Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 10

Normally, I would eschew the Minneapolis skyway system. Only normally it wasn’t five degrees below zero and normally the wind that seemed to gain velocity as it was funneled between the downtown skyscrapers wasn’t powerful enough to lift you off your feet.

The skyway system was a network of streets in the sky, connected to each downtown office building with an enclosed pedestrian bridge or skyway that spans the street below. The original purpose was to allow pedestrians to travel from one building to another without suffering the cold and wind of Minnesota’s winters or the heat and humidity of its summers—neither of which was nearly as brutal as their reputations suggest, although have you been outside lately? Yet, over time, the skyway virtually took over downtown Minneapolis as people abandoned the city streets for its artificially controlled environment. Most businesses followed the pedestrians. In fact, very few businesses other than restaurants and shopping centers still had entrances on the street. It had reached the point where one intrepid magazine writer of my acquaintance wrote how he was able to “live” on the skyway for an entire month—working, lodging, eating, shopping, dating, and generally entertaining himself—without once allowing the warmth of the sun or the cool of moonlight to touch his face. Personally, I don’t think the man’s been the same since.

Muehlenhaus had offered me transportation back to St. Paul, but I didn’t want him to believe for a moment that we were partners. Nor did I trust Norman. The look on his face—call me paranoid, but I had a feeling he was the type who held a grudge. So, I decided to hoof it to a hotel where a cab could be found that would take me back to my Audi.

It was getting close to the rush hour and most of the people in the crowded skyway moved relentlessly as they completed last-minute errands or rushed to parking ramps in hopes of beating the traffic. When I slowed to punch the numbers for directory assistance into the pad of my cell phone, and then later the first lady’s office, the human current jammed up behind me like debris caught against a rock in a fast-flowing river.

I wanted to warn Lindsey that her cover had been blown. The Brotherhood knew exactly where we had met and when, which meant there was a leak on her end. Only he or she didn’t know what we spoke about, which meant the source wasn’t necessarily someone close to Lindsey. My chief suspect was her bodyguard or driver or whatever the big guy was. But I couldn’t get through to her. I was passed from a receptionist to an assistant to an aide until I finally connected with a senior aide who took my name and number. I had the impression that she took a lot of names and numbers without passing them on.

I didn’t think it was possible to just show up at the front door of the Governor’s Mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, but there was another option. I used the memory function on my cell to dial Nina Truhler’s number. She answered on the fourth ring.

“Rickie’s, how may I help you?”

“Nina, you answer your own phones now?”

“I’ve even been known to sweep out the place. How are you, Mac?”

I could hear music in the background. Hoagy Carmichael. “Stardust.” Nina owned and managed a jazz club on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul that she had named after her daughter.

“Very well, thank you, especially now that I’m speaking to you.”

“Oh, you sweet-talker. What’s going on? Anything interesting?”

“Yes. Interesting. That’s a good word for it.”

“You’re off on another one of your adventures, aren’t you? I can tell by your voice. It always sounds excited when you’re into something.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“To me you are. What is it? Can I help?”

“I can’t tell you what it is. Truth is, I’m not exactly sure myself, yet. But yes, you can help.”

“How?”

“Can you get away tonight?”

“I could be talked into it.”

“Remember that $3,600 dress you gave yourself on your birthday.”

“Yes.”

“Would you like a chance to wear it?”

Turned out she did.

After arranging the logistics for our date, I said good-bye, deactivated my cell phone, and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Almost immediately afterward, a man grabbed me. Strong fingers closed around my right hand and yanked violently, twisting and pulling it up between my shoulder blades. The pain in my shoulder forced me to cry out, a moment of weakness I immediately regretted. At the same time another hand pressed hard against my spine, steering me out of the skyway traffic, driving so hard and fast I didn’t even think of ordering my legs to resist.

He flung me up against the thick glass wall of an office that sold life insurance and leaned his full weight against me, pinning me there. My forehead was mashed against the glass and the point of my elbow was wedged between my body and his, making the pain in my shoulder even more excruciating.

I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his lips close to my ear.

“Do the right thing,” he hissed.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Do the right thing,” he repeated.