder for nearly a week now. Had spent most of it retracing the Moose Lake sheriff’s work, reviewing the BCA agent’s notes, calling old contacts and reopening wounds. Hadn’t come up with much but what was in the report: The Danzers weren’t newlyweds, but by all appearances, they were happy together. Neither had had an affair. Stevens had even talked to their accountant. Neither Elliott nor Sylvia Danzer had any particularly eye-opening debts. They were comfortable financially; neither had any unusually large life insurance policies. As far as anyone could guess, there was no reason for Sylvia Danzer to have murdered her husband.
After a couple days of paper cuts and dial tones, Stevens had exhausted the high-percentage plays. Time to play the long shots. He had the Danzers’ pictures printed up and sent around to every jail, drunk tank, and correctional facility in the state, along with a description of the Thunderbird and a rundown of the crime. Asked the guards and wardens to pass out the pictures, get the inmates talking, figuring maybe someone knew someone who knew something. The play netted about a hundred oddball claims in the first two or three hours, mostly desperate criminals looking for a reduced sentence. But then there was Ernie Saint Louis.
Saint Louis was a chocoholic serving a three-to-nine for marijuana possession with intent to traffic. He told Stevens he’d trade information for candy bars and a good word to the judge, so Stevens drove down to the federal lockup in Waseca with a bag full of chocolate bars and agreed to hear the guy’s story.
Saint Louis rummaged in the bag and came out with a Milky Way bar. Opened the wrapper and took a bite. “Sure, I seen it,” he said. “I seen that old T-Bird every week for about five or six months.”
Stevens nodded. “Good,” he said. “Where?”
“North.” Saint Louis chewed. Looked across the table at Stevens. “I had a real good thing going,” he said. “It was just pot, anyway, no big deal.”
Stevens leaned forward again and looked through the man’s file. He’d been picked up in Big Falls, maybe thirty miles from the Canadian border. Had nearly eight kilograms of marijuana stored in his Ski-Doo. “You ran drugs across the border,” Stevens said.
Saint Louis shrugged. “Just pot, like I said. No big deal.”
“And you saw this Thunderbird somewhere.”
“In the bush, man.” Saint Louis blinked, shook his head. “Just rusting away. Two years in a row. A damn shame.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “You get a good look at it?”
Saint Louis shrugged again. “Wasn’t really concentrating on seeing the sights.” He winked at Stevens. “Kind of time-sensitive cargo.”
“So what the hell was it doing out there in the bush?”
“Figured it was abandoned.” Saint Louis shook his head. “Somebody got tired of it, drove it out on that old logging road and forgot about it. Was my guess, anyway.”
“Abandoned it. An old T-Bird.”
“Crazy, right? It was that same car, though. Same vintage, everything. Just rusting away in the bush.”
Stevens stared at the ceiling, thinking. Saint Louis chewed, loudly. Finished his Milky Way bar and sat forward, his eyes hopeful. “Could take you there tomorrow, if you want.”
Stevens pushed his notepad across the table. “How about you just draw me a map?”
16
T OMLIN SETTLED INTO a rhythm. A few days a week doing taxes for senior citizens, a couple contract jobs for friends at big firms. A robbery every few weeks, when the money got low.
Or, more and more, whenever the mood struck him.
It wasn’t just about the money anymore. Not even close. It was about the excitement, the power, the quick jolt of electricity he felt when the pretty tellers wilted at the
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