The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 7

Skarda got into it right away. “Unmarked cop car, a blue sedan, two blocks behind us,” he said.

I hung another left followed by a right. I actually put the Explorer on two wheels, which was insane. SUVs have a higher center of gravity—do you know how easy it is to flip over one of those suckers? It shook me up so much that I actually made the next turn properly, slowing into the turn and accelerating out of it. Skarda kept looking behind us and didn’t seem to notice.

“See anything?” I asked.

“No, yes, a white van.”

I took a right followed by a second right, followed by a left, sometimes pushing the Explorer up to sixty. The streets were quiet, thank goodness, although I did have to lean on the horn to keep a Toyota from backing out of a driveway in front of us. I took another turn, this one more slowly. A block ahead of us I saw two cars idling in the middle of the intersection, one facing south, the other north, and my first thought was that they were a couple of neighbors chatting with each other, not worrying about clogging the avenue because only neighbors used it. Skarda didn’t see it that way.

“It’s a roadblock,” he shouted.

I hit the brakes, slowing just enough so that I could safely turn down an alley.

“The cops are everywhere,” Skarda said. “What are we going to do?”

“Hang on,” I said.

I managed a few more quick turns until we jumped onto White Bear Avenue. I made a big production out of weaving in and out of traffic at high speed until we crossed Interstate 694. The Maplewood Mall was on our right. I pulled into its massive parking lot and hid among the cars there. I turned off the engine. All we could hear was the ticking as it cooled.

“I think we’re all right,” Skarda said. “I think we lost them.”

’Course, there was no “them”—it was just Skarda’s imagination running on overdrive. As for the white Colonial, it actually had belonged to a girl I once dated, an actor who went to Hollywood to try her luck about fifteen years ago.

“Oh my God, Dyson,” Skarda said. Now that he thought he was safe, he was breathing hard and clutching his heart as if he were afraid it would leap from his chest. “That was close. When I saw the roadblock—I still don’t believe you got us out of that.”

“It was nothing,” I said.

“You’re a helluva driver, my friend.”

“I expected something like this might happen,” I said. “Still … this makes it difficult.”

“What do you mean?”

“My money—I can’t get to it. With Chad gone I figured my girl—my ex-girl—wouldn’t have the nerve to cross me again, only she did. She and Chad must have had a prearranged signal; probably he was supposed to call her, and when he didn’t she called the cops. None of that matters. What matters is I can’t get to my money now.”

“Where is it?” Skarda asked.

I gave him a hard look that suggested that was the dumbest question I had ever heard.

“It’s safe, that’s all you need to know,” I said. “It’s safe. Only I can’t collect it until things cool down. In the meantime, I have exactly a hundred and eighty-seven dollars in my pocket.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

I patted him on the knee. “Dave, I like that you said ‘we.’”

I gave it ten minutes, started the SUV, and began exploring the back rows of the mall’s huge parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Skarda asked.

“Looking for a car to steal. This one’s hot.”

“Why here?”

“Store managers want to save the best spaces for their customers, so they usually have their employees park in the slots furthest from the mall. These are the people who’ll be last to leave once the stores close up, so we’ll be long gone by the time they report the theft. Ah, here we go. Useful and unobtrusive.”

I slowed the Ford Explorer to a stop directly in front of a Jeep Cherokee with a swing-away tire carrier mounted on the back. After making sure there was no one nearby who could see us, I reversed a few feet, twisted the steering wheel, and eased forward until I nudged the Cherokee’s bumper.

“Why did you do that?” Skarda asked.

“To check for a car alarm. Do you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Well, then…”

I got out of the Explorer and again searched the parking lot. Assured that we were quite alone, I walked around the Cherokee, trying all the doors. They were locked. I cupped my hands against the windshield and peered inside. After a few moments I returned to the Explorer. Skarda spoke to me through the open window.

“Don’t we need tools? A screwdriver at least?”

“The pen is mightier than the screwdriver,” I said.

“What does that mean?”