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“Considering how helpful he’s been, he either hates his boss or likes you.”
“Both, I think,” G. K. said. “Anyway, Mr. Muehlenhaus asked me to get Merodie Davies off before her case came to trial. He didn’t want Tuseman to get any traction from her trial at all. I told him we might have a good chance of getting it kicked because a cop roughed up Merodie and the man who tried to help her during questioning. I mentioned your name, and Mr. Muehlenhaus laughed.”
“He would.”
“He said some people have all the luck. I think he meant himself, not you. Anyway, he said we should try to recruit you to help, that you would help if we asked you the right way. He said you were resourceful. He said you were courageous—I guess you proved that tonight.”
“Sure.”
“He said you never quit.”
“He’s wrong about that.”
“McKenzie.”
“Genevieve. Did it ever occur to you that Merodie Davies might be guilty as sin?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Not to you—you’re her attorney. It matters a great deal to me. Listen. Robert St. Ana abused her; he’s dead. Brian Becker abused her; he’s dead. Richard Nye abused her; he’s doing time for drugs. Eli Jefferson cheats on her; he’s dead. Do you see a pattern here? Then there’s the softball bat.”
I told her about it. G. K. turned the information over in her head.
“Tuseman will claim it supports a history of violence,” she said. “He’ll probably try to get it admitted under Spriegl.”
“I’m not going to protect a murderer just because I’m miffed at the Anoka City Police Department,” I said. “Muehlenhaus knows that. Which brings us to our friend tonight. Who do you think sent him?”
G. K. stared at me for a few beats before answering. “Not Mr. Muehlenhaus.”
“He’s done it to me before—kept me interested in a case by trying to scare me off of it.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Sure he would. The man’s a master manipulator. He enjoys it.”
G. K. stared at her drink for a few moments, took a sip, and said, “I don’t believe that’s true, and if it’s not true, that means there’s someone else at work here.”
“There’s always that possibility.” I shifted the ice pack again.
“McKenzie, you can’t quit. I need you. I need you to help me sort it all out.”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I’ll stick. For a while, anyway.”
“But you said . . . You’re confusing me.”
“I think there’s a good chance Merodie Davies is a serial killer,” I said. “I think that Muehlenhaus knows it—he seems to know everything—and that he sent his thug to motivate me into helping Merodie get off anyway. The moment I can prove either for sure, I’m gone. Make no mistake about that, G. K. However, there’s one small, nagging detail that makes me think, yeah, you could be right, there might be more to it than meets the eye.”
“What detail?”
“Your neighbor said our visitor drove off in a small black car. It could be a sports car.”
“Yes?”
“Yesterday Mollie Pratt told me that she saw a small black sports car parked in Merodie’s driveway the day Eli Jefferson was killed.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Last night Mollie Pratt was murdered.”
“Oh.”
G. K. made a third vodka and orange juice. We talked some more while she drank it. I told her about Mollie Pratt; told her I had been convinced that she had seen Priscilla St. Ana’s car even though the description and time didn’t exactly match, only now I wasn’t so sure. I told her about my adventures with Lieutenant Weiner that morning and everything else I had learned in the past few days. We talked for a long time. After a while it became just conversation.
I told G. K. it was time for me to leave. The news sent a visible shiver through her.
“McKenzie, I know I’m asking a lot, but. . . can you . . . can you stay here tonight?”
She didn’t need to tell me she was frightened to be alone. I could see it in her eyes.
“Do you have more ice?”
I stretched out on G. K.’s downstairs sofa. The streetlights shone in every window save the one covered with plywood. It was nearing midnight. I was tired, yet each time I started to drift off to sleep I found another aching body part that demanded attention. After a few minutes I discovered G. K. standing at the foot of the sofa. She was dressed in a white lace nightgown that ended at her knees. I could barely make out her face in the dark.
She said, “Would you like to come upstairs?”
I said, “I would like that very much.” She reached out her hand to me. “But not tonight.” She let her hand fall slowly to her side. “You’re frightened, Gen, and a little confused. Plus, you’ve had too much to drink. I don’t want you to do anything now that will make you feel uncomfortable in the morning. Come to me tomorrow when you’re sober, clear-headed, and feeling no pain. I’ll still be here.”