Chapter 11: The Parking Stub

Tony's POV

Brett Kessling walked into my office at noon without knocking.

He was in his work suit, with his tie loose, and he shut the door behind him.

I kept my pen moving over the lumber order.

"Brett," I said. "You're a long way from the insurance district."

"Were you on my street last night?"

I finished the line I was writing before I looked up.

"Which street?"

"Cedar. Outside my house. A gray Volvo, midnight."

"I drive a gray Volvo," I said. "So does half of Minneapolis."

"It was yours."

"I park on Cedar sometimes. It's quiet, and I can think there." I capped the pen. "I haven't been sleeping."

"Why my street?"

"Because it's on the way from the lake to the highway. Would you like to see my route history?"

He didn't answer.

His eyes went to my desk, to the pen, to the family photograph by the lamp.

In the photograph Lila was laughing and holding a trowel in a garden.

Brett looked at it for a moment too long, and then he looked away.

"Stay away from my wife," he said.

"Your wife has been in my kitchen three times this week," I said. "She's helping me plan a party for my wife. I'd say she's been remarkably kind."

He had no answer for that.

I watched him think of several and drop them.

"Fine," he said at last. "Fine. Just so you know."

"Brett."

He stopped with his hand on the door.

"Your tie is crooked," I said.

He left.