Nothing Stays Buried (A Monkeewrench Novel Book 8) by Tracy P. J

Nothing Stays Buried (A Monkeewrench Novel Book 8) by Tracy P. J

Author:Tracy, P. J. [Tracy, P. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-07-31T16:00:00+00:00


TWENTY-SEVEN

M cLaren was waiting for Gino and Magozzi outside the boarded-up storefront of what was once Suds and Suds—a long-defunct Laundromat that used to serve cheap beer to bored clients so they could enjoy a buzz while they waited for their socks and underwear to dry. According to a posted sign, a gastropub-slash-microbrewery would be occupying the space in the fall. My, how things had changed here.

When this neighborhood had started to fray around the edges back in the early nineties, Suds and Suds had closed up, along with most other mom-and-pop businesses, leaving nothing but cheap rental units, a couple of sketchy bars, and a church mission that served the homeless. The area had languished forgotten over the years, until hipsters discovered the neighborhood. They were charmed by the low rent so close to downtown Minneapolis and the slightly dangerous, dingy bars where they could drink Grain Belt beer side by side with people who didn’t possess a philosophy degree, but did possess exotic jobs, like factory assembly line workers, janitors, and small-time criminals.

Now it was in full renaissance and a new bar, tapas restaurant, or boutique was opening up every month. There was even a shiny new CVS pharmacy and a high-end grocery store. There were still a few pimples on the rapidly clearing urban complexion, but overall it was a success story for everybody except the factory workers, the janitors, and the small-time criminals, who didn’t like microbrews, tapas, or the associated rising rents.

Tonight, this city block was shut down and bathed in a kaleidoscope of flashing blue-and-red lights that advertised something very bad had happened here. Dozens of officers crowded the street, manning barricades and taking statements from onlookers.

McLaren threw up his hands in what was maybe a greeting, an admonishment, or general frustration. “Jesus, it’s about time you guys got here.”

“We were here in twenty,” Gino growled. “Did you think we were going to teleport here or what?”

McLaren was unfazed by Gino’s grumpy hibernating-bear impersonation. “Yeah, well, twenty is about all it took for things to go downhill faster than a boulder. We’re gonna have company soon.”

“What kind of company?” Magozzi asked, dreading the answer.

“The FBI.”

“What the hell business do they have with this? They’re not in on our serial.”

“This has nothing to do with the possible serial angle, the Feds don’t even know about it yet. See, the vic was robbed. No personal effects, no identification. So we ran her prints and got nothing. A little while later, I get a call from Chief Malcherson, telling me and Eaton to play nice with our new friends when they show up.”

“That’s all he said?”

“That’s it. Until I mentioned the fact that this was maybe our serial and I’d called you guys in for a look, then he got quiet for a minute, said he’d get back to me.”

Gino wiped his bleary eyes, dragging the bags under them farther down his face. “So the vic doesn’t have a criminal history, no prints on any open file, and yet the minute you ran them, the Feds were all over you.



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