“I should have been more—”
“Thorough?” Bobby asked.
“Yes. Sorry.”
“The suspect could be a woman but it’s hard to be sure; the video is very poor quality. After we’re done here, take the drive to FSU. See if the image can be enhanced. If not, we’ll go back to the source material, see if that’ll make a difference.”
“What about the thing at the Haven last night? I was going to—”
“I passed it off to Eddie Hilger and Sarah Frisco.”
“But I caught it.”
“You also caught the shooting of McKenzie, didn’t you?”
Shipman couldn’t believe this was happening. Being forced to give up the chase of three armed members of a biker gang because of me? Bobby couldn’t possibly be this unfair.
“Commander Dunston,” she said.
Bobby stared at her for a few beats. Believe me; the stare was much worse than a lecture.
“Yes, Detective?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’ll get the flash drive over to FSU.”
Bobby stared some more. Finally, he said “What do we know? We know that McKenzie was doing a favor for a friend named Dave Deese.”
He explained what the favor was, adding that Deese had given me the username and password for Deese’s ancestry account, information that he also shared with Bobby. Gafford took notes; Shipman did not.
“Whether or not this has anything to do with McKenzie getting shot remains to be seen,” Bobby said. “Seems as good a place to start as any, though.”
“Can’t we just wait for McKenzie to come out of the coma?” Shipman asked.
Bobby ignored the question.
“We also know that McKenzie made a date to meet Nina Truhler at seven P.M. at Rickie’s,” he said. “He made the date at four fifty-seven P.M. according to this phone log. He received and made several phone calls after that, but no texts. We have phone numbers but no names.”
“We know this because…”
Bobby set my cell phone in front of Shipman.
“The security functions have been disabled so we have complete access,” he said. “Take this to FSU, too. Put names to the phone calls before and after Nina’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
“McKenzie arrived at RT’s Basement at eight P.M.” Gafford was perusing his notes while he spoke. “Apparently he was there to meet someone if the club owner can be believed. So who arranged the meeting?”
“What we need to find out.” Bobby rubbed his tired face with both hands. “Where is McKenzie’s vehicle?”
“Impound lot,” Shipman said.
“Please tell me he was driving the Mustang.”
“No. That piece of crap Jeep Cherokee.”
“Dammit.”
“What difference does it make?” Gafford asked.
“The Mustang has GPS,” Bobby said. “The Cherokee, I’m not even sure if it has power windows. McKenzie bought it a decade before he came into his money and he’s been nursing it along ever since.”
“That part of town—I could see why he’d drive the Cherokee instead of the Mustang. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t driving the Mustang prior to that, though. We can still trace his movements prior to that.”
“If he was driving the Mustang,” Shipman said.
* * *
Nina was in the parking ramp at Regions Hospital, her heels echoing across the concrete as she approached her Lexus. Her cell phone alerted her. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, yet swiped right when she saw that Bobby was calling.
“What is it?” she asked.
Bobby was taken aback by Nina’s brusque manner; he actually used those words when he told me about the conversation later—taken aback. His first question was about me. Nina repeated what Dr. Linder had told her.
“I’m trying real hard not to scream until I’m inside my car,” she said.
Bobby’s second question was about the Ford Mustang GT that Nina had given to me for my birthday two years ago.
“It’s in the shop,” Nina said.
“For how long?”
“Two, three days.”
“Why?”
“His check engine light went on so he took it to his guy. Turns out he had a bad oxygen sensor. McKenzie said it wasn’t necessarily a big deal except that his guy was so backed up he said that it would take a while before he got to it. McKenzie left the Mustang and told his guy to take his time and just let him know when it was ready.”
“In the meantime, he drove his Jeep Cherokee,” Bobby said.
“The damn thing is older than your kids. It’s older than my kid and she’s twenty-one.”
“You’d think with his money…”
Bobby thought I was personally making it just as hard as I could to catch the person who shot me, but didn’t say so out loud.
“Anything else?” Nina speaking in that brusque tone again.
Bobby asked about gaining access to my computer.
“I know McKenzie keeps notes,” he said.
“I’m not going home,” Nina told him. “I’m so angry right now I might start throwing stuff off the balcony. I’m going to the club. I’ll call security and tell them to let you in, though. Okay?”
“Me or one of my people; depends on how the day shakes out.”
“Your way of saying that you’re not dropping everything to find the person who shot your best friend?”
“I have other responsibilities. Crimes don’t happen one at a time. McKenzie would understand.”
“I know, I know. It’s just … It reminds me of that old Skeeter Davis song. I wake up in the morning and I wonder why everything’s the same as it was.”
“About his computer, does it have a password?”
“Same as his cell phone.”
