After he was gone, Anika and Rick talked for a while. Rick was devastated by the change in his old friend. Together, they tried to analyze Andy, using every pop psychological theory they could come up with to explain his behavior, but by eleven they both realized neither one of them knew how to help.

  After getting Rick settled in one of the guest bedrooms, Anika entered the room she shared with Andy. It was only their second night in the house and everything still felt foreign. She found him asleep on top of the velvet spread. He’d fallen face-first onto the pillows and looked as if he hadn’t moved since he hit them. She took off his shoes and covered him with a quilt. Sitting next to him for a few minutes, she caressed his hair, weeping for the two people who had once been so in love. She slept in the next room, aware for the first time of how dank and gloomy the house felt—how it seemed to be filled with moving, angry shadows, and secrets that held her husband in a hard grip and wouldn’t let go.

  Andy had awakened with a hangover. He’d come down to breakfast looking scrubbed and pink from a hot shower, but no less troubled. Once again, he wouldn’t eat a thing. He tried to make conversation with Rick, tried to be the old Andy, but the detachment Anika had seen glimpses of in the last few months now consumed him completely. Andy had looked forward to Rick’s trip to Minnesota, but for whatever reason, his disconnection with the world around him now seemed total. He was like the man in the ice cocoon. He wasn’t dead, but what was vital and human inside him was surely dying.

  Both Anika and Andy were silent on the way home from the airport. After parking in the driveway, Andy shut off the motor.

  “We’ve got to talk,” said Anika, turning to look at him.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I know.”

  He seemed so vulnerable, so utterly defenseless. But if he couldn’t or wouldn’t share his problems with her, what chance did they have? It was intolerable to think that she was about to add to his defeat, but if she didn’t make a stand, he’d take them both down. “Andy . . . I’m leaving you.”

  His body jerked, but he kept his eyes closed.

  She waited, but when he didn’t respond, she said, “Did you hear me?” That’s when she noticed the tears on his cheeks. Her heart twisted inside her. “Andy? Say something.”

  He opened his eyes and placed both hands on the top of the steering wheel, as if to anchor himself to the earth. “I don’t blame you.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I loved you.” He leaned forward and rested his forehead against his hands. “God,” he whispered, sucking in his breath.

  If she left him now, it was like she accepted that he was doomed. She wanted desperately for him to pull her back from the brink, but at the same time she knew he couldn’t.

  “I’ve already packed a bag.”

  He swallowed a couple of times. “Where will you go?”

  “I’ll take a room at the Maxfield for now. We can . . . figure the rest out later. When you’re feeling better.”

  He nodded.

  There was nothing else to do but get out of the car. She stared at him a moment more, feeling the finality of her words, but not quite believing that she’d actually said them. And then she opened the door and got out.

  As she was coming down the stairs a few minutes later, carrying her suitcase and an overnight bag, she heard the doorbell chime. Andy walked into the foyer, glanced at her for a second, then stepped over to the door and opened it.

  Anika set her bags on the floor as a tall, lanky man in a baseball jacket introduced himself as Detective Al Lundquist. He was accompanied by two burly uniformed police officers. “Mr. Gladstone?” he asked.

  “Yes?” said Andy.

  The detective motioned to the uniforms.

  Before Anika could absorb what was happening, they’d handcuffed Andy and the detective was reading him his rights.

  “He’s being arrested?” she said.

  “Yes,” said the detective. “Like I said, for the murder of Del Irazarian.”

  Anika gasped. “He’s dead?”

  “He was shot last night in his motel room.”

  Anika and Andy locked eyes.

  “We have a search warrant for your home, Mr. Gladstone.” He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up for Andy to read. When Andy looked away, he handed it across to Anika.

  She took it, but she couldn’t focus. Everything inside her screamed that this couldn’t be happening.

  The detective nodded and more officers, this time a crew of eight, entered the house. Anika remembered the shirt Andy had thrown into the hamper this morning, the one with blood on the cuff. Her mind slid sideways.

  As they led Andy away, he shouted over his shoulder, “Anika, call my lawyer. Ray Lawless. The number’s in my address book in my briefcase. Tell him to meet me at the police station.”

  “Right away,” she called after him. Stepping up to the door, she stood behind the screen and watched as her husband was helped into the backseat of a waiting squad car.

  So this was it, thought Anika. The storm she’d been expecting. There was a certain relief in finally seeing it descend. But never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that her husband could be a murderer.

  Sophie was working the reservation desk on the Maxfield’s main level when she noticed Anika come through the front double doors. She was surprised to see her again so soon, and even more surprised to find her carrying a suitcase. In Sophie’s mind, it was an ominous sign.

  Anika approached the desk. “Ah, hi,” she said, setting the suitcase down. “I, ah . . . I need a room.”

  “Are you okay?” asked Sophie. She could see how unsteady Anika was.

  “No.”

  Sophie tapped a couple numbers into the computer terminal while sneaking peeks at Anika. She came up with a suite on the ninth floor. After making a couple of key cards, she grabbed the minibar key and came around the front of the reception desk, picking up the suitcase. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. I could use a friend right about now.”

