Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

Two, it stood as a testament to the fact that sacrifices sometimes had to be made for the greater good.

He had above his desk a quotation: the final words of one of the men sentenced to hang for his role in the Haymarket Massacre, August Spies (who, like all the defendants, scholars believed, was probably innocent). Spies had said, “The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today.”

Sacrifices…

Reflecting now on that momentous day, Mankewitz gazed at his image, observing not his rotund physique, which pestered him occasionally, but his exhausted demeanor. He deduced this from his posture, since he couldn’t see his facial features clearly, though they surely would have added to the overall profile.

He took a bite of his club sandwich, noted the American instead of the Swiss cheese, which he’d ordered. And too much mayo in the coleslaw. They always do that, he fretted. Why do I eat here?

The Hobbit detective had been proving scarce lately, which Mankewitz cleverly punned to James Jasons really meant he was proving “scared.”

Life had turned into a nightmare after the death of Emma Feldman. He’d been “invited” to the Bureau and the state’s attorney’s office. He went with his lawyer, answered some questions, not others, and they left without receiving anything other than a chilly good-bye. His lawyer hadn’t been able to read the signs.

Then he’d heard that the law firm where the Feldman woman worked was considering a suit against him for wrongful death-and their loss of earnings. His lawyer told him this was bullshit, since there was no legally recognized cause of action for that sort of thing.

More fucking harrassment.

Mankewitz snapped, “Maybe it’s also bullshit because nobody’s proved I killed her.”

“Yeah, of course, Stan. That goes without saying.”

Without saying.

He looked up from his lopsided sandwich and saw James Jasons approach. The thin man sat down. When the waitress arrived he asked for a Diet Coke.

“You don’t eat,” Mankewitz said.

“Depends.”

Which means what? Mankewitz wondered.

“I’ve got some updates.”

“Go on.”

“First, I called the sheriff up there, Tom Dahl. Well, I called as the friend of the Feldmans-the aggrieved friend. Ari Paskell. I put on the pressure: How come you haven’t found the killers yet? Et cetera.”

“Okay.”

“I’m convinced he believed I’m who I said I was.”

“What’d he say about the case?”

Jasons blinked. “Well, nothing. But he wouldn’t. I was just making sure he wasn’t suspicious about my trip up there.”

Mankewitz nodded, trusting the man’s judgment. “What’s up with our girlfriend?”

Referring to the deputy, Kristen Brynn McKenzie. Right after the events of April 17 and 18, Jasons had looked into who was leading the investigation into the deaths of the Feldmans. There was that prick of an FBI agent, Brindle, and a couple of Milwaukee cops, but it was the small-town woman who was really pushing the case.

“She’s unstoppable. She’s running with it like a bulldog.”

Mankewitz didn’t think bulldogs ran much but he didn’t say anything.

“She’s better than the Bureau and Milwaukee PD combined.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, she’s working harder than they are. She’s been to Milwaukee four times since the murders, following up on leads.”

“She have jurisdiction?”

“I don’t think that’s an issue anybody’s worried about. What with all the shit that went down in Kennesha County. And the dead lawyer.”

“Why do I end up in the crock pot?”

Slight James Jasons had no response to that, nor should he offer one, the union boss reflected. Besides, the answer was obvious: Because I think immigrants who work hard ought to be let into the country to take the jobs of people who’re too lazy to work.

Oh, and because I say it in public.

“So, Ms. McKenzie’s not going to stop until she gets to the bottom of what happened up there.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Jasons echoed.

“Out to make a name for herself?”

His man considered this, frowning. “It’s not like she wants a notch in her gun or career advancement, anything like that.”

“What’s her point then?”

“Putting bad people in jail.”

Jasons reminded Mankewitz again about being in the forest that night in April-an unarmed Brynn McKenzie on top of a cliff, launching rocks and logs down onto the men pursuing her, while they fired back with a shotgun and automatic pistol. She had only vanished when Jasons himself began firing with the Bushmaster.

Mankewitz knew without a doubt he wouldn’t like Deputy McKenzie. But he had to respect her.

“What’s she found exactly?”

“I don’t know. She’s been on the lakefront, Avenues West, the Brewline, over to Madison, down to Kenosha. Went to Minneapolis for the day. She’s not stopping.”

The running bulldog.

“Anything I can use? Anything at all?”

Speaking from memory-he never seemed to need notes-Jasons said, “There is one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

“She’s got a secret.”

“Give me the gist.”

“Okay, six, seven years ago-married to her first husband. He was a state trooper, decorated, popular guy. Also had a temper. Had hit her in the past.”

“Prick, hitting women.”

“Well, turns out he gets shot.”

“Shot?”

“In his own kitchen. There’s an inquest. Accidental discharge. Unfortunate accident.”

“Okay. Where’s this going?”

“It wasn’t an accident at all. Intentional shooting. There was a cover-up. Might’ve gone all the way to Madison.”

“The kind of cover-up where people’ll lose their jobs, if it comes to light?”

“Lose their jobs and probably go to jail.”

“This just rumors?”

Jasons opened his briefcase. He removed a limp file folder. “Proof.”

For a little runt, the man sure did produce.

“Hope it’s helpful.”

Mankewitz opened the folder. He read, lifting an eyebrow. “I think it’s very helpful.” He looked up and said sincerely, “Thanks. Oh, and by the way, Happy May Day.”

HE LIKED THIS town.

At least he liked it well enough as a temporary home.

Green Bay was flatter than the state park around Lake Mondac, less picturesque in that sense, but the bay itself was idyllic, and the Fox River impressive in that hard, industrial way that had always appealed to Hart. His father used to take him to the steel mill where the man worked in the payroll office, and the son was always excited beyond words to don a hard hat and tour the floor, which stank of smoke and coal and liquid metal and rubber.

His rental house here was on one of the numbered streets, working-class, not so great. But functional and cheap. His big problem was that he was bored.

Biding time never worked for Hart but biding time was what he had to do. No choice there, none at all.

If he got too bored, he’d go for a drive to the forest preserve, which he found comforting, especially since to get there he’d take Lakeview Drive-the name similar to the private road at Lake Mondac. He would go for walks or sit in the car and work. He had several prepaid mobile phones and would make calls about forthcoming jobs.

Today, in fact, he was just finishing one of these walks, and noticed a maypole set up in one of the clearings. The children were running in a circle, making a barber pole. Then they sat down to their picnic lunch. A school bus was nearby, a yellow stain on the otherwise pretty green.

Hart returned to his rental house, drove around the block, just to be sure, then went inside. He checked messages and made some calls on a new prepaid mobile. Then he went into the garage, where he’d set up a small woodworking shop, a tiny one. He’d been working on a project of his own design. It started out being just an hour or two a day. Now he was up to about four hours. Nothing relaxed him like working with wood.