Nina leaned in close. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was making a pass at him.
“See the woman standing over there?” Nina gestured at Jenness. “She has a cell phone in her hand. If I so much as glance at her she’ll call the police.”
“What?”
“You’re either a guy who’s having a very bad day just like me in which case I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll probably give you a lifetime pass to the music upstairs. Or you’re here to make my day even worse. Or, let’s hope, you’re here to make my day better. Which is it?”
He rotated the glass in front of him one quarter turn at a time.
“How did you make me?” he asked.
“I walk by and a guy doesn’t so much as glance my way, it makes me nervous. Makes me think I’m losing my youthful good looks.”
The man chuckled.
“I find that hard to believe,” he said.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Schroeder is going to be so pissed off at me.”
Nina exhaled. Up until then she wasn’t even aware that she had been holding her breath.
“Show me,” she said.
The man reached into his pocket.
Nina raised her hand.
The man pulled out a wallet and opened it. On one side was an ID card identifying him as a detective working for Schroeder Private Investigations and on the other was a gaudy gold badge.
Nina lowered her hand.
“Schroeder could have told me,” she said.
“He said that you wouldn’t want us here.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t. You said us?”
“I have two partners.”
“Where?”
The detective pointed out a couple sitting at a table.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she said.
“So I’m the only one who screwed up?”
“Enjoy your beer. You and your partners enjoy whatever you want, on the house.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be leaving soon to go to the hospital. Regions Hospital. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Nina squeezed the detective’s hand as if they were old friends.
“If you’re concerned about getting into trouble with your boss, we can pretend that I don’t know that you’re here.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“But I’m glad that you’re here.”
* * *
Herzog held the door open while Chopper wheeled himself inside RT’s Basement. The hip-hop artists working the stage had just finished their set and there was a lot of commotion in the club, some patrons heading for the restrooms and others for the door and still others lining up at the bar. A square table in the center of the room opened up and Chopper rolled himself toward it while its previous occupants flowed around him. Herzog pulled one of the now empty chairs out of the way and Chopper slid into the vacant spot. Herzog sat next to him and pushed the glasses and bottles left by the previous tenants to the far side of the table.
“Place is bustling,” he said.
“More white customers than you’d expect, don’t ya think?”
“Does look integrated. Wonder how many of ’em be customers of Jamal.”
A young black woman arrived at the table as if she had been waiting for them and began loading her tray with the used bottles and glasses.
“What you drinking?” she asked.
“What do you have on tap?” Chopper asked.
The woman closed her eyes and listed eight brands from memory in alphabetic order.
“Bud’s fine,” Chopper said.
The woman pointed at Herzog.
“Jim Beam neat,” he said.
“You’re Herzog, aren’t you,” the woman said.
“Could be.”
“If he’s Chopper then you need to be Herzog. RT, he’s the owner…”
“We’ve met.”
“He said to tell him if you came in.”
“Was he expecting us?” Chopper said.
“I dunno. I guess. Be right back.”
Herzog’s eyes followed the woman to the waitress station where she had to line up behind two other waitresses before she could place their order. RT wasn’t behind the bar; a tall, thin African-American poured the beer and Jim Beam. He placed the drinks on the woman’s tray where she had abandoned it before stepping through the door that Herzog knew led to RT’s office. She emerged a moment later, retrieved the tray, and brought it back to the square table where she served the drinks.
“What did he say?” Herzog asked.
“What?”
“When you told RT that we were here.”
“He said he’d be right out.”
“Good.”
The woman left the table to work the rest of the bar. Chopper sipped his beer.
“How can you drink that shit?” Herzog asked him.
“Did you hear the woman say Lift Bridge or Surly or Bent Paddle or any other decent craft beer when she recited her list?”
“No, but…”
RT appeared at the table, interrupting his thought.
“Knew you’d be back,” he said.
“We have more questions,” Chopper said.
“Yeah, Jamal told me.”
