The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 35

“Sure.”

Josie’s office was also her home, located on the intersection of paved and gravel county roads. It was small and square and built to resemble a log cabin. A sign clearly visible from both roads read LAKE DREAMS REALTY—SERVING ELY-KRUEGER-BABBITT. She stopped for mail and then went through the front door. I followed. The office was all blond wood, including the large desk that sat at an angle in the corner. Next to the desk was a rack filled with brochures, most citing tourist attractions, area businesses, and financing options. One noted that “Ely ranks 12th on the Field & Stream Magazine 2008 list of Best Fishing Towns in America.” Another stated that “Real Estate is an important element of any long-term investment plan.” Across from the desk four chairs surrounded a round table. A PC was in the center of the table; its screen saver read “Browse our listings of affordable lake homes.”

Beyond the office the house was set up like an efficiency apartment. A doorway behind the desk led to a kitchenette and tiny living room; a staircase in the living room allowed access to a second-floor bathroom and a large bedroom.

While Josie went to her phone and checked her voice mail, I clicked the mouse and skimmed the real estate listings. There were three pages of them. All of the listings had gorgeous photographs and enticing copy; a third were highlighted with the words “Recently Reduced Price” written in red. Josie hung up her phone and cursed loudly. I turned away from the PC to look at her.

“Client just backed out of a sale,” she said. “A hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”

“Sorry.”

“I needed that eleven-thousand-dollar commission.”

Josie sat behind her desk and sorted through the stack of mail. “Bill, bill, bill, flyer, request for money, request for money, bill, flyer, and one, two, three preapproved credit card applications. What am I going to do, Dyson?”

“I think you’ve already made that decision.”

“Am I a bad person?”

“Most bad people don’t ask that question. We are not prone to introspection.”

“We?”

Stay in character, stay in character, my inner voice chanted.

“I have no pretensions about what I am,” I said aloud.

“What are you?”

“A thief.”

“I googled the Iron Range Bandits last night. They’re blaming the Silver Bay robbery on us.”

“Lucky you.”

“They don’t seem to have any suspects, though. I mean, nothing to connect us to the robbery.”

“Sweetie, if they did, they wouldn’t tell the newspapers.”

“They mentioned you, though, and don’t call me sweetie.”

“Me?”

“You’re the unidentified suspect that caused a traffic accident that allowed us to escape.”

“It’s like I once told you, I’m a helluva guy. Did I tell you that? I’m sure I did.”

“Where are you from, Dyson? I mean, where is home?”

“I don’t remember.”

Dammit, did you say that out loud? my inner voice asked. Truth was, I couldn’t remember where Dyson was from. You should have done a better job studying his profile.

“I don’t have a home, Josie,” I said aloud. “I had to give that up.”

She studied me from across her desk for what seemed like a long time. “Will I have to give up my home?” she asked.

It was a good question. My deal with Harry and Bullert was for information identifying the gunrunners. I made no promises concerning the Iron Range Bandits, and like Bullert said, I was under no legal obligation to report their crimes. It was possible I could do what I came there to do and leave them out of it.

But they’re thieves, my inner voice reminded me. How many jobs have they pulled?

That’s not my problem, I told myself.

Whose problem is it?

“I don’t know, Josie,” I said aloud. “We’ll see.”