  They got on the elevator along with several other people and rode in silence up to nine.

  Once in the suite, Anika removed her coat, tossing it over the desk chair. She looked as if every muscle in her body hurt. She sank down on the couch with a dazed expression on her face.

  Sophie turned on the lights, then opened the curtains. Remembering the minibar key, she opened up the bar and removed a tiny bottle of brandy. Cracking the top, she poured the golden liquid into a glass, handing it to Anika. “Drink some of this. You’ll feel better.”

  Anika stared at it a moment as if she wasn’t sure what it was. “Oh. Yeah. Good idea.” She drank it down in two neat swallows.

  Sophie removed the glass from her shaking hand, then perched on the edge of one of the club chairs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She lowered her head, closed her eyes. “It’s a nightmare. Andy was arrested a couple hours ago.”

  “Oh, no.” Sophie was afraid it had been something like that.

  “They put him in a lineup and a witness picked him out.” She rubbed the back of her neck.

  “I didn’t think there were witnesses to either of the murders.”

  Anika’s head popped up. “He was arrested for shooting Del Irazarian.”

  “But . . . I thought—”

  “They’re all connected. Apparently, the same gun was used in all three murders. Andy has a gun. He kept it in the glove compartment of his car. But it’s not a match. Since they don’t have the murder weapon, Andy’s lawyer thought the case for Bob’s death and Ken Loy’s would be hard to prove. But once they find the blood on Andy’s cuff—”

  “What blood?” asked Sophie.

  Anika took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “When Andy came home last night, he had blood on his cuff. The police think it will prove to be Irazarian’s. They’ve got an eyewitness that puts him at the motel, so more than likely, it will be a match. Andy didn’t even deny that he’d been there. But he insists he didn’t do it. That when he got to the motel, Irazarian was already dead.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Anika nodded to the minibar. “I think I’d like another.”

  Sophie got up and found another brandy. She handed the bottle and the glass to Anika and then sat back down. “Who’s his lawyer?”

  “Raymond Lawless.”

  “Ray Lawless is the best.”

  “So I’ve heard. But, see, Andy has a motive for Irazarian’s murder. I mean, Irazarian lied to him again and again about those bogus stories. It made Andy look like a fool at the paper. And it got him in terrible hot water with Bob. Andy hated Irazarian. I mean, really hated him.”

  “But just because he hated him, it doesn’t mean he’d murder him.”

  Anika cracked the top of the brandy and drank straight from the bottle. “No, but before I left the police station, Mr. Lawless told me that the police found a briefcase with almost one hundred and ninety thousand dollars in Irazarian’s motel room. In one of the pockets they found Andy’s card. They fingerprinted Andy when he got there. From what Mr. Lawless said, Andy’s fingerprints are all over the briefcase. They think he gave the money to Irazarian.”

  “Why?”

  “Andy refuses to say.”

  “Do you think Irazarian was blackmailing him?”

  “That’s what Mr. Lawless thinks. But if Andy doesn’t open up to him, tell him the whole truth, I don’t know how Mr. Lawless is going to defend him.” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “He’ll spend tonight in jail. In the morning, there will be an arraignment. He has no criminal record, so there’s a chance he could be let out on bail.”

  “Then why are you—” Sophie stopped, thinking that perhaps she’d entered a territory that was too personal.

  “Just before the police arrived at the house, I told Andy I was leaving him.” She started to cry.

  “Anika, I’m so incredibly sorry.”

  “He’s a good man, you know, but he’s not strong. This could crush him.”

  “Will you go to the arraignment?”

  She lifted a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know. Probably not. The fact that he was arrested doesn’t change anything between us. Our marriage is a sham. I’ll be there for him if it comes to a trial, but I can’t live with him. Not anymore. He won’t let me in, Sophie, so what would be the point of going back to him?”

  “Is there anything I can do?” asked Sophie.

  Anika laughed, but then grimaced. “Find the real murderer. Short of that, I don’t think there’s anything anybody can do.”

  31

  After Bram’s radio show was done for the day, he drove across town, sailed over the Roberts Street Bridge, and eventually located Old Mill Road Mini Storage. Chris had doodled the name “Del” the day he’d taken her to lunch. She’d also written down the name “Old Mill Road.” If the Del was Del Irazarian— and Bram had a hunch they were one and the same— there had to be a connection. Bram recalled that when he asked Chris about it yesterday, she’d said that Phil rented a storage garage “over there.” It seemed a good bet to Bram that if Del Irazarian was mixed up in it somehow, that the mini storage place might be an important spot to check out.

  Sitting in the parking lot, he removed his cell phone from his vest pocket and punched in the office number. He disguised his voice because he was, after all, a well-known radio personality in the Twin Cities. Perhaps he flattered himself, but he didn’t want anything to prevent him from getting the information he needed.

  A male voice answered: “Old Mill Mini Storage. This is Mike.”

