As soon as I let him into the house, he made a grasping motion with the fingers of his right hand. I gave him an envelope. The envelope contained $5,000. I took the money from a safe in my basement floor—I had learned long ago to keep a sizable sum of “mad money” on hand for just such an occurrence as this. Fishing the cash out of the safe had been painful, what with all the bending and leaning I had to do. Almost as painful as dropping the envelope in Herzog’s hand.
“Half now, half later,” I said.
“What if you get killed?”
“I guess you’ll just have to sue my estate.”
Herzog nodded as if it seemed perfectly reasonable to him. He turned the envelope over in his hand yet did not open it, did not count the money. It wasn’t a matter of trust. Only an idiot would short-change the man.
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ gonna get me sent back t’ Stillwater.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I mean it, McKenzie.”
“All I need you to do is drive and maybe run an errand or two. And, oh yeah, keep me from getting shot.”
Herzog slipped the envelope into an inside pocket.
“I’m only doin’ this cuz Chopper said,” he told me.
“I know.”
I had called Chopper from the hospital. He asked many questions about my condition that suggested a working knowledge of both emergency medicine and clinical procedures—the man never ceased to amaze. At the same time, he was very apologetic about not wanting to come and visit.
“You know me and hospitals,” he said.
I knew. If you had been rolled perfectly healthy into a hospital—well, except for two bullets in your back—and then came out in a wheelchair, you might want to avoid them, too.
I asked Chopper for a couple of favors. The first was to arrange another meeting with El Cid. The second was Herzog.
“I don’ like helpin’ no cops,” the big man informed me yet again.
“I appreciate that. Are you heavy?”
He sniffed like it was the dumbest question he had ever heard. Or maybe it was the way I asked it.
“Are you?” he repeated.
I pulled a Walther PPK out of my jacket pocket and held it up. The butt was firm against the bandage covering the cut in my hand, and it hurt. ’Course, so did my head, my ankle, my shoulder, and my back where the debris from the explosion had rained down on it.
“What th’ hell is ’at?” he asked. “A fuckin’ toy?”
“Hey, man, it’s the same gun that James Bond carries.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
I didn’t blame him for being skeptical. I was no more impressed by the Walther’s stopping power than Herzog. I chose it because of its size—the automatic fit comfortably inside my jacket pocket—and because of its weight. Twenty-two ounces was easier to wave around with one hand and, God help me, if I had to shoot, it would be with one hand. Hell, the only reason I even bought the .32 was that, well, it was the gun James Bond used in the movies. Still, I felt the need to defend myself.
“One-handed, I doubt I could shoot a heavy-caliber gun accurately,” I said.
“Fuck,” Herzog said, holding the word like the last note of a power ballad. At least he didn’t call me a pussy.
“You drive,” I said.
I handed him the keys to my Jeep Cherokee. I had switched vehicles with Nina again. She had driven off in her Lexus after giving me her keys to my car and house.
“Where we goin’?” Herzog asked.
“Minneapolis Police Department.”
“Say what?”
“Don’t worry, Herzy. You can wait in the car.”
Lieutenant Rask was waiting for me when I limped into his office in room 108 of Minneapolis City Hall. He was so happy to see me that he left me standing there on my sprained ankle, completely ignoring my presence while he read a file on his desk. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, locked the fingers of his hands behind his head, and announced, “I’m this close to throwing your ass in jail.”
“What charge?”
“Conspiring to receive stolen property.”
“If you arrest me, you’ll need to arrest everyone else, including Branko Pozderac and Jonathan Hemsted.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”
“Tell me why you’re really angry, Clay,” I said.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m angry because you didn’t contact me when the artnappers set up the exchange like you promised.”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Bullshit. Bullshit, McKenzie. There was plenty of time. You could have made time. Instead, the bastards blow up a fucking motel and we have nothing. Nothing, McKenzie.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” Rask stared at me for a few beats. “Why wouldn’t you say that?”
“May I sit down?”
Rask’s eyes went from the empty chair in front of his desk to me, then back to the chair. He waved his hand as if he didn’t care if I stood, sat, or went to Wisconsin. I sat, trying hard to keep my back straight. I was actually happier to take the weight off my throbbing ankle than my aching shoulder, but Rask didn’t care about that.
“How’s your collarbone?” he asked.
“It’s broken, LT.”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
“Talk to me, McKenzie.”
“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘plausible deniability’?”