Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 24

“Want to do me a favor?”

“You don’t know who’s in the Escort, do you?”

“Not a clue.”

Bobby sighed, said, “I’ll make a call.”

“When you find out, call me on my cell. I want to lead him out of the neighborhood in case there’s trouble.”

“Trouble?” Shelby said the word like she had just heard it for the first time. “Why does there always need to be trouble?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

“I understand why Bobby takes risks,” Shelby said. “It’s his job. But why do you?”

“We all take risks everyday, Shel. We all walk down dark alleys without knowing what lurks in the shadows . . .”

“Metaphorically speaking,” said Bobby.

“We risk death riding in hurtling automobiles and by golf balls that are sliced out of bounds and from burritos that aren’t cooked properly. There are diseases waiting for us out there that we’ve never even heard of and probably couldn’t pronounce if we had—”

“Here we go,” Shelby said like she had heard it all before, which, of course, she had.

“The thing is, ain’t no one getting out of here alive, so we might as well have some fun while we can. Besides . . .”

“Live well, be useful,” Bobby said.

“I bet I could learn to like you if I worked at it,” I told him.

He said, “You’re my hero. When I grow up I want to be just like you.”

“You’re both a couple of cowboys,” Shelby insisted.

Who were we to argue?

I explained that instructions for using the machines were in the boxes as well as a hefty supply of ingredients. I told them if I wasn’t back in time, they should call my cell with questions about setup and operation. Then I headed for the door.

I walked briskly to my Audi. I pressed a button on my key chain and the lights flashed and doors unlocked. Once inside the two-seat sports car, I started the engine and waited. The Ford waited, too. I pulled away from the curb. The Ford did the same. I led it to Marshall Avenue and hung a left. It followed.

He’s not being careful at all.

I flashed on my assailant in the Minneapolis skyway, heard the voice of my late-night caller. I wasn’t frightened. Nor was I particularly angry. Mostly I was curious.

I headed east until I hit Lexington and hung a right. The Ford closed on my rear bumper, then fell back again. At University I hung another right and drove west. The Ford stayed with me. I caught the traffic light at Hamline. The Ford was two cars behind me. My cell rang and I answered it.

“McKenzie?” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“The license plate is registered to Schroeder Private Investigations. It’s a one-man shop owned by Schroeder, Gregory R.”

“PI, huh.”

“Schroeder is five-eight, 160 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, age fifty-five.”

“Practically a senior citizen.”

“Do you need more? I can get you more?”

“No, that’ll do. Thanks, Bobby.”

“I’ll have the girls call you later, thank you for the sno-cone machine and whatnot.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

Bobby’s daughters—Victoria and Katie—were my heirs. If Schroeder, Gregory R., should put a bullet in my head, they’d get to keep my treat machines, and my cars and house, and all my money.

I deactivated the cell phone and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I glanced in the mirror. My assailant in the skyway had brown hair, I recalled.

Now what? I wondered.

It’s like your dear old Dad used to say, my inner voice replied. If you don’t ask questions, you’ll never get answers.

Ask what?

Let’s start with, why is he following you?

Sounds like a plan.

I annoyed the drivers directly behind me by driving below the speed limit. As I had intended, I caught the long stoplight at University and Snelling, probably the busiest intersection in St. Paul. I put the Audi in neutral, set the brake, opened the door, and stepped out into the street. I left my Beretta in the glove compartment. I had put it there earlier that morning because it had been my experience that after threats usually comes violence. Only this didn’t seem to be that kind of play.

The hard wind peppered my face with tiny, sharp snow crystals—it was as if the weather was warning me that this was not a smart idea. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and angled my head away from the wind.

I made my way along the line of cars to the Ford Escort. The driver of the first car I passed rolled down his window and shouted, “Hey, man, what the hell are you doing?” I ignored him.

Even though he must have seen me coming, the man in the Escort seemed surprised when I halted next to his door. I examined him through the windshield—brown hair, hazel eyes, not tall. I rapped on the driver’s-side window. Schroeder rolled it down.

“Hey, Greg,” I said. Schroeder’s eyes grew wide. “There’s a fifties-style cafe just a few blocks up University at Fairview called Andy’s Garage. Near Porky’s. Know it?”

He nodded.