one may not have happened yet.’
Magozzi was sitting at his desk with the morning’s fourth mug of coffee, staring out the window at the steady rain and the swarm of colorful umbrellas with legs that were fleeing the streets and disappearing into the downtown office buildings. The downpour had started early, just after dawn, riding in on a massive bank of black clouds that had settled into an indefinite stall over the Twin Cities. At the moment, it was making glacial progress eastward, drenching the center of the state with triple the expected rainfall. Assuming that a storm system of such biblical proportions would be easy to spot on Doppler, it seemed odd to him that the meteorologists hadn’t given any advance warning on the news last night. Hell, maybe this
was
an act of God. Or a portent of doom. Or both.
He hadn’t slept much after he’d safely delivered a tipsy Chelsea Thomas to her uptown Minneapolis house last night. Probably a combination of too much beer, too much grease, and too much conversation about things that were going on in the world that could drive anyone with a soul to consider suicide. Or perhaps it was the unexpected hug, warm and genuine, that she’d given him in the car before dashing up her front walk and letting herself in with a final, grandiose wave goodbye …
‘Leo? Hello?’
‘Oh … morning, Gino.’
‘Are you even awake?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Good. Me either. What’s with this rain bullshit, anyhow?’ He shucked off his blazer, exposing a pristine white shirt and intact tie, but the front of his pants were visibly wet, the cuffs still dripping water over his sodden loafers and onto the floor.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘Oh, I was so hoping you’d ask. Angela needed the car today because the Volvo’s in the shop – again – so she dropped me off at the corner. And guess what? The storm drains are backed up, there’s a foot of standing water in the streets, and I’m the lucky guy who was on the curb when some cowboy in an SUV decided to run a yellow light at thirty-five miles an hour. My toes feel like stewed prunes and I’m not even going to take a stab at describing what cold, wet undershorts are doing to other parts of my anatomy right now.’
‘I appreciate that more than you know.’
Gino sank into his chair and ran a hand through the blond hedge of his buzzcut like a squeegee. A mist of water rained down onto his desk blotter. ‘So where is everybody?’
‘McLaren and Tinker caught a call at a rental on Blaisdell; landlord and tenant got into it and one of them ended up at the bottom of the basement stairs with his head in pieces …’
‘Man, you’re just daisies in the morning, Leo, you know that?’
‘Ah. I heard about that one on the news on the way in. Seven bullet holes in the kid, and right away someone labels it suspicious.’
‘That’s the one. And Gloria’s at the dentist.’
Gloria handled the phones, the files, and ran roughshod over all the detectives in Homicide. She was almost ebony-black, lived on fast food and flamboyant clothing, and tortured Detective Johnny McLaren’s Jack Sprat frame with every single swing of her generous hips. She was also one of the few people in the world who could out-sass Gino, and leave him happy about it, which was a rare and wondrous gift.
‘Damn. Gloria was the only bright spot I expected in this day. What was she wearing?’
‘That tiger-striped thing she always wears to the dentist. Root canal this time, and she’s going to be mean as a wet cat when she gets back.’
Gino grunted. ‘Not that anybody’ll be able to tell the difference. And what happened to you last night? Tried calling you at ten, you weren’t home, and not to put to fine a point on it, but you look like crap. Almost hungover.’
‘Bad sleep and not much of it.’
‘I get that. I had nonstop nightmares about nuking everything with a circuit board in my house.’ His eyes drifted to the huge,
Magozzi was sitting at his desk with the morning’s fourth mug of coffee, staring out the window at the steady rain and the swarm of colorful umbrellas with legs that were fleeing the streets and disappearing into the downtown office buildings. The downpour had started early, just after dawn, riding in on a massive bank of black clouds that had settled into an indefinite stall over the Twin Cities. At the moment, it was making glacial progress eastward, drenching the center of the state with triple the expected rainfall. Assuming that a storm system of such biblical proportions would be easy to spot on Doppler, it seemed odd to him that the meteorologists hadn’t given any advance warning on the news last night. Hell, maybe this
was
an act of God. Or a portent of doom. Or both.
He hadn’t slept much after he’d safely delivered a tipsy Chelsea Thomas to her uptown Minneapolis house last night. Probably a combination of too much beer, too much grease, and too much conversation about things that were going on in the world that could drive anyone with a soul to consider suicide. Or perhaps it was the unexpected hug, warm and genuine, that she’d given him in the car before dashing up her front walk and letting herself in with a final, grandiose wave goodbye …
‘Leo? Hello?’
‘Oh … morning, Gino.’
‘Are you even awake?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Good. Me either. What’s with this rain bullshit, anyhow?’ He shucked off his blazer, exposing a pristine white shirt and intact tie, but the front of his pants were visibly wet, the cuffs still dripping water over his sodden loafers and onto the floor.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘Oh, I was so hoping you’d ask. Angela needed the car today because the Volvo’s in the shop – again – so she dropped me off at the corner. And guess what? The storm drains are backed up, there’s a foot of standing water in the streets, and I’m the lucky guy who was on the curb when some cowboy in an SUV decided to run a yellow light at thirty-five miles an hour. My toes feel like stewed prunes and I’m not even going to take a stab at describing what cold, wet undershorts are doing to other parts of my anatomy right now.’
‘I appreciate that more than you know.’
Gino sank into his chair and ran a hand through the blond hedge of his buzzcut like a squeegee. A mist of water rained down onto his desk blotter. ‘So where is everybody?’
‘McLaren and Tinker caught a call at a rental on Blaisdell; landlord and tenant got into it and one of them ended up at the bottom of the basement stairs with his head in pieces …’
‘Man, you’re just daisies in the morning, Leo, you know that?’
‘Ah. I heard about that one on the news on the way in. Seven bullet holes in the kid, and right away someone labels it suspicious.’
‘That’s the one. And Gloria’s at the dentist.’
Gloria handled the phones, the files, and ran roughshod over all the detectives in Homicide. She was almost ebony-black, lived on fast food and flamboyant clothing, and tortured Detective Johnny McLaren’s Jack Sprat frame with every single swing of her generous hips. She was also one of the few people in the world who could out-sass Gino, and leave him happy about it, which was a rare and wondrous gift.
‘Damn. Gloria was the only bright spot I expected in this day. What was she wearing?’
‘That tiger-striped thing she always wears to the dentist. Root canal this time, and she’s going to be mean as a wet cat when she gets back.’
Gino grunted. ‘Not that anybody’ll be able to tell the difference. And what happened to you last night? Tried calling you at ten, you weren’t home, and not to put to fine a point on it, but you look like crap. Almost hungover.’
‘Bad sleep and not much of it.’
‘I get that. I had nonstop nightmares about nuking everything with a circuit board in my house.’ His eyes drifted to the huge,
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