Prologue
They won’t let me cut.
Nella listened automatically, without thinking. Breathing, heartbeat, listening. All necessary to survival in the little encampment, in the street. In her world. You could never really sleep here, not deeply. You never knew when somebody would try to roll you, take your stuff, look for drugs. She reached under her pillow, felt for the leather case inside the worn cloth bag.
Nothing she’d heard tonight had seemed threatening. Crickets. The occasional car. The hissing sound of a bike on the Midtown Greenway, only a short distance away. And occasional snores from Roger, sleeping beside her in the little tent.
Roger is an asshole.
The tent would get hot before long, and some nights they’d sleep in the open. Unless the bugs got too bad, in which case they’d put up with the heat of the tent. They moved around a lot. People didn’t like them; sometimes nearby residents, or people going by on the Greenway or the street, would yell at them. Sometimes the authorities would make them move. A lot of the people in their own world were better, even willing to look out for you, to help. But if they missed a fix, or emptied their bottle, or went off their meds, everything could change in a hurry.
All of Nella’s possessions were stuffed into a battered pack inside the tent’s door. Roger’s belongings were in a similar pack, which sat on top of his wheelchair on the other side of the door. Roger slept in his new shirt, the one given to him by the man named Jack. It was a red checked shirt, suitable for cool June evenings, substantial but not too heavy.
She saw the danger before she heard it. A jerky light. Not lightning—a flashlight, creating shadows on the tent wall. Then sound—the soft crunch of footsteps.
Nella wasn’t too concerned. These incursions were frequent. Somebody needing something, to get through the night. Usually harmless. Poking around in your stuff or sticking their head into your tent. She waited for the visitor to pause, to look around at the other sleeping figures, evaluating their stuff.
People tended to leave Nella alone. She was big. She was strong. She was experienced, having lived much of her adult life on the street. And, unlike many women on the street, who sought out protection from men, Roger relied on her.
Roger is an asshole.
The soft footsteps became steadily louder. And then . . .
The explosion of violence caught her totally off guard. It all seemed to happen simultaneously: the top-to-bottom slice through the tent fabric; the powerful light beam, blinding her. A masked figure. The male voice hissing in her face: “Where is it?”
She avoided touching the leather case under her pillow and started to sit up. Then her ribs exploded with pain, the result of a powerful kick with a heavy boot. She felt paralyzed.
Beside her, Roger began to try to sit up.
“Where is it?” the voice demanded.
“Where is what?” Roger asked, before yelling in pain from a kick to his own ribs.
“Last chance,” the intruder said.
“F-f-fuck. You,” Roger gasped through the pain.
The figure sprang forward, holding the knife. Nella’s mouth opened in horror, but no words came out.
The figure stabbed Roger. Then again. Three times. Roger grunted and sank to the floor. As Nella tried to sit up, the figure grabbed both Nella’s and Roger’s packs, then left.
Nella crawled over to Roger, across a tent floor slick with blood. She cradled him in her arms, silently rocking back and forth.
Roger is an asshole.
Chapter 1
When a friend invites you to breakfast, you don’t expect to be sucked into a vortex of evil. But, having encountered evil on several occasions in recent years, I can tell you that the experience, pretty much by definition, is like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition: nobody expects it. My would-be enticer, Luke Reilly, was more an acquaintance than a friend, but he was a respectable businessman. He was also a politician, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Besides, who was I to judge? I’m a lawyer.
When it all was over, I would marvel at how easily I’d been dragged in. But on that morning, I was clueless as I rolled through the Minneapolis skyway system in my wheelchair, threading my way through the morning crowds en route to their workplaces, meetings, presentations, and sales calls. I wasn’t concerned about being enticed because I had plans. I was taking my life in a new direction. An old direction, actually, going back to my legal roots. It was due to happen soon. In the meantime, however . . .
That was the problem, that meantime. Inactivity for me was hazardous on multiple fronts. There was the boredom, of course. But there was also the extra time and emotional space to accommodate some unpleasant thoughts and feelings, mainly guilt. I didn’t want to contemplate the emotional damage I’d inflicted on people during my last project, an undercover investigation in Los Angeles. When you work undercover, you have to lie to people. I had done it all too easily, to people who were all too vulnerable.
