Want To Play by P.J. Tracy Page A

scrap of paper littered either the desk or the credenza behind it, which held a computer that looked new and unused. He could see his reflection in the dark monitor screen, and not a speck of dust. He slid open the top desk drawer an inch, saw uniformly sharpened pencils nesting in a neat row, points aligned, and a flat box of wet wipes.
    The walls were white and empty, except for a single abstract painting that did absolutely nothing for Magozzi. No color, no life, just a few black blobs on a lot of wasted canvas that filled him with the childish urge to find some colored markers and try his hand at graffiti.
    A copy of the crime-scene photo of murder number three lay perfectly centered on the desk in front of him. It was only a serendipitous act of placement – he’d tossed it there when he sat down – but it bothered him that the thing had seemed to position itself in perfect harmony with the obsessive-compulsive surroundings. He moved the photo until it was slightly crooked, and immediately felt better.
    Crime-scene number three was the kind of childishly naughty image a teenage kid would dream up: a pudgy, middle-aged man sitting on a toilet with his pants puddled around his ankles and a bullet hole in his head. Magozzi decided it was probably the brainchild of the big tattooed guy, a case of arrested development if ever he saw one.
    According to the SKUD game, the third victim was found in the restroom of a paddleboat during an evening party cruise on a river. He supposed there were even better places to lay a trap for a killer, but this one suited Magozzi just fine.
    He’d been on one of the paddle wheelers years ago, a dinner cruise down the St Croix River back in the days when he and Heather did such things together. It had been bigger than he’d expected – three decks and seating for five hundred – and a lot less romantic. The interior decks were single, vast rooms with no private spaces where romantic – or homicidal – fantasies could be indulged. The restrooms were right out in the open, with access in plain view. If he had to, he figured they could cover a boat with just twelve officers, four per deck, although he was hoping for an even better scenario. Cancel the charter, fill the boat with cops in their best civvies, and let the bastard come.
    The Muzak switched from Beatles to Mancini and Magozzi glanced at his watch impatiently. It had taken five minutes to find out that only a few of the great paddle-boats were still on the river this late in the year, and that only one – the Nicollet – was chartered for a party cruise tonight. Getting the rest of the information he needed was taking a lot longer than it should have.
    The music clicked off abruptly and Mr Tiersval, the president of the paddleboat company, came back on the line. ‘Detective Magozzi?’
    ‘Still here.’
    ‘I’m sorry for the delay. We have . . . a bit of a situation here.’ The man’s voice was strained to the breaking point. ‘Tonight’s charter is the Hammond wedding reception.’
    It took Magozzi a beat. ‘As in Foster Hammond?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Jesus.’
    If there was royalty in Minneapolis, Foster and Char Hammond were it. A near monopoly on Great Lakes shipping had filled the family coffers back at the turn of the century. Now they owned half of downtown Minneapolis if the rumors were true, and had more political influence than all the voters in the state put together.
    ‘There’s no way the Hammonds would agree to cancel this event, Detective. They’ve been planning it for over a year, and the guest list reads like a Who’s Who of Minnesota. I checked with our lawyers to see if there was anything I could do, but apparently the legal ramifications of canceling the charter are considerably more severe than having a man killed on one of our boats, if you can believe that.’
    Magozzi believed it.
    ‘If I were to refuse to honor the Hammonds’ contract, they can, and most certainly will, sue the line into