P Tracy - Play To Kill aka Shoot To Thrill

The house was a surprise – one of the largest in a new development of McMansions people bought on credit to impress their neighbors with how much money they supposedly had. Magozzi knew the inside by heart. Lots of electronics, lots of granite and upscale appliances in a kitchen they never used, lots of bills hidden away in a drawer somewhere. People with real money never bought places like this, because there was something tacky that shone through all the pretense of luxury like a Target T-shirt under a cashmere sweater.

The doorbell was a melody – didn't anybody have normal doorbells anymore? – and whoever was inside took a while answering. Magozzi took point, as always; Gino was off to the side, and John Smith hung back a little, ceding the lead to the cops, who did this kind of thing a lot more than he did.

The man who finally came to the door was dressed in what old movies had taught him wealthy men wore at home in the evening. In his peripheral vision Magozzi saw Gino cover his mouth quickly, and he didn't blame him. The idiot was wearing one of those silly shiny robes over his white shirt and suit pants. 'Good evening, sir,' he said respectfully, flipping open his badge case and holding it up. 'Are you Mr. Zellickson?'

'Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?'

'Detective Magozzi, MPD. This is my partner, Detective Rolseth, and this is Special Agent John Smith of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is your son Kyle at home?'

Mr. Zellickson looked genuinely confused. Yes, he is… did you say the FBI?'

'That's correct, sir.'

'What on earth would you want with my son?'

Magozzi smiled briefly. 'Just a few questions, sir. We think he and a friend of his may have inadvertently witnessed something pertinent to a crime we're investigating and hoped he'd be willing to help us out by answering a few questions.'

'Really. Well, of course he'd be happy to help if he could…' He pressed his lips together and frowned at John Smith. 'I don't understand the FBI connection. Does this have anything to do with the boxes today?'

Goddamnit, Magozzi thought, he wasn't as dumb as his doorbell. Yes, it does.'

'Good heavens. I can't imagine Kyle seeing anything and not mentioning it… this whole thing is terrible, and to tell you the truth, I think it frightened him a little.'

Magozzi nodded. 'I'm sure it did. The point is, witnesses often see things without realizing what they saw, so they never think to mention it until someone asks them about it.'

'Oh.' He chewed on his lip a while and tugged at his pants, which Magozzi thought was always a bad sign. Bull readjusting the jewels before taking a stand. Worse yet, Mr. Silk Robe wasn't opening the door and inviting them in. 'I do want to be helpful, Officers. Please don't misunderstand. But Kyle is my son, and having the three of you show up at my door at this hour wanting to question him about what happened today makes me very uncomfortable. I think I'd like to call our lawyer.'

Magozzi nodded. 'Then that's exactly what you should do, sir. As a matter of fact, if you have any reason to believe that your son might have been involved in the placement of these boxes all over the city- '

'Good God, no! It's not that. I just meant… it's so ridiculous. Kyle was valedictorian of his graduating class. Four-point-oh since he was a freshman. Voted most popular, most likely to succeed…'

Gino made a face and rolled his head. 'Oh, man, you gotta be kidding me. You have a kid with a four-point-oh?

I got a sixteen-year-old who thinks four-point-oh is an IQ score. You're a lucky man, Mr. Zellickson.'

Kyle's dad blinked at Gino, and then smiled tentatively. 'Thank you. He's a great kid.'

Gino gave him a lopsided smile. 'Obviously. Let me know when he's between girlfriends. My daughter may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but she's a sweetheart, and a looker to boot, and I'd sure like to see her hooked up with a young man who takes education seriously.' He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged at Magozzi. 'Come on, Leo. Let me tell him what's up. The guy's got the army at the door and has every right to be concerned.'

Magozzi looked down at his shoes and pretended to think for a moment.

John was watching the two cops without saying a word, thinking he'd learned more in the past three minutes than in all his years of law enforcement.

'I suppose,' Magozzi finally said.

'Great. Okay, Mr. Zellickson, this is the deal,' Gino said. We got some surveillance video from some of the sites where the boxes were planted, and we caught a pic of Kyle and his friend' – he pretended to consult his notes – 'Clark, something…'

'Clark Bradley?'

Yeah, that's the one. They weren't carrying a box or anything, and we're not thinking for one minute they were involved, but they were pretty close to a spot where one of the boxes was found, so we figured maybe, if we were really lucky, they might have seen something… like somebody setting down a box, for instance. And what's so freaky about that? A guy setting down a box? You'd never think twice about it. But in this case, maybe it means something.'

Kyle's dad frowned. Where was this?'

'The Metrodome.'

The man got manicures, Magozzi realized, wondering why that still gave him the creeps. His hand was pressed against his chest as if to quiet a relieved heart, and his buffed nails glinted on the black silk of the silly robe.

'Oh, for crying out loud,' Mr. Zellickson said, smiling for the first time since he'd opened the door. 'They have open skating at the Dome on a couple of floors whenever nothing else is going on. Kyle and Clark go all the time. They love their Rollerblades.'

Gino opened his hands and grinned. 'And they were blading on the film.' His grin disappeared. 'However – and I'm telling you this as a father, because I'd want to know if it were my kid – neither one of them was wearing a helmet.'

Mr. Zellickson's eyes narrowed. 'I will definitely talk to him about that. Come in, gentlemen. Kyle's in the basement doing some homework. With Clark, as it happens. You can talk to them both at the same time.'

Gino beamed at him. 'How lucky can we get?'

Kyle's mother pretty much hated the basement, which suited Kyle just fine since it meant she didn't come down here very much. Once in a blue moon the tornado siren on the corner blew its brains out and busted everybody's eardrums, and that was the only time she came down to the space Kyle had made his own. He and Clark had tacked up band posters on the wall, and hidden under those were the really fab posters of girls with big hooters hanging down to their belly buttons that made you want to do things to yourself no matter who was looking.

Clark was kind of a superdweeb. He'd been wearing jackets with zippers instead of snaps, duh, when he and Kyle had first hooked up, but he was a pure CSI genius. He'd seen every show about a million times, and watched all the cop and autopsy shows on cable until he nearly fried his brains out with a TV Ph.D. in how to do crime and make assholes out of the cops. Better yet, he carried a bong in his backpack and scored a lot of green from somewhere, because he always had a Glad bag full in his jockey shorts.

They were slumped on the sprung-out couch in the basement room mainlining tortilla chips and chocolate, watching the big screen Kyle's dad had hung on the wall to keep his precious progeny occupied while he and the mother of the year did whatever the hell they did upstairs. Last time he'd checked they'd been watching some reality show about a bunch of weird people trying to beat each other at stupid games on a deserted island. Tonight they were glued to the coverage of all the boxes that were turning the city upside down.

Have you done your homework, Kyle?

We're doing it now, Dad. Clark and I are watching the PBS special on the Civil War for history class.