The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 61

“Who’s he?”

“He’s kind of a gangster.”

“Oh, God, not another one.”

“Up here, he’s like, he’s into a lot of things. He’s on the Ely City Council and he owns a couple of businesses, a couple of outfitters, the strip club where Fenelon’s girl works, Claire de Lune. They say he used to control all the gambling in the region right up until the Indians opened the casino at Fortune Bay and took most of the profit outta it. Now they say anyone up here dealing drugs or sellin’ girls, he gets a piece. At least that’s what they say. Don’t know for sure. I do know he got busted a while back, got busted for running stolen car parts across the border and launderin’ the profits through his businesses. Only right after the charges were filed they went away and nothing came of it, so I guess up here he’s the closest thing we got to a gangster.”

“What were he and Fenelon talking about?”

“Couldn’t say, cuz they, whenever I got close to the table to serve ’em their drinks, they’d stop talking. Heard ’em say only one thing, don’t know how interesting it is.”

“What?”

“Brand—he’s into everything, like I say, and people say, they say he always wants to put his ‘brand’ on everything, you know what I mean?”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘My toys, my rules.’”

“I can see how he might take that attitude. Anything else?”

The bartender said nothing came to mind. I finished our conversation by telling him to keep his ears open and promising that he would see some money, soon. Afterward, I punched LUNATIC into the keypad of my cell—the word seemed to become more and more appropriate as we went along. Chad Bullert answered on the fourth ring. I gave him a quick update on my plans. He seemed pleased, although not for long.

“I need twenty-five hundred in cash,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Down payment on an informant,” I explained, and then gave him the details. He agreed to have someone stash the money at the Chocolate Moose, where I could pick it up the next evening, but not before chiding, “You’re pretty free with the government’s money.”

“Do you know how much I pay in taxes?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah … Do you think John Brand is connected to the guns?”

“More likely him than Fenelon. The bit about smuggling car parts across the border intrigues me.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He has political connections.”

“So do we. I’ll look into it.”

“You might also want to look at a couple of bent sheriff deputies named Eugene James and Allen Williams while you’re at it.”

“Why?”

I explained.

“They know who you are,” Bullert said. “At least they know you’re Dyson.”

“Yep.”

“They know what you’re planning. They even knew you would be out on Highway 1—pulling you over the way they did, that wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Nope.”

“McKenzie, you have a spy in your crew.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a long pause, and for the second time that day I was afraid I had dropped his call. Finally Bullert asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I know what I’d like to do.”

“Yes, but what are you going to do?”

“If Brand really is Fenelon’s gun connection, I doubt he’ll wait for my call. He’ll come to me at a time and place of his own choosing. He’ll make sure he has the advantage.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’ll call you.”

Bullert paused for a moment before saying something I didn’t expect. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing, McKenzie. I know it’s not easy. I just want to say thank you.”

“Stop it, Chad. I’m starting to get misty-eyed over here.”

“Harry was right. You are a pain in the ass.”

ELEVEN

Roy and I never walked “around” the white building. Instead, we would creep up to the edge of the clearing, take our photographs, then edge straight back until we melted into the thick forest. After we were comfortably out of sight, we would move to our left forty or fifty yards and do it again, crawling on our forearms, knees, and the inside of our feet in a straight line while always being careful to keep our asses down. The first time we did it, I moved all the way up to the line where the field met the trees. Roy cursed under his breath and grabbed my leg, dragging me backward on my stomach until I was about five yards deep in the woods. “Relax,” I told him as I rolled on my back and started working the camera from its case. Roy leaned over and whacked me on the top of the head.

“Stop moving,” he hissed—actually hissed. He stole the camera case from my hands and motioned for me to follow him—on hands and knees and stomach—back down the trail. Once he determined we were safe, he spoke low and harshly.