“Mr. Brown, he broke his promise.”
RT took a seat.
“He owes me a lot more than he owes you,” he said. “’Sides, Jamal mighta broke his promise, but he didn’t lie. Everything he said to you was the truth. I gotta nice side hustle here lettin’ certain parties rent my back space goin’ to waste anyway, so you now know why I don’t want no po-lice fuckin’ around. Don’t want you fuckin’ around, either. I know you. Everyone in the Cities know you, ’specially after what happened to the Dragons last year, so I’m willin’ to step back some. Comes a time, though, when a man’s gotta protect his own, know what I’m sayin’?”
“You’re sayin’ we should forget that our friend is lying in the hospital with a bullet in his back,” Herzog said.
“I’s sorry ’bout your friend. But one thing ain’t got nothin’ to do with the other.”
“Somebody lured McKenzie here to shoot him,” Chopper said.
“Look ’round. Plenty of white folk might have a grudge against your friend. Or maybe an Oxy junkie got spooked seeing a white man in an expensive sports jacket looking out of place, thinking he’s po-lice. Don’t mean it’s got anything to do what’s going on in my back room.”
“We don’t know that,” Herzog said.
“What more you want me to do? You got the video. You know everything I know.”
“Do you have cameras in your back room?” Chopper asked.
“Your friend wasn’t shot in the back room and no I don’t, fuck, man.”
“We could ask questions of your clientele; go table to table.”
“If it was just me I wouldn’t give a shit. Ask away. But…”
“But?”
“Some of ’em ain’t my customers so much as my…”
“Partner’s?”
“He ain’t my partner. His business ain’t my business. Tenant, let’s say. Lodger. Look. What if I put you and my tenant together? Don’t know what that would get you, but maybe you can figure it out without disrupting business.”
“Business being the main thing,” Herzog said.
“Isn’t it always?”
“All right, see what you can do,” Chopper said. “Long as you set the meeting someplace we can get a decent beer.”
* * *
Shipman agreed to have a drink with Kyle Cordova because she thought she needed one. They were both seated in the back of a basement pub called the Contented Cow as far away from the stage as they could get even though Shipman liked the acoustic music the Jugsluggers played. Cordova had slipped a windbreaker over his uniform, yet it didn’t provide much camouflage. The bar’s other patrons still glanced cautiously at them.
He was sipping tap beer; Shipman was drinking vodka. Cordo
va was flirting hard but she was too deep in thought for him to get much traction out of it.
“Tough case?” he asked.
“I can’t discuss it.”
“I understand. It must be fun, though.”
“Fun?”
“You get to work a lot of stuff in the Cities that we just don’t get down here in Northfield. I think the last murder we had was when Jesse James rode into town.”
“Yeah, lots of fun. Those girls—they’re protecting someone. Take them up to St. Paul for some intense Q and A; I’d probably scare it out of them. Unless they lawyer up. Their family has major connections. No, it’s better to leave them down here. Right now they’re freaking out. Probably making phone calls. Demanding explanations. What is it that people say—this ain’t my first rodeo? Well, it’s their first and they’re scared to death. Especially Elliot. So, I’ll sit back for a while and wait to see which way they jump. They have my number. If they call, great. If someone else calls, that might even be better. In any case, I can always scoop them up later.” Shipman chuckled. “But like I said, I can’t discuss it.”
Cordova smiled at her. Shipman liked the smile. She liked the way he lightly brushed one finger over the knuckles of her left hand.
“No rings,” he said.
“That’s very observant of you.”
“Perhaps I should be a detective.”
“Let’s see if you qualify. College degree?”
“Magna cum laude,” Cordova said.
“Police academy?”
“Top of my class.”
“Excellent physical and mental health; good stamina?”
Cordova curled his arms like a professional wrestler and kissed both biceps.
“Well then it’s just a matter of gaining work experience, building a resume; scoring high on a few exams,” Shipman said.
