slowly. “Jesus, I must be older than I thought.”
Mike said, “I suppose he probably had a friend with him.”
“Shoulder holster. Face like he got in a fistfight with some guy who had hatchets for hands.”
“That’d be Bryce. We only just met.”
“Yeah, well, they both met the end of my foot kickin’ their asses outta here.”
Mike couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah?”
“You don’t bring a gun into my place. Not unless you’re a cop. And that asshole wasn’t a cop.”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“So,” Hal said, ignoring the guy down the bar trying to flag him for another beer. “Who is he? Besides the reason Potter figured he ought to get the hell out of town.”
Mike thought about how to answer. He felt bad that any of this horseshit had gotten tracked into Hal’s place of business. “I gather there was a miscommunication at the day job,” he said.
“I guess there must have been.” Hal flopped his towel over a shoulder. “What’s he gotten himself into this time?”
“No clue,” Mike lied. “You know Darryl.”
“Not as well as I know you,” Hal said. He went to pull a refill for the guy down the bar, leaving Mike to wonder what that was supposed to mean.
While Hal tended the paying customers, Mike sat on his stool and finished his sandwich and tried to figure out what the hell Darryl thought he was doing up in vacation land with Mike’s car and Toby Lunden’s money.
But there was just no damn telling. The Skylark might be a piece of crap, but it was the only piece of crap Mike owned, and while on a given day Darryl Potter could have been liable to uncork all sorts of havoc you wouldn’t have seen coming, he’d never left Mike stranded before. And that was saying something.
“Hey, look at that,” Hal said, wandering back Mike’s way. He grabbed the remote from the bar and punched up the volume on the Magnavox. “Speaking of Babe Winkelman Junior. Ain’t that his new favorite reporter?”
Mike looked.
Jeopardy!
had given way to the six o’clock news. Hal was right: On-screen was the same reporter they’d all been watching the night before. Maya something—an animal name. Mike couldn’t remember. Lamb.
The way she looked, Mike figured she was probably lots of guys’ favorite reporter around this time of day. He washed down the last of his sandwich with a gulp of beer, licked mustard off his thumb, and waited to hear what sunny piece of good cheer she had for them today.
Deon got them from Plymouth, through downtown rush-hour traffic, and to the MCAD campus on Stevens Avenue by 5:45. They set up in front of the student parking areas off Third Avenue and 25th, squad cars and yellow cordon tape in the background. At 5:52, Maya held a blank notebook page in front of Deon’s lens so he could white-balance the camera. At 5:54, she popped in her earpiece and tested the audio link with her producer at the station.
Fifteen seconds before Rick Gavigan made the toss to her live shot, her producer came back over the link. “Give me an ask to lead you out.”
Maya scrambled. Ten seconds. Into the mike, she said, “After I give the hotline number, have Carmen ask me if the police have any further instructions. I’ll mention the reward again.”
Lame. Whatever. Five seconds.
Her producer’s voice came back in her ear: “Instructions, reward, got it. Go.”
“Rick, Carmen, thanks,” Maya said. Behind thecamera, Deon gave her a thumbs-up. She had the same moment of throat-clenching panic she always felt at the top of a live remote, no matter how many she’d delivered: mind a sudden blank, notes forgotten, wondering how the words would come out of her mouth. Then she took a breath and said, “I’m standing in front of the student parking facilities at the campus of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design,” and they were off and running.
Three minutes later, they were out. Deon said, “Way to go, pro.”
Maya heard him in one ear, while in the other her
Mike said, “I suppose he probably had a friend with him.”
“Shoulder holster. Face like he got in a fistfight with some guy who had hatchets for hands.”
“That’d be Bryce. We only just met.”
“Yeah, well, they both met the end of my foot kickin’ their asses outta here.”
Mike couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah?”
“You don’t bring a gun into my place. Not unless you’re a cop. And that asshole wasn’t a cop.”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“So,” Hal said, ignoring the guy down the bar trying to flag him for another beer. “Who is he? Besides the reason Potter figured he ought to get the hell out of town.”
Mike thought about how to answer. He felt bad that any of this horseshit had gotten tracked into Hal’s place of business. “I gather there was a miscommunication at the day job,” he said.
“I guess there must have been.” Hal flopped his towel over a shoulder. “What’s he gotten himself into this time?”
“No clue,” Mike lied. “You know Darryl.”
“Not as well as I know you,” Hal said. He went to pull a refill for the guy down the bar, leaving Mike to wonder what that was supposed to mean.
While Hal tended the paying customers, Mike sat on his stool and finished his sandwich and tried to figure out what the hell Darryl thought he was doing up in vacation land with Mike’s car and Toby Lunden’s money.
But there was just no damn telling. The Skylark might be a piece of crap, but it was the only piece of crap Mike owned, and while on a given day Darryl Potter could have been liable to uncork all sorts of havoc you wouldn’t have seen coming, he’d never left Mike stranded before. And that was saying something.
“Hey, look at that,” Hal said, wandering back Mike’s way. He grabbed the remote from the bar and punched up the volume on the Magnavox. “Speaking of Babe Winkelman Junior. Ain’t that his new favorite reporter?”
Mike looked.
Jeopardy!
had given way to the six o’clock news. Hal was right: On-screen was the same reporter they’d all been watching the night before. Maya something—an animal name. Mike couldn’t remember. Lamb.
The way she looked, Mike figured she was probably lots of guys’ favorite reporter around this time of day. He washed down the last of his sandwich with a gulp of beer, licked mustard off his thumb, and waited to hear what sunny piece of good cheer she had for them today.
Deon got them from Plymouth, through downtown rush-hour traffic, and to the MCAD campus on Stevens Avenue by 5:45. They set up in front of the student parking areas off Third Avenue and 25th, squad cars and yellow cordon tape in the background. At 5:52, Maya held a blank notebook page in front of Deon’s lens so he could white-balance the camera. At 5:54, she popped in her earpiece and tested the audio link with her producer at the station.
Fifteen seconds before Rick Gavigan made the toss to her live shot, her producer came back over the link. “Give me an ask to lead you out.”
Maya scrambled. Ten seconds. Into the mike, she said, “After I give the hotline number, have Carmen ask me if the police have any further instructions. I’ll mention the reward again.”
Lame. Whatever. Five seconds.
Her producer’s voice came back in her ear: “Instructions, reward, got it. Go.”
“Rick, Carmen, thanks,” Maya said. Behind thecamera, Deon gave her a thumbs-up. She had the same moment of throat-clenching panic she always felt at the top of a live remote, no matter how many she’d delivered: mind a sudden blank, notes forgotten, wondering how the words would come out of her mouth. Then she took a breath and said, “I’m standing in front of the student parking facilities at the campus of the Minneapolis College of Art and Design,” and they were off and running.
Three minutes later, they were out. Deon said, “Way to go, pro.”
Maya heard him in one ear, while in the other her
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