Pain radiates across my pectorals with each turn of the crank, but the sharpest aches are the spikes stabbing my forearms and the dull throb punching up from my toes. When I get about halfway to the water on this fifth hole, I stand and stretch my back. From the corner of my eye, I can see him twisting his shoulders and stomach, trying to reach the zipper again. I turn to face him, but he’s focused on his escape plan, writhing and bending to try and reach the pull tab of his zipper. When he sees me watching him, he shoots me a scowl and stops his wiggling.
“You’re working awfully hard to cut that rope,” I say. “Not the actions of a man who thinks this is all a bluff.”
“I’m tired of this,” he says—and he does sound tired now. “You know you can’t go through with this. You’re a cop. It’s not in your DNA.”
“You have no idea what’s in my DNA.”
“If I did something, show me the evidence. Come on, asshole. Show me.” He makes a point of looking around in mock confusion. “What? No evidence? I didn’t think so. This whole Kabuki theater is because you have nothing.”
“You’re my evidence,” I say.
“I’m your evidence? What does that even mean? That’s bullshit. I’m innocent—innocent until proven guilty.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not innocent until proven guilty. Not here. You don’t have that right. But you want your day in court, so get on with it. I have three and a half more holes to cut. You have until I finish this circle to prove your innocence.”
“Prove my innocence? How can I—?”
I start turning the auger again.
“I . . . I’m not even sure what I’m accused—”
“State your name for the record,” I holler over the grind of the auger.
“What?”
“That’s how you start a trial. Don’t you know anything? If you’re going to testify, you have to state your name first.”
“You want me to—”
“What’s your fucking name?”
“Christ, you’re going to kill me, and you don’t even know my name? I’m telling you, I’m not the guy you think I am. I didn’t kill your family. I don’t know anything about it. You have to let me go. You have to—”
“Shut. Up!” I stop the auger again so that he can see the seriousness in my eyes. “I said, state your name.”
“My name is Michael Vetter—”
“What is your birth name?”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you what you call yourself now. I want you to tell me your real name—the name they gave you when you popped out of your momma’s lady parts.”
“I’m Michael Vetter, you sick bastard.”
“You’re lying already.”
I see fear and understanding coalesce on his face. He’s wondering how much I know. I start turning the auger again.
“I am Michael Vetter. I don’t know what else you want. That’s my name. That’s always been my name.”
“You were born Mikhail Vetrov. You were born in Minsk and came to America as a young boy. How am I doing so far?”
He doesn’t answer.
I point my finger at Mikhail. “Mikhail Vetrov, you are here today accused of the murder of my wife, Jenni Rupert. You are also accused of the murder of her unborn child. You are a pimp and a destroyer of the innocent. These are a just a few of the many crimes for which you will pay today.”
“Now I’m a pimp as well? Why don’t you add some more bullshit to the list, maybe arsonist, or . . . I know, shoplifter. Honestly, Detective, you’re not making sense. I never did any of that. I’m innocent.”
I pull the blade out of the hole and jam the shoveled end into the ice near Mikhail’s face, sending chips spraying into the air. “Don’t say that!” I yell. “Don’t fucking say that. If you tell me, one more time, that you’re innocent, I swear I’ll shove a glove down your throat. You wanted a trial, well, here it is. Say what you need to say, but this will be your only chance. Talk—don’t talk—I don’t care. But if you tell me again that you’re innocent, I . . .”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I return to my project, lowering the auger back into hole number five. I shouldn’t have gotten mad. I should have held my tongue, let him continue to deny his crimes. His lies make it easier for me. There’s some truth to the notion that a person who is truly sorry for what they’ve done shouldn’t suffer the same fate as the unrepentant. But that’s a bridge I don’t have to cross as long as he sticks to his script.
Mikhail’s eyes study me for a while, trying to work out what I might know and how I know it, piecing together what he can and trying to figure out what he can get away with. We saw each other in his club. He has to know he can’t deny that. He knows I left there with Ana. What did she tell me? I know his real name. What else did I know? What can he still deny?
Then he says, “I own a gentlemen’s club. There’s nothing illegal about that. I don’t let my employees screw the clients. There’s no prostitution. You’re making assumptions. It’s a strip club. Nothing more.”
“I call you a murderer and a pimp, and it’s the pimp part you want to argue about?”
“I want to argue about all of it. I am none of those things, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.”
“I suppose you have no ties to the Belarussian underworld either?”
“Do you hear yourself? You sound like a crazy man. Now I’m a mobster from Russia—?”
“Belarus—not Russia. Don’t play games, Mikhail.”
“My name is Michael.”
“Keep it up, Mikhail. Keep stalling. Let’s see where that gets you.”
“I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re wrong.”
Water bubbles up and out of the fifth hole and the auger blade slips below the bottom edge of the ice, getting caught there for a few seconds. My motor coordination is fading, and I jerk on the handle until the auger is free and pops out of the hole.
As I pause to catch my breath, before starting the sixth hole, I look at Mikhail and see in his eyes that our game has changed. Like a man discarding his checkers and resetting the board with chess pieces, he’s calculating his moves with a whole new set of rules. He’s upping his game. And I’m ready for him.
CHAPTER 32
Minneapolis—Yesterday
Snow was coming down in earnest when I headed for my car. Ana had argued to come with me to meet Reece, and I shut her down. In my pocket, I carried a copy of the digital recording of Whitton talking to Kroll. Whitton would answer for the recording—that much I knew. How he would answer remained obscure in my mind. He would be waiting for me, but did he have any idea why? He saw me drag his wife out of the club. He knew I was investigating ruble symbols and tattoos, but did he have a clue as to how close I was to the full truth? I doubt it. But then again, maybe that’s exactly why he wanted to meet on the top of that parking ramp. Maybe he sees a way out.