Deadly Stillwater

Burton had turned into the lot on the north side of the bar. Foxx drove past the front and pulled into the lot on the south side and then cruised around to the back of the bar and out onto the street running along the backside so that she could look at the back of Burton’s car. She parked along the curb and slumped down to watch. The FBI man stayed in his car, contorting his body around – she saw his arms waving over his head as his shirt came off. Five minutes later, he was out of the sedan, dressed in jean shorts, a dark T-shirt, baseball cap, wire-rimmed glasses, and flip-flops.

Foxx took one look in the rearview mirror and realized she would be noticed without some alterations. Popping the trunk, she grabbed her duffel bag and quickly jumped back into the car and inventoried the contents. She’d gone to her fitness club early the day before, so there was an extra clean tank top, a hair binder, and a white Adidas tennis cap. She changed shirts and put on the baseball cap, sliding her pony tail out the back, but it wasn’t quite enough. There was also a sky blue Reebok nylon sweat top in the bag. It was a little gamy as she zipped it up, but that was okay – it might keep people, meaning men, away. The last thing she did was take out her disposable contact lenses and toss them out the window, sliding on her dark-rimmed glasses instead. She was as unrecognizable as she could make herself. Grabbing her purse, she walked into the bar.

Forest Lake sat on the far northeastern edge of the Twin Cities, so it was considered a suburb, but it had a country feel. The Ranger created a melting pot for the clash of those suburban and rural cultures. One look at the massive throng revealed a great mixture of the denim-and-belt-buckle, NASCAR-hat crowd and the Tommy-Bahama types.

As Heather entered from the back, she found a large bar beneath dark-paneled walls covered with framed sports jerseys and newspaper clippings, souvenirs of the Twins ’87 and ’91 World Series victories and recent Minnesota Gopher hockey national championships. In the dim lighting, she noted pool tables and dartboards in a segregated area to her immediate right. Straight ahead, a short hallway led to the main bar area where booths and tables surrounded a long, four-sided mahogany bar. In the far right corner, karaoke was going strong with an American Idol wannabe belting out Eddie Money’s “ Shakin ” – badly.

Heather picked her way around two sides of the main bar before spotting Burton, who was sitting in a booth, talking to another man. She grabbed an open bar stool, three from the corner nearest to Burton, and sat down.

The bartender appeared instantly, a good-looking, six-foot, black-haired early twenty-something in a tight black Ranger T-shirt, which showed his chiseled upper body. “What can I get ya’, darlin’?” he said with a bright white smile.

Darlin’? He was cheesy for sure, but definitely cute. “You know what a Vodka Sonic is?”

“Sure darlin’. Vodka, club soda, splash of tonic, and a lemon. We call it a Jolly Roger around here.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Vodka Sonic for the pretty lady it is,” the bartender replied, strolling off to mix the drink.

Heather alternately looked at a table tent menu with nightly specials and toward Burton, still deep in conversation with the other man, who was perhaps a little shorter. The man had short black hair, slightly graying at the temples. His profile revealed a large nose with a knot two-thirds of the way up, where it had been broken before. Both men had a beer in front of them, one-third finished, along with a bowl of popcorn. They leaned in close as they talked, their hands crossed in front of them.

“So where is the investigation at?” Smith asked, taking a pull off of his Budweiser.

“We’re good,” Burton answered, hat pulled down low. He ignored his Miller High Life and cautiously peered around the jam-packed bar, trying to determine if anyone was watching or looking in their direction. He wasn’t comfortable meeting in this environment, but Smith insisted and he was the one pulling the strings. “The discovery of the house today actually worked to your advantage.”

“How so?” Smith asked with raised eyebrows.

“Besides the obvious, which is that we didn’t find anything to identify you, it means that the best St. Paul has to offer are sitting on the house right now. It’s the only break the case has had, so they’re lying in wait, hoping you’ll come back.”

“Which means they’re wasting their time and not looking for us,” Smith answered, smiling, taking another hit off the beer. He was so happy, he was thinking of ordering another.

“And that’s a good thing,” Burton said. “These guys aren’t bad, particularly this McRyan character.”

“Now that name’s familiar,” Smith answered. “Why do I know that name?”