There wasn’t much I could do except sit and wait, my elbows on the table, my head resting in my hands. I still had no idea what it was all about, why I was hustled to Libbie, South Dakota, wherever that was. Yet my natural confidence was returning. I felt sure that someone would explain it all to me soon, and eventually I would get my phone call. When I did—whom should I call? I wondered. A lawyer, G. K. Bonalay, probably. Except—does Nina know I’m missing? She’s probably worried sick. Certainly I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t. The cops, they must be searching for me, too. St. Anthony PD. St. Paul. Bobby Dunston. He’s probably rousting every punk, every offender I ever knew. Those damn bounty hunters, they were the criminals, I reminded myself. There were no wants, no warrants issued against me. Taking me like they did, transporting me across state lines, they have a phrase for that—it’s called felony kidnapping. A federal beef. Yeah, suddenly I knew exactly whom I was going to call. I was going to call Harry. I was going to call the FBI.
I was thinking how much fun that was going to be when I heard a murmur of voices behind the mirror. They sounded excited. I couldn’t make out much, just a few words and phrases—“liar,” “thief,” “con artist,” and “bastard” were all closely tied to my name. The voices quieted and then became louder. A moment later the door to the interrogation room burst open. A man stepped through. He was big, one of those guys who could fill a bus seat all by himself. He was old, too, pushing seventy at least. Only he didn’t move like he was old. He crossed the floor in a hurry, raised a beefy hand, and swung down on my face. I tried to raise my arm to block the blow, only it was chained to the table and he was able to get over the top of it. He didn’t hit like he was old, either—I felt a stinging thump above my ear that caused my brain to vibrate. I tucked my head and turned it away. His next punches fell on my neck and shoulders. He hit me at least six, seven times before a trio of men subdued him and dragged him from the room. The name Mr. Miller was mixed with their shouts.
“What was that?” I said to no one in particular.
No one answered.
“What the hell was that?”
A tall man attired in the uniform of the City of Libbie Police Department stepped back through the door. He was carrying a clipboard.
“I am Chief of Police Eric Gustafson,” he said. “Are you Rushmore McKenzie?”
“Yes, I am.”
He glanced down at the sheet of paper attached to the clipboard. “Do you live in Falcon Heights in Minnesota?”
“I do.”
“When were you born?”
I told him.
He looked up. “Not in June?”
“No, not in June,” I said.
“What is your Social Security number?”
I recited the nine digits.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Positive.”
He turned and left the room.
I heard more voices, this time from the hallway outside the interrogation room door. Someone said, “Big mistake.” Someone else shouted, “No, no, no.” A third voice said, “Lineup? Photo array?”
I heard nothing more. After a few minutes, I rested my head on the tabletop again. If I slept, I did so without noticing. There was a sharp rap on the mirror. I looked up and saw only myself. More time passed. I finished the water. I asked for more. Whoever was behind the mirror ignored the request.
Moments later the chief returned to the room. He halted at the door, a look of confusion on his face.
“Rushmore McKenzie.” He said the name slowly. “You were a police officer. You know—”
“What do I know?”
“You know—”
“I know you got the wrong guy,” I said. “You sent your thugs to Minnesota. They busted down my door, Tasered me, dragged me from my bed, locked me in a trunk, transported me across state lines, and now you’re holding me without charges, without giving me my rights—these are all federal crimes. Right? You screwed up, and now you’re wondering what to do about it. That’s what I know.” I rattled the chain against the metal table. “Well?”
He turned and stepped back through the doorway.
“The longer you keep me here, the worse it’s going to get,” I said. “For both of us,” I added quietly as he shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
She swept into the interrogation room. That’s an apt verb—swept. She moved quickly to the table, walking tall like a model inviting you to look but not touch. She was wearing a fitted white blouse tucked inside a flirty salmon skirt that revealed a lot of leg. Her hair was long, heavy, and blond-red, her features golden and pretty. There was a big-city sheen to her and, also, an odd kind of harshness around her eyes as if she had seen things that had hurt her. She looked around, found the folding chairs leaning against the wall, took one, unfolded it, and set it in front of the table.
“I’m Tracie Blake,” she said.
She offered her hand even as she settled into the chair. I raised my own hand to give her a good look at the chain securing me to the table.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh,” I repeated.
She sighed dramatically and said, “We thought you were someone else.”
“Who did you think I was?”
“Rushmore McKenzie.”
“What a coincidence. I thought I was Rushmore McKenzie, too.”
“Yes, but not the Rushmore McKenzie.”
She smiled as if she had told a joke and was waiting for her audience to get it.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m a member of the Libbie City Council.”
“And you’re here because…?”
She stared for a moment as if she were considering various answers and then opted for the truth. “They think I have a better chance of convincing you not to sue the town into oblivion.”
I glared at the one-way mirror, trying to see the faces of the men I knew were standing behind it. “They do, huh?”