Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 37

The sun had shifted while I was in Lieutenant Weiner’s office, and instead of shade, now my Audi was bathed in sunlight. I left it where I had parked it and walked along Main Street toward the Rum River. I was still upset about both Mollie Pratt’s murder and Weiner’s behavior, and I wanted to think it over. I passed the Avant Garden because I thought it was a damn silly name for a coffeehouse and instead crossed the street and strolled a couple more blocks to Body of Art. It was a tanning salon and tattoo parlor as well as a coffeehouse, which appealed to me for reasons I didn’t want to explore. I bought a frozen concoction topped with whipped cream. I ate it with a plastic spoon at a small table in front of the window. I looked across the street at the Anoka City Hall and the dam built across the Rum River just beyond. Outside the city hall, an electronic sign flashed the time, date, and place of various community events, BRUNCH WITH COUNTY ATTORNEY DAVID TUSEMAN 10:30 A.M. TODAY GREENHAVEN GOLF COURSE read one of the messages.

I glanced at my watch. If I hurried, I figured I just might make it before they ran out of hash browns.

The banquet hall of the Greenhaven Golf Course had been set for four hundred people, yet only about three hundred sat around the large round tables covered with white linen. A long, straight table had been set near the far wall between two large windows. Tuseman, wearing khakis and a blue shirt with the creases ironed in, stood at a podium mounted at the center of the table. His red, white, and blue campaign sign—DAVID TUSEMAN STATE SENATE FOR A BRIGHTER TOMORROW—was taped to the podium.

A microphone had been placed on a stand in the center of the room for supporters who wanted to ask the candidate a question. A half dozen lined up behind the microphone. I was hoping someone would ask how Tuseman had the nerve to charge fifty bucks for a plate of cold scrambled eggs, three strips of bacon, soggy hash browns, and a blueberry muffin the size of the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, but no one did. (There was also a plate laden with fresh fruit, but I ignored it.) Tuseman had a microphone, although he didn’t need it. He spoke as though someone had taught him how, with a deep, hard baritone that gave polished nuance to every word and carried easily across the room. Sometimes he actually answered the question. More often, he recited a short, biting position on an issue that had only a nodding acquaintance with the subject the supporter had asked about.

I didn’t know what Tuseman was for. However, in the course of about fifteen minutes, I learned that there were a lot of things that Tuseman was against. He was against taxes. He was against more funding for the public school system without accountability. He was against both abortion and sex education that didn’t stress abstinence. He was against increasing the minimum wage. Mostly, however, he was against crime. When asked why he should be elected to the State Senate, Tuseman bragged about Anoka County’s low crime figures, his high conviction rate, and the fact that people convicted of crimes in Anoka served longer prison sentences than the state average. The supporters liked hearing that. Truth be told, so did I. But then some smart-ass asked, “Are you prosecuting Merodie Davies to help your reelection chances?”

Tuseman’s smile gave away nothing except how careful he was with his teeth. “I take exception to your insinuation, sir.”

“I don’t mind,” I told him.

An anxious murmur spread across the room. The man sitting immediately to Tuseman’s right motioned for a server. He whispered something into the young man’s ear, and the server departed, moving swiftly toward an exit. I figured I had about two minutes, tops.

“I am not prosecuting Merodie Davies for personal benefit of any kind,” Tuseman said.

“I’m only telling you what I heard.”

“From who?”

“People. You know, around the courthouse.”

“They’re wrong,” Tuseman replied. His raised his hand as if he wanted to brush something off his forehead, thought better of it, and let his hand fall to his side.

“That’s what they’re saying,” I told him.

“Tell you what. Next time someone says that, remind him that this is not a high-profile case. Court TV is not going to cover Merodie Davies’s murder trial.”

“The Anoka County Union and the Coon Rapids Herald will. So will the Minneapolis Star Tribune if it’s juicy enough.”

“What makes you think so?”

“How many murders have been committed in Anoka County in the past decade? A dozen?”

“Probably less.”

“The Merodie Davies murder case—it’s the only one you’ve got.”

“Crime is the cancer of our society,” Tuseman declared. “Like cancer, it must be eradicated completely if we are to survive. We cannot live with even a little bit of cancer.”