But the project, having been a “success” on its own terms, had given me a possible way out of my forced inactivity. I’d considered it unlikely, after the undercover job and the two do-it-yourself investigations that had preceded it, that I would go back to a conventional job and career. But now I welcomed the prospect.
I’d made a promise to myself that I would no longer do freelance investigating. After working my way through several dangerous situations, much to the consternation of my boyfriend, James Carter, I had sworn off investigating. James hadn’t asked me to quit; in fact, we’d gotten couple’s counseling, and he had agreed, through gritted teeth, not to object when I took on these projects. But it wasn’t fair to him. I needed to give it up. I had given it up.
I waited for an automatic door to open onto another segment of busy skyway. Two people squeezed past me before I could go through. Then I had to go over to a little open elevator and wait for it to take me down half a flight of steps to the next building. Summer sun poured through the glass-and-steel skyway tubes, part of a system that allowed me to roll through downtown without ever touching the street.
Working as a federal prosecutor had never been a bad job; I’d simply been working for bad people. Now, thanks to changes in the political climate in the US attorney’s office, I had reason to hope that I might return to my old job, this time working for some good people. My first boss, Amy Connelly, was considering an offer to go back and resume her position as head of criminal prosecutions and had said that if she accepted, she wanted me back with her. While she considered the offer, I tried not to obsess about the phone call that would give me the news, yea or nay. But, thanks to the idleness, I did.
Breakfast with Luke Reilly was a pleasant enough prospect. Luke was an agreeable guy, an acquaintance of James. We’d had dinner with him a couple of times over the years and found him good company. And now, I wouldn’t mind some human contact while James was in China with Alicia, his daughter, on a trip that combined business and tourism. I rode the elevator down to Ninth Street and took the sidewalk the remaining half-block to the little diner. The morning air had already begun to thicken, foreshadowing a steamy June day.
I spotted Reilly waiting for me across the restaurant and rolled toward him. Toward the vortex. He stood up as I approached, moving aside a chair so I could roll my wheelchair up to the table. Luke looked to be in his late forties, medium height, with glasses, a goatee, and graying hair retreating slightly on either side of a widow’s peak. He was a former city council president and now oversaw some of his wealthy family’s investments. He owned the company that managed the building that was home to James’s condo on Nicollet Mall, at the south end of downtown. He knew everybody in town, and the enemies he’d made were mostly of the good type.
Luke smiled and shook my hand with the easy confidence of a wealthy, successful man. “Pen Wilkinson. Great to see you. Welcome to Minnesota. We’re not exactly China, but we’re exotic in our own way.”
I just nodded. Minnesota had its charms, for sure. But in general, I thought of it as a place where moderation is taken to extremes. With Alicia out of town, I had come up here mainly for distraction, a change of scenery, while I waited for the call from Amy Connelly.
“Have you heard from James?” he asked.
“I talked to him yesterday,” I answered, nodding to the waitress who poured coffee for me. “He just got to Shanghai. He’s got business there for a couple of days, and then he and Alicia will be off to Beijing, seeing the sights. After that it’s the Great Wall and then Xian.”
“And here we are stuck in flyover country.” He studied me. “What are you up to these days?”
“Not much. Between jobs.”
He nodded, as if I’d confirmed what he had thought. I didn’t know Reilly well; neither did James. I assumed he’d invited me here for a reason other than socializing, although I wasn’t yet fearing the vortex.
“You’re looking good,” he said. “But unless I miss my guess, you might be a little bored.”
I shrugged. “Maybe a little. I’ve got a line on a job back in LA; I’m just waiting.” We ordered, an omelet for him and fruit with an English muffin for me.
He sipped his coffee. “You’ve managed to keep things pretty low key. But I’ve been watching. You had that incident up here last year, when you busted that Russian hacking ring. And then in March you had a hush-hush job in LA that James said he couldn’t talk about.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, either.”
“And then there’s the Lofton case. I’ve heard persistent rumors that you were involved in the investigation. Actually broke the case.”
I returned the smile but didn’t respond. In fact, though, I was troubled. Luke was correct; I’d solved the murder of Blake Lofton, a candidate for governor of Minnesota. I thought I’d managed to stay pretty much under the radar for that one, but Luke was well informed.
“Do you miss being a prosecutor?” he asked.
