Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 27

I had lost all of my radio stations long before I reached the outskirts of the city and had already spun the two CDs I had thought to bring with me. Usually I listen to jazz or what the marketing mavens call adult contemporary and modern progressive, but none of that music seemed to penetrate deep into the southwestern corner of Minnesota. Instead, my scanner picked up two Christian stations, a “big” country music station and a “real” country music station—damned if I could tell the difference—an “active rock” station that sounded like it had been programmed by teenage girls living in Des Moines, and a talk station on which a man with a jeer in his voice ridiculed Democrats, liberals, feminists, environmentalists, the news media, the ACLU, Hollywood movies that didn’t have lots of explosions, all minorities that didn’t speak English, and bad drivers before cycling back to the “classic rock” station. I stayed with the oldies even though the station was now playing “Knock Three Times” by Tony Orlando and Dawn.

Two highway signs told me everything I needed to know about Victoria, Minnesota. The first bragged that it was the Home of the Victoria Seven, Minnesota State High School Boys Basketball Champions. The second announced that it was the first stop in “The Ride Across Minnesota,” the five-day, 326-mile bike ride for charity that began in Pipestone and snaked its way across the width of the state from South Dakota to the Wisconsin border. The second sign was located at the bottom of a hill just inside the city limits. I didn’t see the sign or the Crown Victoria police cruiser parked next to it until I had crested the hill, and by then it was too late. The cruiser’s light bar was flashing at me before I had time to even touch my brakes.

“Good morning, Officer.”

I smiled politely after pulling over and rolling down my window, my hands on top of the steering wheel where the officer could see them.

“May I help you?”

The officer rested her forearm on the roof of the car and bent down to look through the window. She removed her sunglasses dramatically and announced, “Sir, you were exceeding the posted speed limit.” Wisps of frozen breath rose from her mouth and were immediately snatched away by the wind.

I liked her right away. She was five feet, eight inches tall, about 130 pounds, and she stepped out of her cruiser onto the icy shoulder of the highway like she was modeling police wear. The hard wind ruffled the strands of light red hair that escaped her fur-trimmed hat. Her name tag read D. Mallinger.

“I was?” I asked innocently.

“Seventy-six in a thirty-five-mile zone. That’s awfully fast. Especially on an icy road.”

“Thirty-five!”

“The speed limit changed at the top of the hill.”

I had driven into an old-fashioned, small-town speed trap and there was no arguing about it. I said, “I’m so sorry, Officer. I didn’t realize.” I was grateful that the cold wind blew in my face. It made my eyes water and helped give me an expression of pleading innocence—at least that’s what I was going for.

“Nice-looking car,” Mallinger said.

“The salesman said the design was influenced by Bauhaus, whoever he is.”

“Bauhaus is not a he. It’s an influential German school of design that held that art should be practical as well as aesthetically pleasing.”

“Wow. That’s really smart. I bet you could go on Jeopardy or something.”

The officer smirked and gave her head a half shake.

“Some women might get away with the dumb blonde routine, but you’re not a woman and you’re not blond. Are you?”

“It was worth a try.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Would it help if I told you I was racing to the hospital to visit my poor, sick mother?”

“I’ll need to see your driver’s license, sir.”

“How ’bout if I told you I was eleven and a half years on the job in St. Paul?”

“Driver’s license.”

I reached toward the opening of my bomber jacket with my right hand. Mallinger stepped backward, her hand moving to her holster. I stopped and said, “My wallet is in my inside jacket pocket.”

I unzipped the jacket with my left hand and held it open for her to see. With my right I carefully removed the wallet. I found my license. Mallinger took the plastic card in her gloved hand.

“Wait here,” she said and retreated to her cruiser.

I watched Mallinger’s reflection in my mirror while I waited, watched her work her onboard computer. She was not only pretty, she was smart. Most of the women and all of the guys I knew probably thought Bauhaus was a bull. A few moments later, she returned.

“Mr. McKenzie . . .”

Here it comes.

“You have two speeding tickets over the past four months, but nothing previous. Why is that?”

Because the two tickets notwithstanding, most cops will give a retired police officer a break, I thought, but didn’t say.

“It’s a new car,” I told her.

“Let me guess. It’s fast.”

“It has a top speed of 130. More if I fiddle with the electronics.”

“You’re a little young to be having a midlife crisis, aren’t you?” I didn’t answer and she said, “If I give you a citation the state’ll probably revoke your driving privileges. I wouldn’t want that to happen seeing how you were once on the job, so I’m going to let you off with a warning. ’Course, you’ve had warnings before, haven’t you.”

“One or two.”

“Uh-huh. Where are you heading?”

“Victoria.”

“That’s my town,” Mallinger confirmed. “I catch you speeding here again, I’ll hammer you like a nail in soft wood.”

Nice metaphor, I told myself.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promised.

“Either grow up or get rid of the car.”