“Mr. Selmi is a great old teddy bear of a man. Everybody loves him. He started Kennel-Up in his garage when he was thirty-five. Now he’s seventy-something and rich. Only I get the impression he wishes he was still working out of the garage.

“Anyway, Mr. Selmi seemed quite upset. He questioned Raymond in my presence. Raymond, of course, denied everything. Said it was all in my imagination. Even suggested that subconsciously I wanted him to do the things he described. Mr. Selmi asked me to leave his office, and he and Raymond spoke for a long time—several hours at least. Later, Mr. Selmi informed me that my problems with Raymond were over. But he was mistaken.

“Later that evening, I discovered Raymond’s car parked in front of my house. I could see the burning tip of a cigarette behind the windshield. I called the police. I was impressed by how quickly the officers responded, but not by their kid-glove treatment of the man. It was as if they were afraid to offend him.

“Raymond told the police he had done nothing wrong, and legally speaking I suppose that was true. He also claimed I had invited him. He said I had promised to sneak out of the house after Stephen was asleep and meet him. He was lying, and I said so. The police and Stephen—damn Stephen—weren’t sure what to believe. That is until they ran Raymond’s name through their computer and learned that he had been convicted of raping a woman about seven years ago. Apparently Raymond had satisfied the conditions of his parole because the police said there was nothing they could do but warn him off. Raymond left, and after he drove away, so did the police.

“The next morning I went directly to Mr. Selmi and told him what had occurred. He fired Raymond before Raymond had a chance to remove his overcoat and then stood watch while Raymond cleared his personal effects from his office.

“Stephen … I nearly left Stephen that night. He said I had no business getting Raymond fired. He said Raymond had paid his debt to society and had as much right to a job as I did. He said if I didn’t like it at Kennel-Up, I should have quit instead.

“I encountered much the same reaction from my co-workers. One woman accused me of fabricating the entire incident just to get Raymond dismissed, although she couldn’t explain why I would do such a thing. Several others complained to Mr. Selmi, saying they did not want to work with me—apparently I was the only one to receive Raymond’s special attention.

“Then the telephone calls started coming: at home, at work, night and day. Usually the caller would hang up when I answered. Sometimes a loud whistle would be blown in my ear. Sometimes nothing would happen as I repeated ‘Hello, hello, hello’ like an idiot. A box filled with dead roses was left on my desk. A dead cat was stuffed in my mailbox at home. A few days ago the tires of my car were slashed in a supermarket parking lot, which means someone followed me there, right? I knew it was Raymond.

“I bought a gun. A .22. I asked for something bigger, but the man said a .22 was plenty big enough. I had it with me yesterday while I was in downtown Minneapolis. I was gripping it inside my purse when a homeless man came up and handed me an envelope. ‘Person paid me to give you this,’ he said and then walked away before I could ask him who. I opened the envelope. There was a piece of paper in it. On the paper someone had written the word Soon in crayon. Nothing else, just Soon.

“Mr. Truman, I know he’s out there. I know he’s coming for me. It’s just a matter of time. The police can’t help me, and Stephen won’t. So, all I can do is wait. But I refuse to panic. And I refuse to run.…

“It’s Wednesday, October sixteenth. I request that you accept this tape; lock it in your safe. A year from now, if I discover my fears have been greatly exaggerated, I’ll ask you to return it, and we’ll go to lunch, and you can charge me an exorbitant fee for your patience. Thank you for your consideration. Hey, you guys! Larry, Moe …”

We sat silently listening long after the tape had stopped playing. Finally Truman ejected the cassette from the machine. He held it in both hands like it was ancient parchment instead of plastic.

“Leave it,” I told him when he made a move to drop it in his pocket. He placed the cassette on the desk blotter next to Alison’s photograph.

“Tell me more,” I said.

“Witnesses verify that Alison left Kennel-Up at five-fifteen. Give her fifteen minutes to reach her home. Her husband arrives at six-fifteen and finds Alison missing. No trace of her. When I learned about it, I gave the original cassette to the cops; this is a copy. They checked Raymond Fleck. He had an alibi. A woman who worked with him at Kennel-Up claimed that from about five till seven, they were fucking each other’s brains out. Excuse me, having carnal relations.”

I waved off the apology; the color of his language no longer concerned me.

“The cops thought that was awfully convenient and wouldn’t eliminate him as a suspect. Only, eliminate him from what? There’s nothing there, Holland. Nothing at all. No prints, no fibers … They put Alison’s photograph on TV, in the newspapers—‘Have you seen this woman?’ They even put her on those goddamn milk cartons. That was two hundred and twelve days ago.”

“You counted the days?”

“Every fucking one.”

“What do you want me to do, Hunter?” Strange how we were suddenly on a first-name basis, the best of friends.

“Find her.”

“Find her?”

“Find out what happened to her. Listen to what I’m saying: I know she’s dead, but I don’t know, I mean … I have to know what happened to her. I have to know. Even if there’s nothing we can do about it, even if—I have to know, Holland. Please.…”

Why did it matter so much to him? I wondered. What was Alison to Truman besides a client? Was that the extent of their relationship? Or was there something else? I was betting on the something else. I had no reason to draw that conclusion except that Hunter Truman was the most unreasonable, unsympathetic, mean-spirited man I knew who wasn’t in jail. As far as I could tell he had never displayed so much as a modicum of concern for anyone. Yet he seemed to care deeply for Alison Donnerbauer Emerton. And suddenly, so did I.

“There’s not much I can do that the cops haven’t,” I told him.

“Give me your best guess. I’ll settle for that.”

It was ten o’clock Monday morning, the first week in June, and the phone hadn’t rung for a few days. I told myself, what the hell, a buck’s a buck, and Hunter Truman wasn’t such a bad guy.… Yeah, right.

“I’ll look into it, see if I can generate a few new leads. If not …” I shrugged.

“You will?” Truman asked gleefully.

“I get four hundred a day, plus expenses.”

two

Anne Scalasi was my best friend—maybe my only friend—and she proved it by ignoring my presence at her desk until she finished reading a memo that was one paragraph long. It took her several minutes.

The office of St. Paul Police Department’s Homicide Unit hadn’t changed much since I labored there. Hell, except for the occasional computer terminal, it hadn’t changed much since 1972. Detectives still sat in metal chairs at metal desks, separated from each other by movable soft-sided walls. Empty metal coatracks stood guard outside each cubicle.

From where Anne sat, she had a clear view of the erasable white plastic marker board covered with rows of names. It was a roster of this year’s homicides. Red was active. Black denoted cases where a suspect had been charged. There were only a few reds.

“What do you want?” Annie barked at last.