Art Katzer’s empty office and a receptionist’s desk were located at the head of the room. Interrogation rooms lined one wall; more cubicles made up the other.
He was looking for Mouse.
Several cops stirred around desks in white shirts and ties. They wore round leather backings with five-pointed county stars on their belts, along with holstered .40-caliber pistols. They were mostly older, mostly developing bellies. This being the far reaches of the Twin Cities’ eastern suburbs, they were all white.
Several took a sideways look at Broker, then dropped their eyes. John’s outsider.
Mouse’s bulk was unmistakable at the end of the room next to the coffeepot. Their eyes made solid contact on the order of an eight-ball break shot.
“I got something for you,” Mouse said.
Then the phone on Broker’s hip rang. He picked up and heard Jack Malloy’s voice. “Is this personal, or are you working?” Jack asked.
“Can you stay put? I need a sec,” Broker said.
“You are working,” Malloy said.
“Yep. For John Eisenhower.”
Broker came up to Mouse and took him by the arm and walked him through the security door into the hall. He held up a finger to shush Mouse and turned back to the phone. “Victor Moros was a caretaker priest at St. Martin’s in Stillwater. Are you with me so far, Jack?” Broker said.
“Yes, we heard this morning that Moros died. But the details are coming very slowly.”
“Are we cool, Jack? Like way off the record here?”
“You’re going to have give me cause, but we’re cool.”
“Good. Then I can tell you that the details are slow in coming because he was shot to death last night, in his confessional.”
“Oh, my God— here . . .” Malloy’s voice staggered. It was silent on the line for a moment, and Broker didn’t need paranormal powers to divine what Malloy meant when he blurted: here .
“It gets a lot worse, Jack. We have to keep this strictly between us,” Broker said. “You still with me?”
“Sure.”
“He had a St. Nicholas medallion stuffed in his mouth,” Broker said.
Jack Malloy groaned. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—the Saint. Great, so now it’s really come here. We’ve had charges made, threats; but not a death. The press . . .”
“No press; not yet. We’re sitting on the case. But I need a fast read on Moros’s background, and it has to be absolutely discreet.”
Malloy exhaled, steadied, and said, “I’m on it. Meet me here, at the rectory, at ten tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
Broker hung up and turned to Mouse, who was pushing the last crumbs of a doughnut into his mouth. “Okay—he’s not home; his car was piled up against a tree in his driveway.”
Mouse chewed, swallowed, and looked around for a place to get rid of his foam coffee cup. Broker took the cup from his hand. The door to Investigations snapped open; a young cop started out into the hall. Broker handed him the empty cup. The young cop looked at Broker, then at Mouse, and went back inside.
“And I talked to Annie Mortenson. She sounds way too straight for our boy,” Broker said.
Mouse nodded sagely. It was a look he cultivated and played well with his battered features, weary blue eyes, and his bristly gray flattop haircut. “I figure Annie’s his last resort; he keeps her around for formal occasions. She knows which fork to use, like that. So I figured this is a case where you go to the last resort first.”
“Well, he got her to pick him up and lend him her car to take roses to his dear old mom who’s in the nursing home,” Broker said. “Except he’d already split from the nursing home by the time I got there.”
“Down deep, when it comes to a dog like Harry taking flowers to his mother, even a sensible woman will melt into your basic enabler,” Mouse said.
“His place was open, so I went in and looked around. He’s got enough guns and ammo in his basement to rearm the Taliban,” Broker said.
Mouse squinted his way into
He was looking for Mouse.
Several cops stirred around desks in white shirts and ties. They wore round leather backings with five-pointed county stars on their belts, along with holstered .40-caliber pistols. They were mostly older, mostly developing bellies. This being the far reaches of the Twin Cities’ eastern suburbs, they were all white.
Several took a sideways look at Broker, then dropped their eyes. John’s outsider.
Mouse’s bulk was unmistakable at the end of the room next to the coffeepot. Their eyes made solid contact on the order of an eight-ball break shot.
“I got something for you,” Mouse said.
Then the phone on Broker’s hip rang. He picked up and heard Jack Malloy’s voice. “Is this personal, or are you working?” Jack asked.
“Can you stay put? I need a sec,” Broker said.
“You are working,” Malloy said.
“Yep. For John Eisenhower.”
Broker came up to Mouse and took him by the arm and walked him through the security door into the hall. He held up a finger to shush Mouse and turned back to the phone. “Victor Moros was a caretaker priest at St. Martin’s in Stillwater. Are you with me so far, Jack?” Broker said.
“Yes, we heard this morning that Moros died. But the details are coming very slowly.”
“Are we cool, Jack? Like way off the record here?”
“You’re going to have give me cause, but we’re cool.”
“Good. Then I can tell you that the details are slow in coming because he was shot to death last night, in his confessional.”
“Oh, my God— here . . .” Malloy’s voice staggered. It was silent on the line for a moment, and Broker didn’t need paranormal powers to divine what Malloy meant when he blurted: here .
“It gets a lot worse, Jack. We have to keep this strictly between us,” Broker said. “You still with me?”
“Sure.”
“He had a St. Nicholas medallion stuffed in his mouth,” Broker said.
Jack Malloy groaned. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—the Saint. Great, so now it’s really come here. We’ve had charges made, threats; but not a death. The press . . .”
“No press; not yet. We’re sitting on the case. But I need a fast read on Moros’s background, and it has to be absolutely discreet.”
Malloy exhaled, steadied, and said, “I’m on it. Meet me here, at the rectory, at ten tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
Broker hung up and turned to Mouse, who was pushing the last crumbs of a doughnut into his mouth. “Okay—he’s not home; his car was piled up against a tree in his driveway.”
Mouse chewed, swallowed, and looked around for a place to get rid of his foam coffee cup. Broker took the cup from his hand. The door to Investigations snapped open; a young cop started out into the hall. Broker handed him the empty cup. The young cop looked at Broker, then at Mouse, and went back inside.
“And I talked to Annie Mortenson. She sounds way too straight for our boy,” Broker said.
Mouse nodded sagely. It was a look he cultivated and played well with his battered features, weary blue eyes, and his bristly gray flattop haircut. “I figure Annie’s his last resort; he keeps her around for formal occasions. She knows which fork to use, like that. So I figured this is a case where you go to the last resort first.”
“Well, he got her to pick him up and lend him her car to take roses to his dear old mom who’s in the nursing home,” Broker said. “Except he’d already split from the nursing home by the time I got there.”
“Down deep, when it comes to a dog like Harry taking flowers to his mother, even a sensible woman will melt into your basic enabler,” Mouse said.
“His place was open, so I went in and looked around. He’s got enough guns and ammo in his basement to rearm the Taliban,” Broker said.
Mouse squinted his way into
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