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Neither one us had anything to say after that and Mallinger returned to her cruiser. I waited until she was safely in her car before pulling off the shoulder and accelerating—slowly—to thirty-five.
“D. Mallinger,” I said aloud as I watched her image recede in my mirror. “I wonder what the D stands for.”
I don’t know what I expected from Victoria. A quaint hamlet draped in sheets of pristine snow like something pictured on a postcard, I suppose. Instead, I found a tired, diminutive Twin Cities. A slaughterhouse and a lawn mower company were pumping enough money into the town to support a small hospital, a library, two elementary schools, a high school, city hall, fire station, and a law enforcement center, but none of them were new. There was a Wal-Mart, of course. A few fast-food joints, bars, convenience stores, and a tiny barn that sold Computers-Crafts-Miniature Golf lined Victoria’s main drag. Christmas decorations still hung from stoplights and street lamps, but there was no joy in them. The evergreen boughs, gold garlands, and red ribbons appeared as gray and exhaust-stained as the drifts plowed along the boulevards.
Yet there was another side to the city as well—snow-covered baseball and soccer fields, several parks, three lakes with beaches closed for the winter, and the Des Moines River. A few blocks off Main Street I discovered a charming network of tree-lined streets, large and venerable houses with sprawling porches and tire swings in the front yard, rolling hills marked with the tracks of sleds, toboggans, and skis, as well as something I hadn’t prepared for. How big the sky seemed. It stretched from the white water tower way up north to the grain elevators way down south with only the dome of the courthouse and a few church steeples for competition.
Now this is what a small town should look like.
Much of what I knew about Victoria I had learned from a city map I bought at the gas station where I stopped to fill my Audi. I had considered lunch; it was fast approaching noon. But first things first. Using the map, I navigated the streets until I found 347 Second Avenue and rolled into the parking lot. It was a small business. The large, illuminated sign above the door and windows read: FIT TO PRINT. The smaller sign in the corner of the window listed services: Black/White & Color Copies ? Print From Disk/Color Laser Prints ? Manuals, Reports & Newsletters ? Flyers, Brochures & Transparencies ? Binding, Laminating & Custom Tabs ? Instant Posters, Banners & Exhibits ? Business Cards & Letterhead ? Invitations & Specialty Papers ? High Speed Internet Access ? PC & Mac Rental Stations.
I knew I was screwed before I even left my car.
The kid behind the counter looked like he was about sixteen. He smiled as if he meant it when he said, “Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you?” He was Hispanic, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a name tag that identified him as Rufugio Tapia. His accent was faint—you had to listen hard to hear it, but it was there. To the right of him there were eight copiers of various size and function; a woman was working one of them, copying what looked like newspaper clippings. To the left was an equal number of PCs and Apples separated from each other by soft privacy walls. Behind the counter I could see several large printers and a couple of machines I couldn’t identify.
“You provide Internet access,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you keep track of who uses your machines and when?”
“Sir?”
“Is it possible to learn who used your computers at any given time?”
The smile disappeared and his face closed down.
“No,” he said.
“So, if I were to log onto one of your machines . . .”
“Sir, may I ask your name?”
“McKenzie. Now if I were . . .”
“Why are you asking these questions?”
Tapia wasn’t angry, but he was getting to it.
“Perhaps you should let me speak to your supervisor,” I said.
“I am the supervisor.”
“The owner then.”
“I am the owner.”
“You’re kidding?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, a classic defensive posture.
“It is not possible for a Mexican American to own a business?” he said.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“When I was twenty-three I owned a Dave Winfield autographed baseball glove, some hockey equipment, and a 1974 Chevy Impala. I was thinking of your age when I said, ‘You’re kidding.’ ”
“Oh. Yes. I understand.”
“Listen,” I said. “Here’s my problem. An e-mail was sent from one of your machines Friday. I’m trying to figure out who sent it?”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t a very nice e-mail.”
Tapia inhaled through his teeth and exhaled slowly.
“All of our machines are self-service,” he said. “Each comes with a self-service card reader. You access them by using a credit card or by buying one of our cards.”