I chewed a piece of melon slowly, savoring the prospect of vindication, of erasing the pain and humiliation of having been fired, as well as keeping my promise to James. “I’d like to go back, yes.”
“What does James think about that?”
“He’s supportive.” You have no idea, I thought.
Reilly gave me a knowing smile. “I’m sure he is. If you’re looking for something interesting to fill a little bit of your waiting time, we need someone to make some inquiries.”
Internal alarms howled. “About what?”
“A murder.” He slid a four-day-old newspaper across the table to me and pointed to an article. “Did you happen to see this?”
I glanced at the short article, which led with the headline Man Killed at Homeless Encampment. According to the article, a fifty-one-year-old man named Roger Campbell had been stabbed and killed at 2:00 in the morning. Campbell had been sleeping inside a tent at a small homeless encampment near the Midtown Greenway, a bicycle and walking path that stretched across south Minneapolis. A woman inside the tent had been struck but not stabbed and had been released from the hospital. The killer was thought to be a man wearing jeans and a hoodie who had escaped on foot. The police asked for the public’s help in solving the crime.
I looked back up at Luke. “You have an interest in this?”
He nodded. “I’m on the board of a homeless shelter and outreach organization in the area. It’s called Minneapolis Services for the Homeless—MSH—and it’s under contract to Hennepin County and the State of Minnesota to provide services to the homeless in south Minneapolis. I’ve seen the victim before, although I’m told he hasn’t spent much time in the shelters. He was on the street for all but the coldest nights—he and his girlfriend, a woman named Nella. The killer roughed her up but didn’t stab her.”
“And the murder hasn’t been solved?”
“As far as we can tell, the investigation is going nowhere. But there are a couple of interesting aspects to the case, which I’m not sure the police have fully considered.”
I waited, nibbling on a piece of English muffin.
“First of all,” Reilly said, “Roger was confined to a wheelchair. He was missing one leg and part of the other. Nella, on the other hand, is a big, sturdy woman. She’s strong. He didn’t go after her.”
“So, Roger was specifically targeted?”
“You be the judge. The other thing is, Roger was wearing a new shirt, bright red and checked. Some guy had given it to him the day before.”
“And you think this other guy may have been the intended target?”
Reilly shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We have no idea why either Roger or another guy would have been targeted. What we’re concerned about is this: The homeless often get short shrift in these cases. The police figure it was just a personal beef, real or imagined, by a mentally ill or addicted person looking for drugs or alcohol or money. And maybe it was. But . . .”
“But?”
He put his silverware down. “These things happen, Pen. The streets are a dangerous place to live. We’ve lost others over the years. But this one . . . These people—Roger and Nella. I don’t know them, obviously, but there’s just something about them. What I’m saying is that we’d like to make sure. If the victim was a wealthy person from the suburbs, the police would handle it differently.”
I took a thoughtful bite from my muffin. “How can I help?”
“You have good contacts at the police department. So do we, but they’re at the precinct level—street cops, mostly. I’ve got no relationships with the detectives at headquarters downtown.”
“Come on, Luke. You’re a leading businessman. You were president of the city council. You have great connections in this city.”
“Oh, they know me at City Hall, all right. If you look me up, you’ll see most of the articles about my council tenure contain the phrase ‘Reilly, a leading critic of the Minneapolis police . . .’ And often, my criticism was aimed at the city’s dealings with the homeless. I don’t get squat from the detectives, Pen. They’ve politely told us the investigation is proceeding, all available leads are being followed, and they’ll let us know if they find anything. What would you conclude from that?”
“They’re stumped, or if they have anything, they won’t tell you.”
“Indeed. We don’t have a relationship with anybody in Homicide. Could you check with the investigators, see where the investigation stands, and whether they’ve really considered these unusual aspects?”
“I don’t know, Luke.” I tried to think of a good excuse to say no, but explaining to Reilly that I’d promised myself to swear off investigating would sound lame.
“What do you say? Just a simple inquiry?”
I took a deep breath. I knew I had to be more proactive, more vigilant, in asking What’s in it for me? before getting involved. My failure to do so had produced trauma, even danger, for me in the past couple of years. But Reilly was targeting me with precision, exploiting my meantime, presenting me with a powerless, victimized person, and a need to learn the truth.
And besides, I told myself, it would definitely not be investigating.
“I guess I can make a call,” I said.