  “Mike, Phil Banks. Hey, I’m leaving for Brazil tomorrow, going to be out of the country for the next couple of months. I was just writing you guys a check so you don’t toss my shit out on the street.” He smiled, thinking he’d nailed Phil’s limited vocabulary. “But I don’t have a bill in front of me, so I need the monthly amount. Oh, and your mailing address.”

  “Okay. Let’s see,” said Mike.

  Bram silently sent up a prayer of thanks. His ruse had worked. He could hear the guy tap his computer keyboard.

  “You’ve got a double. That’s one-thirty-seven a month. Two months would be two-seventy-four.”

  “Maybe I should be on the safe side. Do it for three. That would be four-eleven, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hey, give me the number of the unit. I always put that on my check, but I don’t have it in front of me.”

  “It’s 2298. And our address is Box 481, St. Paul, 55103.”

  “Thanks. I’ll drop the check in the mail on my way home from work. Later, man.”

  Bram cut the connection.

  Now that he had the number, he could begin phase two. On the way across the lot to the office, he decided he’d missed his calling. With his looks and charm, and his obvious ability to ferret out information, he should have been an international spy. But that would actually mean he had to work. Nah, on second thought, he liked his radio gig much better.

  Stepping up to the counter, Bram waited for Mike to take a drag from his cigarette and then stand up.

  “Help you?” he asked. It was more of a grunt.

  “I’d like to rent one of your storage units.” He waited to see if the guy recognized his voice. When there was no look of recognition, he figured Mike either didn’t have a radio in the office, or he had no taste.

  “We got two sizes. Single and double.”

  “Single would be fine.”

  “Fill this out.” He pushed a form across the counter.

  It took Bram only a couple of minutes to complete it. As he wrote in his name and address, he asked the man about security.

  “We got good security. You gotta have the correct numbers to get in and out of the gates. And nobody gets over that fence, believe me, not unless they want their legs sliced up.”

  “What about at night?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you have a security guard on duty?”

  “If you want that kind of protection, you better hire yourself a private company. But don’t worry. We haven’t had a theft in all the time I’ve been working here.”

  “And how long is that?”

  “Going on eight years.”

  “You like the job?” Bram looked around the dingy office.

  “It’s a living.”

  He finished the form and handed it across the counter.

  “Now, you gotta pick a personal password—a four-digit number—to get you into the lot. Just write it at the bottom there.” He pointed. “There’s only one way in and one way out. It’s well marked. When you get up to the gate, tap in the number of your unit and then your password. It’s gotta be in that order or the gate won’t open.”

  “What’s the number of my unit?”

  “3412.”

  Bram scratched “0007” at the bottom. The extra zero didn’t bother him, and it seemed to fit the occasion.

  The guy looked at it. “You know how many 0007’s we got here?”

  “You mean I’m not the only one?”

  “World’s filled with wise guys.”

  “Maybe I better change it.”

  “Up to you.”

  Bram thought about it for a second. “No, it’s okay.” What did it matter? He’d only use it twice.

  Mike circled the number and said, “That’ll be eighty-seven dollars even.”

  Bram wrote a check. “What are your hours?”

  “The office is open from eight to six. But you can get into the storage lot 24-7. Just use your unit number and your password. We’ll bill you by the month.” He handed Bram the paperwork.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  On the way back to his car, Bram surveyed the lot, locating the entrance gate about twenty yards to the right of the office. The entire property was surrounded by a high fence topped with wicked-looking razor wire. Mike had been right. Nobody but an idiot would try to climb over it.

  After tapping in his unit number and his humiliatingly trite password, the gate swung open and Bram drove in. Instead of looking for 3412, he eased slowly down the lanes searching for 2298. He found it at the end of a long row of doubles. Slipping out of the Bentley, Bram quickly checked the padlock. It was a standard issue steel-and-chrome variety. A heavy bolt cutter would slice through it like butter. The fact that he didn’t have a bolt cutter was a minor issue. By tonight, when he came back, he’d own the very best.

  After hunting down a hardware store, Bram drove to Lyle Boerichter’s downtown St. Paul condo. He’d been thinking about Lyle all afternoon, recalling the comment that his ex-wife had known Phil’s second wife. Bram was trying to get a bead on Phil, figure out whether he really was capable of giving Chris more than a black eye.

  Bram had called Chris several times on her cell phone, but with no luck. Maybe Al Lundquist was right. Maybe he was worried about her for no good reason, but after talking to Phil this morning, the bad feeling in his gut wouldn’t go away. If anything, it was getting worse.

  Bram tried calling Lyle from the station during one of his breaks. His voice mail had picked up, but Bram hadn’t left a message. The condo wasn’t far from the Maxfield, so he decided to give it another try, this time in person.

  After driving around forever looking for a parking spot, Bram finally entered the building, quickly locating Lyle’s name on the list of residents posted in the central hall. He used the security phone and punched in the numbers. After the third ring, Lyle answered.

  “Hello?” He sounded like he’d been sleeping, his voice low and groggy.

  “Lyle? It’s Bram Baldric.”

  No response. Then, “Ah . . . hi. What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to you. It won’t take long.”

 

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