“Given what McKenzie does in his spare time, you’d think he’d be a little bit more security conscious.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
* * *
Schroeder Private Investigations was a cop shop. Every field operative who worked there had been an investigator for one law enforcement agency or another—local police, sheriff’s department, state cops, even the FBI. They all acted like it, too, answering calls in white shirtsleeves and shoulder holsters, sitting behind gray metal desks with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths, their sports jackets hanging over the backs of the chairs they sat in, both men and women. SPI also employed a platoon of computer geeks that ran skip traces, conducted background checks, hunted identity thieves, vetted jurors, uncovered hidden assets, and conducted cyber investigations without ever leaving the comfort of their workstations. They were the ones dressed like they were either doing yard work or about to walk the red carpet at the Golden Globes, take your pick.
Riley Brodin-Mulally walked into the office, made her way to the reception desk, and tapped the top of the desk to get the attention of the receptionist. The receptionist was named Gloria. She said, “How may I help you?”
“I wish to see Greg Schroeder,” Riley answered.
Gloria looked at her computer screen.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Schroeder is unavailable. I’m sure one of our other operatives would be happy…”
“Tell him that Riley Muehlenhaus is waiting. Tell him that I won’t be waiting long.”
Gloria recognized the name. Instead of picking up a phone she smiled slightly, asked Riley to take a seat, and went to Schroeder’s office in person. A moment later she returned, asked Riley to follow her, and led her through the maze of desks and cubicles where the operatives sat, not one looking up to catch Riley’s eye.
Schroeder was waiting for Riley in a corner office with a splendid view of U.S. Bank Stadium in downtown Minneapolis. His tie was neatly knotted and pushed all the way up to his throat and he was wearing his suit coat, something he seldom did when meeting clients for the first time. Greg Schroeder was a trench coat detective; at least
he tried hard to maintain the image. He actually wore a gray trench coat over his rumpled suit when the weather permitted. He drank his coffee black and his whiskey neat and liked to sneer while he ran his thumb across his chin like Humphrey Bogart did in his tough-guy movies. Yet now he looked and behaved like a banker.
“Ms. Muehlenhaus,” he said and extended his hand.
Riley shook it as Gloria closed the office door, disappearing behind it.
“Actually, it’s Brodin-Mulally now,” Riley said. “I only use the name Muehlenhaus when I wish to make an impression.”
“Of course. How is your grandfather?”
“Thriving.”
“Excellent.”
Schroeder gestured toward a couple of chairs arranged around a glass table in the corner. Riley took one and he took the other.
“It’s been a while since we’ve last spoken,” Riley said.
“If I recall, we did not part on the best of terms.”
“That’s because you were working for my grandfather against my personal interests.”
Schroeder raised his hand slightly and let it fall again as if it was a subject not worth discussing.
“You are aware that I am now president of Muehlenhaus Industries,” Riley said. “My grandfather retains the title of CEO but serves only as a figurehead.”
“I heard.”
“You performed many tasks for him that I did not approve of at the time. That I don’t think others would approve of if they knew.”
“If I did, I can’t recall what they were.”
“You don’t need to prove your discretion to me, Mr. Schroeder. I’m aware. In fact, I am relying on it.”
“Oh?”
“I wish to hire you.”
“Then know, Ms. Brodin-Mulally, you don’t come here. Not ever.” Schroeder reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card. He slid the card across the table at her. “If you wish to contact me, use any of these cell phone numbers or email addresses. If it’s important that we meet in person, that will be arranged at a secure location. But you don’t come here and I don’t go to your office.”
“Is this a service that you provide to all of your clients?”
“Precious few, if you must know.”
Riley took the card and placed it into her small bag.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What can I do for you?”
“It might be a very small favor or it might be very big. I don’t know yet. It’s one of the things I need you to find out.”
“All right.”
“Are you aware that Rushmore McKenzie was shot last night?”
“No, I wasn’t. How is—”
“If I am not mistaken, you know Mr. McKenzie well.”
“Yes.”
“He’s in a coma in Regions Hospital in St. Paul. Beyond that I’ve heard nothing. It’s entirely possible, Mr. Schroeder, that the police have already identified his assailant and are taking the necessary steps to see that justice is served. If so, please inform me. That’s the small favor. If, however, this does not prove to be the case, if the police are somehow unable to bring Mr. McKenzie’s assailant before the courts, well, that’s where the big favor comes in.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Some words do not need to be spoken. Some words should not be spoken.”
Riley stared at the private investigator for a long time after that; it was like she was trying to see inside his head.
“Mr. Schroeder,” she said. “McKenzie saved both my honor and my life at the risk of his own. I assure you when I speak those words I am not attempting to be fanciful.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Riley stood.
Schroeder stood.
She offered him her hand and he shook it.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Schroeder,” Riley said.
“My best to your grandfather,” Schroeder replied.
