“What will he tell us?”

“If nothing else, he’ll tell us that Crosetti was here yesterday.”


Brehmer put his arm around the deputy’s shoulder and slowly walked him toward the house. I followed from far enough back to be respectful but close enough to monitor their conversation.

“Canvass the area. There aren’t many houses, but you never know, someone might have seen something. I also want you to get CID up here. I’m looking for fingerprints, something we can match to the Mosley scene, and anything else they can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to contact all the moving companies in the area, all the truck rentals. Get the names of everyone they’ve done business with in the past forty-eight hours. I also want you to contact all the landscaping companies, anyone who cuts grass, including the kid down the street if there is a kid down the street. Understand?”

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“Yes, sir.”

“One more thing.” Brehmer threw a glance at me over his shoulder. “Contact an attorney named William Tillman in Edina. Find out what messenger service he uses.” He looked at me again. “Satisfied?”

“I just had a thought.”

“Feel free to share.”

“The second man. The one who showed up when Crosetti had the shotgun on us.”

“What about him?”

“He was driving a new Mustang ragtop. I don’t have a plate, but—”

“How many Mustangs do you think Ford sold in the past two years?”

“Not as many as they built, but—”


“It was yellow.”

Brehmer grimaced. “What kind of guy drives a yellow Mustang convertible?”

My thought exactly.

Brehmer nodded at his deputy. The deputy said, “No one said the job would be easy,” and went away.

I was questioned for nearly five hours inside the Justice Center Building in Chaska, the Carver County seat, but the deputies were pretty good about it. They kept the door to the interrogation room open and brought me cup after cup of surprisingly good coffee and takeout from a Chinese restaurant that served Peking chicken for white suburbanites. I answered all their questions in excruciating detail, explaining as best I could my relationship with Mr. Mosley and my efforts to learn what was killing his honeybees. I gave them Professor Buzicky’s name and number, and Ivy Flynn’s name and number, and told them about the meeting with Billy Tillman. I broke down only once. Fortunately, Sergeant Brehmer was well trained. He managed to both comfort me and get the answers he needed at the same time.

They interviewed Billy Tillman, too. For a short time we were in the same room together. He refused to speak to me, to even acknowledge my existence, until they were leading him to another location. Without looking back, he said, “I’m sorry about Mr. Mosley.”

I stood in the center of the downstairs bar at Rickie’s, not quite sure what I was doing there. A waitress carrying a tray of drinks stopped to ask if everything was all right. I could have told her a thing or two but didn’t.

I asked for Nina.

The waitress pointed at a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I went through the door and down a short corridor. I found Nina in her office. She looked up from her paperwork. She smiled. The smile turned into a frown.

“My God, McKenzie. Who died?”

I wept some more.

I drank bourbon—without ice—pouring it from a bottle Nina appropriated from a carton in a storage room. I had three before she cut me off. Then one more over her objections. I told her about Mr. Mosley and my father and me. Occasionally she’d ask a question, but mostly she listened. It took about an hour to talk myself out.

“I never met Mr. Mosley,” Nina said. “I wish I had.”

“I should have introduced you. I don’t know why I didn’t. You would have liked him. He was a good guy. In my neighborhood growing up, that was considered high praise, being a good guy.”

“You’re a good guy, too.”

“If I am it’s because my dad and Mr. Mosley showed me how.”

“You’re going after them, aren’t you? The people who killed Mr. Mosley. Who raped Susan Tillman.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s because you blame yourself for what happened.”

“I should have done something after those guys shot at us last night. I should have warned them—Mr. Mosley and Tillman. I should have …”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. It’s their fault—whoever they are. And I’m going to get them.”

“May I offer you some advice, McKenzie—advice from someone who cares about you?”

“You’re not going to lecture me, are you? About justice and vengeance and all that?”

“After all these months I think I’m starting to know you. I’m starting to understand who you are and why you do the things that you do, so no, I’m not going to lecture. I’m going to tell you this one thing and then let it go. Okay?”


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