Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

“Law offices.”

“Milton Dane,” Broker said.

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Phil Broker, returning his call.”

Broker poured another cup of coffee, sipped; Milt came on the line.

“Hey, Broker, I heard you were in town.”

“I brought Hank’s truck back.”

“That’s what Jolene said.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Ibuprofen. And reps with tuna cans. Story of my life. How long are you in the Cities?”

“Over the weekend.”

“Look, could you drop by my office today? Take a quick deposition? It would save me the trouble of driving up north.”

“Sure,” he glanced at Amy. “I could be there, say-at ten.”

“Good. I’ll assemble the usual suspects.”

After getting Milt’s location, he said good-bye, hung up, and turned to Amy. “When’s your flight?”

“Six-thirty, check in at five-thirty.”

“You want to get out of the house, go into St. Paul?”

“And take a chance on running into Milton Dane, who is going to sue my ass off? No thank you. I’ll pack. Just get back in time to give me a ride.”

Driving west on 94, he decided it was time to let it go and head back up north. After seeing Milt, he’d call Jolene and nail down a time to have a sit-down with Earl Garf. Maybe someday he’d figure out a way to tie Garf to Stovall. But not today.

Then he’d take Amy to the airport.

When he got back to Ely he’d call her up. Dinner maybe.

And the idea of staying at Uncle Billie’s held a certain appeal as opposed to returning to his empty house, with children’s books and toys gathering dust in the corners. So, he’d stay in Ely for at least November. Go deer hunting with Iker. Try to kick back for a while. Let things develop.

He entered St. Paul, parked, and found his way to the twenty-second floor of the American National Bank building where Milt had an office.

The pert blond gatekeeper told him to go right in, that Milt was expecting him. Broker went through a door next to the reception desk. Milt appeared at the end of the corridor and waved him into his corner office.

Gingerly, they shook hands. Milt was clearly still favoring his arm. The corner walls were primarily glass and, twenty stories down, the east side of St. Paul spread to the horizon like an Amish autumn quilt. In the foreground, the window ledges were lined with travel souvenirs: African carvings, Southeast Asian brass dragons, and South American masks. Framed pictures on the walls portrayed Milt strapped in a life jacket, glowering through whitewater, swinging a kayak paddle.

And there was this tall guy in a gray suit, with beetle brows and a widow’s peak, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Milt’s desk. A guy who did not get up to greet him, who did not smile.

His name was Tim Downs and he’d been a homicide investigator with St. Paul and had gone to law school at night. He’d quit and hung out his shingle. Downs had been a cop with a nose for politics, the kind who kept track of everyone and everything.

Not missing a beat, still smiling, Milt said, “You two know each other.”

“Yeah,” Downs said, getting up.

“Yeah,” Broker said, nodding at Downs.

Downs nodded back and walked from the office, leaving Broker in flat-footed appreciation of Milt’s understated style.

“So, have a seat,” Milt said. “You want some coffee?” Milt asked. Broker shook his head.

Milt now extended Broker the courtesy of addressing him as a player and a peer. “So Allen calls me up the other night and says Jolene’s houseguest, Earl Garf-alias Clyde-had a run-in with you. .”

Broker, caught off guard by Downs’s appearance, went on the attack. “Hank belongs in a nursing home, he needs full-time, skilled care. She’s working herself ragged.”

Milt reacted frankly, hands open, fingers spread. “I couldn’t stop her, she went ballistic when the Blue Cross tanked. Look, Allen’s been monitoring him every day. He’s in remarkably good shape for a. .”

“Vegetable,” Broker said.

“I didn’t want to rush her. I also had to get a feel for working with her. .”

Broker said, “What’s the matter? Afraid she might jump to another lawyer?”

Milt said, “Monday I’m moving him into a full-care facility.”

“Who’s paying?”

“I’m paying. I’m also on the calender in probate in Washington County. It might take a month, but Jolene will be appointed Hank’s guardian and executor of his trust. We all just got off to a bad start on this thing.”

“Too bad. Garf wouldn’t be there if she hadn’t come up broke because of Hank’s trust-fund antics,” Broker said.

Milt said, “I know that. If he would have listened to Jolene and paid his bills on time we wouldn’t be in this mess. But he didn’t listen to her, he went to his AA buddy. You know about that?”

“I know about Stovall,” Broker said.

The preliminary fencing ended and they both backed off. Milt glanced at his hands and inquired diplomatically, “Don’t like surprises, do you? Like Downs being here?”

Broker changed the subject and pointed to a medical monitor the size of a breadbox that sat on the desk. “What’s that?”

“That,” Milt said, “is our case. It’s a GE Marquette, it monitors vital signs; what they had Hank hooked up to. I rented one.” Milt reached across the desk and fiddled with knobs and dials. “And this is what I think happened: they had one nurse watching Hank and, to be fair, half the other patients in the place, plus covering the ER. Once you attach the leads to the patient, the monitor starts graphing vital signs. But if you don’t program the machine for a new patient, the alarm doesn’t activate.

“So I’m thinking the anesthetist miscalculated the amount of sedation she gave Hank throughout the operation and took him off the gas too soon. They get him up to recovery-but the nurse is busy, she hooks up the leads and forgets the programing procedure; she sees the wave forms going across the screen and thinks everything’s all right. She gets distracted, leaves the room, Hank stops breathing, and nobody knows.”

Milt picked up a manila folder full of forms and dropped it on his desk. “The case is very strong.”

Broker said, “Jolene insists he looks at her.”

Milt nodded. “She told me. We’ve had experts. Allen checks him regularly for visual pursuit. There is no indication of voluntary reflexes.” He paused and then focused his full attention on Broker.

“So, let’s talk about you. You thumped Garf and he checked around and came up with some interesting background on our trusty northwoods guide; like you did time in Stillwater, and so on. That’s when I got ahold of Downs, who investigates this kind of stuff for us, and I asked him to check you out.

“And he just laughs and says, ‘Good luck,’ because you were only the most freewheeling undercover operative in Minnesota cop land and the longest-running one. Apparently fragments from your undercover days are still scattered through the system, and that’s what Garf found in NCIC. You were with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, right?”

Broker remained silent, utterly unreadable and unflappable; it had been his most useful talent as a cop and his least endearing quality to civilians.

Milt, in no way intimidated, leaned forward across his desk. “Right?”

Clearly Milt was no cherry, and he had mouse-trapped him with Downs. So Broker said, “Yeah.”

“Among other things”-Milt raised an eyebrow-“like rumors, you’re stringing for ongoing deep-shit federal stuff nobody is willing to talk about. Which is why you’re still carried in the system.”

Broker cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and scratched his cheek. “What else did Tim have to say?”