Highway 61 by David Housewright Read Free Book Online Page A

would get rid of at least half, and I said so.
    “How long were you on the job again?” Wojtowick asked.
    Next came race—Caucasian; age—eighteen to twenty; weight—one hundred ten pounds, hair—blond; eyes …
    “What color were her eyes?” Wojtowick asked.
    “Brown.”
    Finally the date—July 5 to the present.
    There was one match, an eighteen-year-old who went missing in Greater Sudbury in October, but she wasn’t our girl. Wojtowick eliminated the date from the search preferences and increased the age from sixteen to twenty-four and came up with seven more possibilities that we quickly dismissed. Next she eliminated hair color. That produced eleven additional candidates that we checked one after another. None of them matched the girl in the photograph, either.
    “These are all the reported missing persons in Canada,” Wojtowick said. “Could she have been an American?”
    “She could have been Portuguese for all I know.”
    “That’s not helpful, McKenzie.”
    “Yes, of course she could have been an American. If it’s just an elaborate scam like I suspect, it probably originated in Minnesota.”
    “Based on what you told me, your Mr. Truhler claims it didn’t.”
    “I think Mr. Truhler is trying to make himself out to be more innocent than he really is.”
    “Let’s have a chat with Mr. Khawaja. I’ll do the talking this time.”
    *   *   *
    Standing in black leather boots with two-inch heels before the registration desk, Wojtowick looked like she could have played small forward for the Timberwolves, and God knows Minnesota’s NBA franchise could use one. Daniel was obviously intimidated more by her height than he was by the credentials that she showed him. Not me. I like tall women. ’Course, I’ve always been ambitious.
    “I have done nothing wrong,” Daniel said. He said it several times. “I do not know why McKenzie says these things about me.”
    “Would you relax?” I said. “You act like we’re accusing you of murder or something.”
    “Outrageous,” Daniel said.
    “Mr. Khawaja,” Wojtowick said. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Khawaja, we are interested in room thirty-four. Now, I understand that you replaced the carpet in the room immediately following the Thunder Bay Blues Festival.”
    “Is that a crime?”
    “Did you replace the carpet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I am replacing the carpet in all of the rooms. I did ten rooms last year and ten this year, and I’ll do the rest next year and the year after.”
    “How many rooms do you have?”
    “Forty.”
    “Why only ten at a time?”
    “It is all I can afford.”
    “Mr. Khawaja,” she said, “are you replacing the carpet according to any pattern?”
    “I replace the carpets that are most worn first. Why are you asking me this?”
    “Is there any particular reason why you replaced the carpet in thirty-four?”
    “It was badly damaged. Too damaged to clean.”
    “Damaged by what?” I asked.
    “Vomit,” Daniel said. “Vomit and wine. Someone dumped an entire bottle of red wine on the carpet. What is this about? You must tell me. Do I need a lawyer?”
    “What happened to the carpet?” Wojtowick asked.
    “The workmen took it away.”
    “Where?”
    “I don’t know. They put it in the back of a truck and carted it off.”
    “Then you didn’t replace the carpet yourself.”
    “No,” Daniel said. “Please, Constable…”
    Wojtowick turned toward me. She made a “come here” gesture with the fingers of her hand. I gave her the envelope. She opened it, removed the photo, and slid it across the counter to Daniel. I didn’t think it was possible for a man with his dark complexion to turn white, yet he nearly managed it. He backed away from the photo until his spine was pressed hard against the wall behind him.
    “What, what?” he chanted.
    “This photograph was taken in your room thirty-four,” Wojtowick said. “We believe it is a phony, but we must be