* * *
Detective Shipman parked her car on a downtown Minneapolis side street and, ignoring the meter, marched into the lobby of the building where my condominium was located. She did not want to be there. She didn’t want to squander valuable St. Paul Police Department resources—meaning herself—on finding out who shot an obnoxious, self-important, unlicensed kibitzer—meaning me—when there was a perfectly good gang-related assault to investigate. If that wasn’t enough, Major Crimes had received a call just after Bobby had finished speaking to Nina Truhler. An armed robbery, no less. But did Shipman get that case? Hell, no. Leave it to Bobby and Mason Gafford to catch whoever shot up a fast-food restaurant while she wasted precious time trying to find out who put a bullet in me, when who gave a shit really? She was convinced the only reason she was there was because Bobby was still annoyed about the surveillance tape screwup. She decided she needed to have a conversation with Dick over at RT’s Basement about that the first chance she got.
Shipman pulled her badge from her pocket when she reached the security desk and held it up for the guards to see.
“Detective Jean Shipman, St. Paul Police Department,” she announced.
The first thing they noticed was that there wasn’t a uniform from the Minneapolis Police Department accompanying her. The uniform would have been a formality, of course. The cops in St. Paul and Minneapolis might labor in separate jurisdictions, yet they’re more than willing to help each other out; happy to search for a suspect or a car, check out an address, gather intel, and report back to the other agency. Only that didn’t mean a detective was welcome to cross the river and flash her badge anytime she damn well pleased. Protocol dictated that she first notify the Minneapolis Police Department and, if the case was hot, arrange for one of its officers to accompany her. The fact that Shipman hadn’t made the guards wonder how seriously she was taking my case.
I should point out that the two security guards were friends of mine. Their names were Smith and Jones and they were dressed in the identical dark blue suits, crisp white shirts, and dark blue ties of their profession; I could never tell them apart without reading their name tags. They had made it clear when Nina and I moved in a few years ago that they had checked me out—acting under building management’s orders, of course; it was SOP for all new tenants—and they knew who I was and what I did. They had also made it clear that they were ready, willing, and able to assist me should ever the need arise.
“The job can get so boring,” they told me.
So, on occasion, I’d seek their help in exchange for items I’d find lying around the building, like a case of Irish whiskey and Minnesota Twins tickets that I would turn in to the lost and found because security personnel weren’t allowed to accept gratuities from the tenants.
Smith picked up a clipboard and thrust it at Shipman.
“Sign in, please,” he said.
“Are you kidding me?”
“We have rules.”
“Someone should have called to tell you that I was coming.”
“Ms. Truhler called. Sign in, please.”
Shipman yanked the clipboard out of Smith’s hand and started filling in the sheet that was attached to it. That’s when she had an idea.
“Did McKenzie have any visitors between five and, say, eight P.M. last night?” she asked.
Smith and Jones glanced at each other.
“We have rules concerning the privacy of our tenants,” Jones said.
“C’mon guys,” Shipman said. “Do I have to call Nina?” She used my wife’s first name as if they were friends. They’re not. “Do I need to get a subpoena? Someone shot the man. Help me find out who.”
Smith and Jones glanced at each other some more.
“A woman arrived yesterday, I want to say about six P.M,” Smith said.
“We didn’t log her in because she didn’t stay,” Jones added. “Instead, she gave us an envelope that she said she wanted delivered to McKenzie. She said to deliver it forthwith.”
“Forthwith?” Ship
man asked.
“Word she used,” Smith said.
“What did you do?”
“Called McKenzie and said there was a message waiting for him,” Jones said.
“And?”
“And he came down and picked it up,” Smith said.
“What did it say?”
“We don’t read other people’s mail,” Jones said.
“McKenzie—what did he do?”
“He opened the envelope and read the message,” Smith said.
“What did he say?”
“‘Huh.’”
“What did he say?”
“‘Huh.’”
“Are you deaf all of a sudden? What did McKenzie say?”
“That’s what he said.”
“‘Huh’?”
“Exactly.”
“Wait, what?”
“He opened the envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, unfolded it, read the message, and said, ‘Huh.’ How many times do I have to say it, Detective?”
Shipman didn’t like how Smith made her title sound like an insult, yet let it slide.
“What happened next?”
“McKenzie refolded the message, put it back into the envelope, put the envelope in his pocket, wished us both a good evening, and returned to his condo. Ten minutes later, he left.”
“He left?” Shipman repeated.
“We saw him on our monitors locking his condo and taking the elevator to the parking garage,” Jones said. “A few minutes later he drove out of the lot.”
In his old Jeep Cherokee without GPS, Shipman thought. Where the hell were you, McKenzie, she wondered, during the two hours between leaving here and arriving at RT’s Basement in time to get shot? She shook the question from her head. First things first.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said.
The way Smith and Jones glanced at each other yet again somehow reminded Shipman of Shakespeare’s Richard III—I am not in the giving vein today.
“You have security cameras,” Shipman said. “Could you pull up the footage of the woman who came into the building last night? It could help us identify the person who shot McKenzie.”
“We’ll need to contact our supervisors, but I doubt that there will be a problem,” Smith said. “It’ll take a few minutes, though.”
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 7