Read Online Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) by Erik Rivenes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erik Rivenes
Tags: Historical Mystery, minnesota mystery, minnesota thriller, historical police, minnesota fiction
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He’d also asked Peder not to tell Karoline where he was going. She can’t be worried about me, he told himself. She needs to focus on her preparations.
Buck up and shoot straight with her, he told himself . She asked you not to go to Saint Paul, yet you’re still doing it. You’ve broken your promise already.
But he’d made a promise to someone else, as well. It had been a promise to Sheriff Dix Anderson, one that followed him around like a maddening itch.
She would understand if she knew, and this might be my only chance.
The fact that Maisy Anderson was still missing bothered Queen to no end. Even as he worked his business in Minneapolis, he’d still kept his eye out for her. Asking questions. Looking for clues.
He might have looked harder, he knew. He might have asked more questions. He might have hunted through the city’s brothels more thoroughly, or hired his own private detectives to continue the search on the sly. As far as he knew, no one else cared about the young lady, and that gnawed at him. A young girl, without a family, trying to survive under quite possibly barbaric conditions, made his normally gruff personality soften into warm butter. It just wasn’t right, and as the old sheriff had died in his quest, Queen owed it to him to jump on any opportunity to finish it.
So when Pock mentioned her name, he knew he had to call the weasel’s bluff. This was his chance to make amends, and to redeem his pledge to Anderson. No one in the police department would help him, he understood. Colonel Ames would have a conniption if he knew what Queen was up to. This had to be kept quiet.
And I’ll be home in a few hours, to say goodbye to Karoline, with no one the wiser.
There. He felt rotten for the deception, but it was for a greater good, and she would understand. He wasn’t alone either, and Karoline would certainly feel better knowing Big Snorre was by his side. He was grateful to have Snorre’s muscle, despite their inability to verbally communicate with each other. He glanced up at the hulk, who filled up most of the seat with his wide girth. Snorre refused to carry a firearm, but chose to arm himself with a massive metal pipe wrench instead. While it wasn’t a match for a gun, in close quarters Queen could only imagine what damage the bruising Norske could inflict with that weapon.
Pock, on the other hand, needed to be carefully watched. He sat in the wagon, across from Queen, with his arms around his knees, staring at the houses on the street. They’d crossed the Lake Street Bridge, which became Marshall Avenue once it hit reached the Saint Paul side. Then they made their way to Summit Avenue, clopping along broad crushed-slate streets as they headed towards the heart of the city. The sun was shining and birds were bountiful; singing and chirping from small trees lining the avenue. Scattered houses and wide fields began to condense as they moved east, and the houses became larger and more opulent.
Hammocks hung from stately front porches, and gardeners planted flowers to brighten the yards. Rich families wearing their Sunday church finery strolled down the sidewalk, along perfectly manicured and fenced lawns. Queen looked for men that he might recognize, and tried to match the names with their homes. Even Big Snorre smiled pleasantly as he sucked in the sunshine and the tranquil scene.
But something was wrong with Pock.
He fidgeted in his seat and mumbled under his breath. His eyes were digging daggers into the extravagance surrounding them.
It was then that Queen realized they shouldn’t have come this route. Summit Avenue was the home to Saint Paul’s elite, and Pock’s latest little game was taking issue with the moneyed.
“Pigs,” Pock muttered.
“Keep your mug shut,” Queen shot back in a harsh whisper.
“Why should I?” Pock asked, turning to the detective. “Look at these buffoons, see?” He pointed to an elegantly dressed woman leisurely pushing a baby
He’d also asked Peder not to tell Karoline where he was going. She can’t be worried about me, he told himself. She needs to focus on her preparations.
Buck up and shoot straight with her, he told himself . She asked you not to go to Saint Paul, yet you’re still doing it. You’ve broken your promise already.
But he’d made a promise to someone else, as well. It had been a promise to Sheriff Dix Anderson, one that followed him around like a maddening itch.
She would understand if she knew, and this might be my only chance.
The fact that Maisy Anderson was still missing bothered Queen to no end. Even as he worked his business in Minneapolis, he’d still kept his eye out for her. Asking questions. Looking for clues.
He might have looked harder, he knew. He might have asked more questions. He might have hunted through the city’s brothels more thoroughly, or hired his own private detectives to continue the search on the sly. As far as he knew, no one else cared about the young lady, and that gnawed at him. A young girl, without a family, trying to survive under quite possibly barbaric conditions, made his normally gruff personality soften into warm butter. It just wasn’t right, and as the old sheriff had died in his quest, Queen owed it to him to jump on any opportunity to finish it.
So when Pock mentioned her name, he knew he had to call the weasel’s bluff. This was his chance to make amends, and to redeem his pledge to Anderson. No one in the police department would help him, he understood. Colonel Ames would have a conniption if he knew what Queen was up to. This had to be kept quiet.
And I’ll be home in a few hours, to say goodbye to Karoline, with no one the wiser.
There. He felt rotten for the deception, but it was for a greater good, and she would understand. He wasn’t alone either, and Karoline would certainly feel better knowing Big Snorre was by his side. He was grateful to have Snorre’s muscle, despite their inability to verbally communicate with each other. He glanced up at the hulk, who filled up most of the seat with his wide girth. Snorre refused to carry a firearm, but chose to arm himself with a massive metal pipe wrench instead. While it wasn’t a match for a gun, in close quarters Queen could only imagine what damage the bruising Norske could inflict with that weapon.
Pock, on the other hand, needed to be carefully watched. He sat in the wagon, across from Queen, with his arms around his knees, staring at the houses on the street. They’d crossed the Lake Street Bridge, which became Marshall Avenue once it hit reached the Saint Paul side. Then they made their way to Summit Avenue, clopping along broad crushed-slate streets as they headed towards the heart of the city. The sun was shining and birds were bountiful; singing and chirping from small trees lining the avenue. Scattered houses and wide fields began to condense as they moved east, and the houses became larger and more opulent.
Hammocks hung from stately front porches, and gardeners planted flowers to brighten the yards. Rich families wearing their Sunday church finery strolled down the sidewalk, along perfectly manicured and fenced lawns. Queen looked for men that he might recognize, and tried to match the names with their homes. Even Big Snorre smiled pleasantly as he sucked in the sunshine and the tranquil scene.
But something was wrong with Pock.
He fidgeted in his seat and mumbled under his breath. His eyes were digging daggers into the extravagance surrounding them.
It was then that Queen realized they shouldn’t have come this route. Summit Avenue was the home to Saint Paul’s elite, and Pock’s latest little game was taking issue with the moneyed.
“Pigs,” Pock muttered.
“Keep your mug shut,” Queen shot back in a harsh whisper.
“Why should I?” Pock asked, turning to the detective. “Look at these buffoons, see?” He pointed to an elegantly dressed woman leisurely pushing a baby
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