Deadly Stillwater

It took three hours, but Burton and the FBI found the owner, Gavin Harvey, who was out on his boat on Lake Minnetonka. Arriving dressed in a bright orange swimsuit and an unbuttoned blue and white Hawaiian shirt, not to mention half in the bag, Harvey turned over a manila folder with a thin set of rental documents for the house.

The renter was Ramona Jones. No picture identification was in the file. Simply a one-page, two-month agreement and a notation of $2,000 cash paid up-front. It was nothing unusual, according to Harvey. This was one of his lesser rental properties, and he was contemplating selling because he couldn’t regularly rent it. When Jones came along with $2,000 cash and a two-month rental request, it was “a no brainer,” Harvey said. “Otherwise the joint sits empty.”

Harvey’s description of the woman wasn’t helpful either. “Small, petite, she was attractive, had long blonde hair, nearly down to her ass. I took a little run at her, if you know what I mean,” Harvey said, smiling crookedly and winking at Mac. “But she blew me off.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Lich cracked.

“Where was she from?” Mac asked, suppressing a chuckle.

“I don’t know, beyond what’s on the rental sheet,” Harvey said, the booze on his breath causing Mac to wince and take a step back. Good thing this guy has a lackey driving him.

The rental sheet revealed a nonexistent address in Duluth. Harvey said that he had spoken to Jones once over the phone, met her once in person to have her sign the lease, collected the money, and gave her the keys. Harvey hadn’t stopped by since.

Neighbors were questioned, but nothing useful was coming of it. People saw the vans, but they couldn’t give consistent answers as to colors, makes, models, or plates. Men were seen, but nobody seemed to know how many or what they looked like beyond being big. Nobody spoke to the men or ever saw their faces. They were seen pulling in and out of the garage, black-clad torsos with hats and sunglasses on. Otherwise, they were never seen and never did anything to draw attention.

Burton, Duffy, and Peters were also convinced that the kidnappers were using the house. Now, if only they would come back. Mac ran the facts continuously through his head as he watched the house and the neighborhood. The neighborhood was eerily quiet. The heat was keeping people inside. A normal July 3rd night would have people out walking their dogs, taking a run, enjoying the small window of summer weather in Minnesota. Instead it was quiet.

Stifling a yawn, Mac turned away from the window to see the massive Rock sitting in an undersized armchair, reading, of all things, Better Homes and Gardens. Rock wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who cared about curtains or tulips or anything of the like. He was bored. So was Lich, who was failing miserably in his attempt to complete a crossword puzzle in the Star Tribune. The kicker was Riles, a man who absolutely hated pop culture, reading a People magazine. Pat far preferred watching the Discovery and History channels or reading a Newsweek or Time.

Mac had to laugh. Riley, all six feet, three inches of him, wearing a faded blue Minnesota Twins cap, a dark blue golf shirt, and khakis, sat on the right side of a small couch. On the other side sat the short, squat Lich, wearing white tennis shoes, lightly soiled off-white pants, a red Hawaiian shirt with white collar, and a white beach hat he had fished out of Mac’s backseat earlier. It was the Skipper and Gilligan.

Mac slyly caught Riles’ attention before he said to Lich, “Hey little buddy,” in his best Skipper voice. Riles, right on cue, hit Dick on the head with his blue hat. Rock howled in laughter.

“Fuck you all,” Lich growled, rubbing his head. For no reason at all everyone started talking about their favorite Gilligan’s Island episode. Rock argued for five minutes, mostly tongue-in-cheek, that the show was racist. “I didn’t see no brothas on that show. Why not? That Sherwood Schwartz dude was racist.”

“Oh, right,” Mac answered, rolling his eyes. “There were lots of African Americans who were going on charter boat rides in Hawaii back in the mid-sixties.”

“Fuck that,” Rock answered. “They just didn’t want a gook lookin’ black dude like Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, or Richard Roundtree scoring with Ginger or Mary Ann.”

“You know what I don’t get? Why weren’t the skipper, professor, or Gilligan drillin’ Ginger or Mary Ann to begin with,” Lich said, his mind always wandering in a certain direction. “I mean, you know Thurston was putting the Howell the III to Lovey.”

“Oh God,” Mac howled, doubling over with laughter, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Okay, which one, Ginger or Mary Ann?” Rock asked smiling.

“Mary Ann!” Mac and Riles replied in unison.

“Agreed,” Rock said. What about you, Dick Lick?” Rock asked.

“Ginger. Definitely Ginger. She could suck a golf ball through a straw,” Lich said, smiling, sticking his tongue out in his best impression of Morris from Slap Shot.