Read Highway 61 for Free Online Page B

and beard, and a brown ponytail streaked with gray. His grin suggested that we weren’t saying anything that he hadn’t heard before.
    “Did you commit the murder, Daniel?”
    “Outrageous.”
    “Why are you covering it up?”
    “You say these things—outrageous.”
    “If you just answer my question—”
    “Outrageous. I answer no questions. You will leave. You will leave my motel.”
    The man’s grin broadened into a smile. He crossed his arms over his chest, revealing the beginnings of a tattoo that started at his wrist and disappeared under the sleeve of his leather jacket. His eyes flicked from me to Daniel and back to me again.
    “You are making this much harder than it needs to be,” I said.
    “You will leave immediately,” Daniel said.
    “Listen—”
    “You will leave or I will call the police.”
    “Don’t worry about that. I’ll call them myself.”
    “Did I come at a bad time?” the bearded man asked.
    I ignored the question and brushed past him through the door, slamming it behind me. The door slam was just for dramatic effect. I wanted Daniel to think I was angry and indignant instead of what I really was, embarrassed.
    I went to my Cherokee. Once inside and with the engine running, I fished my iPhone from my pocket and used the maps application to locate the Thunder Bay Police Service—it was on Balmoral Street, about six miles away. I put the vehicle in gear and drove off. I could see Daniel dealing with the ponytailed customer through the office window as I passed.
    “You could have handled that better,” I told myself.

 
    FOUR
    I was expecting a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman wearing a red coat and a nifty hat. After much rigmarole I was passed off to a woman wearing a brown pantsuit and a white turtleneck sweater. Her eyes were blue, her hair was blond, and she was tall and trim enough to make me feel both small and out of shape. I had to look up at her when she rose from the chair behind her desk and offered her hand.
    “Detective Constable Aire Wojtowick,” she said.
    I shook her hand and told her who I was.
    “Wojtowick, is that Polish?” I asked.
    She motioned me to a chair next to the desk.
    “Slovakian,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
    I flashed on the Kashmiri motel owner.
    “You have quite a melting pot up here,” I said.
    “Every ethnicity that you have in the States you’ll find in Canada.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “That’s because Americans rarely think beyond their own borders. You are an American, right?”
    I balanced the envelope on my knee.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I guessed as much when the sergeant downstairs said you were making a nuisance of yourself.”
    “I didn’t mean to. I’m just looking for information.”
    “Such as?”
    “To start with, I’d like to look at your missing persons reports.”
    “That information is not generally available to the public.”
    “Will it help that I was on the job for eleven and a half years with the St. Paul Police Department in Minnesota?”
    Wojtowick held her thumb and index fingers about an inch apart.
    “It impresses me that much,” she said.
    “I occasionally work as an unlicensed investigator.”
    She closed the distance between her thumb and finger to about a quarter inch.
    “I’m trying to solve a murder,” I said.
    “Whose murder?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Mr. McKenzie, I am the most junior member of the Criminal Investigation Branch of the Thunder Bay Police Service. It took me many years to achieve this position, and I was forced to vault many hurdles that less gifted but more masculine colleagues were not. I’d hate to jeopardize it now by squandering time and resources listening to lunatics. It would behoove you, sir, to tell me—and tell me quickly—why I should not throw you out of here.”
    “Do you know Bobby Dunston?”
    “Who?”
    “He has the rank of commander in the Major Crimes and Investigations Division of the St. Paul Police Department. He used to be a