other teenage runaway, Brandy. One of them might be able to help him figure out who was hunting Cat. And why.
He also couldn’t get another name out of his head.
Vincent Roslak.
13
Brooke Hahne was late.
Maggie stood outside Sammy’s Pizza downtown, across the street from The Praying Hands. Runaways, drug addicts, prostitutes and abused teens all wound up at the shelter’s door. Some kids needed medical help. Some needed tips on jobs. Some simply needed a hot meal and a safe place to sleep.
The street corner opposite The Praying Hands was deserted on Saturday afternoon. Usually, a dozen teens hung out there, but everyone recognized Maggie’s yellow Avalanche in the central Hillside area, and everyone knew she was a cop. When she showed up, the teens melted away like ice cream on an August sidewalk.
Inside the pizza joint, a cook in a greasy apron waved through the store window. She was a regular at Sammy’s. So was Stride. The restaurant had served as the weekly hangout for her, Stride, and Serena; it was the place where they talked about open cases over garlic bread and sausage pizza. They hadn’t done that since the break-up. When she ate Sammy’s pizza now, it was usually a late-night delivery to her condo. Alone. With a beer.
Serena.
Maggie hadn’t seen Serena Dial in months, since before the long winter. They weren’t friends anymore. Serena had moved out of Stride’s cottage in November and joined the sheriff’s department in the lake town of Grand Rapids an hour away. She was a name on Itasca County bulletins now. When updates about the Margot Huizenfelt case came up at the morning meeting, Serena was the contact. Other than that, she was a ghost who never showed upin Duluth. Maggie missed her, but she had no one to blame for the split but herself.
Her affair with Stride had begun after his near-death fall from the Blatnik Bridge, which had triggered debilitating flashbacks that left him emotionally numb. Like strangers, Stride and Serena had blocked each other out, unable to talk about the rift between them. At his lowest ebb, Maggie had found Stride on the floor of his cottage, cut and bleeding, dazed and suicidal. She’d cleaned him up. She’d put her arms around him. She’d listened to him talk about feeling dead inside. When he reached for her, not as a friend but as a lover, she’d reached back.
A mistake.
Her instincts had told her to run, but she stayed. They kissed. They made love. It should have been one time, it should have been their secret, but those kinds of secrets had a way of getting out. Stride couldn’t hide the truth from Serena. It was in his face. When he told her, the fissures in all of their relationships split open like cracks in the earth. There was no going back to the way they were.
Maggie climbed the hill past the restaurant with the fire escapes of the old brick building on her left. She crossed the street through a cloud of steam belching from the sewers. Near the next corner at Second Street, she stopped where Cat had told Stride that a car tried to run her down. She noticed a parking meter with a bent frame, as if a car had struck it. It could have happened the way Cat said, with a vehicle weaving on and off the sidewalk as part of a hit-and-run. Or the meter could have been damaged like that for months. She’d banged up a few meters herself over the years.
Maggie spotted a white Kia Rio parallel parking near Sammy’s. She recognized the car and saw Brooke Hahne get out and head toward The Praying Hands. Brooke, who probably made less money than a first-year teacher, was dressed in an above-the-knee black skirt and a burgundy blouse with gold buttons. Everything she wore was second-hand, but she made thrift shop specials look good.At thirty, she was cheerleader pretty, with long, straight blonde hair. Her high heels made her nearly six feet tall. She was as skinny as a praying mantis, which was what Duluth politicians often called her. She had a razor
He also couldn’t get another name out of his head.
Vincent Roslak.
13
Brooke Hahne was late.
Maggie stood outside Sammy’s Pizza downtown, across the street from The Praying Hands. Runaways, drug addicts, prostitutes and abused teens all wound up at the shelter’s door. Some kids needed medical help. Some needed tips on jobs. Some simply needed a hot meal and a safe place to sleep.
The street corner opposite The Praying Hands was deserted on Saturday afternoon. Usually, a dozen teens hung out there, but everyone recognized Maggie’s yellow Avalanche in the central Hillside area, and everyone knew she was a cop. When she showed up, the teens melted away like ice cream on an August sidewalk.
Inside the pizza joint, a cook in a greasy apron waved through the store window. She was a regular at Sammy’s. So was Stride. The restaurant had served as the weekly hangout for her, Stride, and Serena; it was the place where they talked about open cases over garlic bread and sausage pizza. They hadn’t done that since the break-up. When she ate Sammy’s pizza now, it was usually a late-night delivery to her condo. Alone. With a beer.
Serena.
Maggie hadn’t seen Serena Dial in months, since before the long winter. They weren’t friends anymore. Serena had moved out of Stride’s cottage in November and joined the sheriff’s department in the lake town of Grand Rapids an hour away. She was a name on Itasca County bulletins now. When updates about the Margot Huizenfelt case came up at the morning meeting, Serena was the contact. Other than that, she was a ghost who never showed upin Duluth. Maggie missed her, but she had no one to blame for the split but herself.
Her affair with Stride had begun after his near-death fall from the Blatnik Bridge, which had triggered debilitating flashbacks that left him emotionally numb. Like strangers, Stride and Serena had blocked each other out, unable to talk about the rift between them. At his lowest ebb, Maggie had found Stride on the floor of his cottage, cut and bleeding, dazed and suicidal. She’d cleaned him up. She’d put her arms around him. She’d listened to him talk about feeling dead inside. When he reached for her, not as a friend but as a lover, she’d reached back.
A mistake.
Her instincts had told her to run, but she stayed. They kissed. They made love. It should have been one time, it should have been their secret, but those kinds of secrets had a way of getting out. Stride couldn’t hide the truth from Serena. It was in his face. When he told her, the fissures in all of their relationships split open like cracks in the earth. There was no going back to the way they were.
Maggie climbed the hill past the restaurant with the fire escapes of the old brick building on her left. She crossed the street through a cloud of steam belching from the sewers. Near the next corner at Second Street, she stopped where Cat had told Stride that a car tried to run her down. She noticed a parking meter with a bent frame, as if a car had struck it. It could have happened the way Cat said, with a vehicle weaving on and off the sidewalk as part of a hit-and-run. Or the meter could have been damaged like that for months. She’d banged up a few meters herself over the years.
Maggie spotted a white Kia Rio parallel parking near Sammy’s. She recognized the car and saw Brooke Hahne get out and head toward The Praying Hands. Brooke, who probably made less money than a first-year teacher, was dressed in an above-the-knee black skirt and a burgundy blouse with gold buttons. Everything she wore was second-hand, but she made thrift shop specials look good.At thirty, she was cheerleader pretty, with long, straight blonde hair. Her high heels made her nearly six feet tall. She was as skinny as a praying mantis, which was what Duluth politicians often called her. She had a razor
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