Chuck Logan - Absolute Zero

Milt leaned forward a little more, grinning, “That you’re a misfit, a maverick, and maybe a shade more outlaw than cop-not a team player, at any rate.” He seemed intrigued by these revelations. Even amused. And something more. Broker sensed the lawyer was a quick study who spotted a passing advantage. He asked, “Can I still get some coffee?”

“Sure.” Milt tapped the intercom. “Kelly, could you bring us two cups of coffee.”

Broker inclined his head forward. “Did you tell Allen any of this?”

Milt smiled. “Allen, the invincible surgeon? Of course not. I love to keep that guy in the dark.”

“So Garf still thinks. .”

“You have a checkered past. Like he does. Which is how you’re playing it with them, I suspect.” Milt straightened up when his assistant brought in a tray with cups, carafe, cream, and sugar. When she withdrew, he doled out coffee, then he turned back to Broker. “Naturally-once I learned about your background, I’d been thinking about the difference between omission and commission.”

“Say what you mean, Milt.”

“What are you doing hanging out at Hank’s?”

“You mean, like Allen? And maybe you?”

Milt opened his hands and pursed his lips. “Jolene’s in a tight spot. We all feel bad.”

“She’s the fucking Lorelei.” Broker pointed to the white-water pictures on the wall. “I’d plug my ears and mind the rocks, if I were you.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Broker sipped his coffee and watched a Cessna traverse Milt’s windows on approach to the St. Paul Municipal Airport. “Are you going to win?” he asked.

“Nothing’s for sure. But, yeah, I’m going to win.”

“Big?”

“Pretty big.

“How will the money be disbursed?”

Milt picked up a handspring from his desktop and squeezed it methodically. “Most of it will go into a trust for Hank’s extended care. Some will go to Jolene directly; she has a claim to loss of consortium.”

“What’s that?”

Milt shrugged. “It compensates for the loss of aid, comfort, and society of the injured party. But as the spouse she has a lot to say about administering the trust.”

“Along with her lawyer,” Broker said.

“Of course.”

Now Broker leaned forward. “Let’s say you do win big and the money gets paid, and then, when it’s all settled, Hank conveniently dies the rest of the way. What happens to the money?”

“She gets it all. What’s your point?”

“I don’t see Jolene shackled to bedsores for the long haul. Too many men are interested in her.” Broker paused for emphasis. “And love always finds a way.”

“That’s melodramatic,” Milt said, lowering his eyes in distaste.

Broker paused a moment. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Not at the moment,” Milt said, getting up, turning his broad pinstriped back to Broker. He stared out his windows. “I take it you’ve been in among these rocks you’re talking about?”

Broker couldn’t see his face. “Close enough to know when to get the hell out, after I take care of one little detail.”

Milt’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Which is?”

“Persuading Garf his self-interest lies elsewhere. The way I see it, I owe Hank a favor for saving my butt out on that lake.”

“Can you do that?” Milt turned just a fraction too fast.

Broker almost felt sorry for Garf: more and more he was being cast as the main speed bump on the way to Jolene’s bounty. Like everybody, Milt wanted him gone. But he didn’t want to get his hands dirty and he didn’t want to see the messy part. He just wanted it to be made nice and clean; the pretty woman all alone in the big house with all the money.

Broker shook his head. He’d had enough of the Cities. “When I worked the streets, back in the Dark Ages, we’d rough up the riffraff for bothering their betters and call it asshole control. Now, of course, everybody is empowered, especially assholes, and you have to be more civil.”

“And?”

Broker chose his words carefully. “You and me have sort of detoured off the record here?”

Milt nodded. “I’d say we’re pretty much operating on your old turf.”

“Okay. Consider a hypothetical-”

“We’re just talking, right?” Milt said.

“Yeah,” Broker said. “What if Garf has this excessive, electronic financial profile involving more credit card numbers than he charges items to? What if someone made a copy of his hard drive, but it was too complicated for him to figure out. Of course, Washington County and St. Paul have cyber cops who might have a different opinion, if the disks were to fall into their hands.”

Milt nodded. “All speculation, of course; but a simple quid pro quo.”

Broker nodded. “Garf moves out of the house and out of Jolene’s life. After a certain interval, he gets to watch me destroy the disks. No police involvement. I think Hank would approve. I get the impression he wanted Jolene to have a chance to outgrow the likes of Garf. I’m going to try and give him his wish. But, if Garf goes, there has to be provision for the money Jolene legitimately owes him. I want to be able to tell him that.”

“Understood. After Garf’s gone, I’ll take it up with Jolene,” Milt said.

Broker watched Milt tug at his lapels, straighten his tie. “So, do you think people can change?”

“Do you?” Milt bounced it back.

They explored each other’s faces for a few beats, then Broker stood up. “What about this deposition?”

Milt came around his desk to walk Broker to the door. “You know, I don’t think you’re the kind of guy I want to put on the stand.”

“You mean, where the other side can cross-examine me,” Broker said, mock-serious.

They shook hands.

Driving east out of St. Paul, Broker took less and less relish in the prospect of hassling Garf. It had degraded to the level of an onerous duty, like carrying out the garbage. And it reminded him that one of the reasons he’d lost interest in routine police work was the time spent shooing human rubbish away from the tidy lives of the Milton Danes and the Allen Falkens.

He shook his head, concentrated on driving, turned off the freeway, and threaded through the congested traffic and sprawling strip malls until his wheels struck country gravel. Driving the solitary back roads was an exercise in nostalgia-trying to make time stand still and hold on to the world he’d grown up in. Sometimes he thought that if he stayed out here on the margins long enough, he might come back into style. But truthfully, he knew now that even Garf was part of something new that was passing him by.

Amy left a note tacked on the door: WENT FOR A RUN. Her bags were stacked on the porch, ready to go. So Broker phoned Jolene, got the machine, and left a message inquiring when Garf would be home.

Then he went back outside and walked down the gravel road that curved past the barn toward the fields and the paddocks. The wind had picked up. Overhead, fast-moving clouds jammed a busy sky. Sunlight and shadow alternated, slap-dash, on the paddocks’ bright tin roofs and the red barn lumber and the mowed green alfalfa fields. Standing on the high ground behind the paddocks, he spotted a flicker of blue and made her out, running the gravel road in a wind suit, on the far side of a long, undulating parcel of standing corn.

He tried to imagine Jolene running. Couldn’t see it.

Just wasn’t her style.

He lit a cigar, enjoying the bite of the smoke and the chilled scent of alfalfa stubble. A broken V formation of Canada geese passed high overhead, their wild calls plunging down the cold air.

He timed his walk back toward the house so he’d meet Amy as she jogged down the driveway, past the swaying willows. She slowed to a walk and watched him approach as she pulled an ear-warmer strip from her head and shook out her hair.