“That’s where I could use some help. If only I had a mentor to guide me.”
“Why do so many women do so many things that aren’t necessarily in their best interests?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No. I already know the answer. Kyle, I’m in a mood.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want you to take me back to the NPD so I can retrieve my car.”
Cordova’s smile went away.
“Then I want you to lead me to your place.”
And the smile returned.
“Try not to talk too much,” Shipman said.
* * *
The staff at the SICU in Regions Hospital seemed more concerned about the health and well-being of a man who was shot in the head on the Green Line than they were with me, which Nina found irritating. After all, she reasoned, I was there first.
She still wasn’t allowed to enter the room where they were keeping me in the coma. Instead, she leaned her forehead against the glass wall and watched the multicolored numbers and wavy lines on the monitor above me. After a few moments, she felt a hand on her shoulder. The hand made her flinch and spin around abruptly.
“Sorry,” Dr. Lillian Linder said.
“Good evening,” Nina said.
“Closer to good morning.”
Nina glanced at her watch.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Have you been here long?”
“Just a few minutes.”
Lilly noticed Nina’s swollen knuckles and the Ace bandage wrapped around her hand and wrist.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I hit something hard.”
“I know that waiting is difficult, frustrating, especially when you’re waiting for news about someone you care desperately about…”
“Lilly, I didn’t punch a wall or do anything stupid like that because I was upset. I hit a man in the face when he called me a bitch.”
“That’s different then.”
“You think so?”
“There are a lot of men I want to hit in the face, too. Nina, McKenzie’s going to be fine. The swelling’s down; his vitals are strong.”
“Strong enough to bring him out of the coma?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe?”
“It’s only been one day since he was shot.”
“Seems longer.”
“Give it time,” Lilly said. “Time is our friend. That isn’t always true in medicine, yet it is in this case.”
“You say that…”
“It’s true.”
“I believe you. It’s just … You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing by now.”
“If McKenzie was my husband, I’d kill him.”
Nina didn’t know why she thought that was funny, yet she laughed just the same.
“The thing about the hours I keep,” the doctor said, “I know where all the best late-night coffeehouses are. Have a cup with me?”
“No, Lilly, thank you, but I—I’ve been angry all day. Snapping at people. Snapping at my employees, at the friends who call to find out how McKenzie is doing; snapping at my daughter just a couple of hours ago even while I was trying to convince her that everything was going to be just fine; snapping at people who are trying to protect me, Jesus. Snapping at you this morning. Probably snapping at you again if we go out together. I’m afraid if I stop snapping I’ll cry and that’s not allowed.”
“Why is it not allowed?”
“A deal I made with McKenzie a long time ago, a promise. I’m not allowed to cry because of him, because of something that he says or does, because of anything that might happen to him. Become angry, furious—that’s acceptable. But not cry, not even tears of joy, although I’ve never cried tears of joy. Have you?”
“Once in a while, not often.”
“Anyway, I made a promise and I always keep my promises. I guess that’s the same reason why you won’t promise me that McKenzie is going to walk out of here all in one piece, his brain undamaged. You say he will, except you won’t promise because it’s a promise you might not be able to keep.”
Nina turned toward the figure lying on the bed on the other side of the glass wall. Lilly took her arm and spun her back around.
“Nina,” she said. “Nina, look at me.”
“What?” Nina snapped.
“I promise,” Lilly said.
Nina fell into the doctor’s arms and wept for all she was worth.
THIRTEEN
Detective Jean Shipman yawned. Brian, the tech from FSU, saw her do it.
“Long night?” he asked.
“It had its moments.”
Shipman didn’t return to the Cities until about six A.M. She showered off all remnants of Kyle Cordova, took a thirty-minute power nap, dressed in jeans, shirt, Glock, and blazer, ate a bagel with blueberry cream cheese, grabbed a Starbucks, and was sitting at her desk by eight. She sipped what was left of her coffee and studied Brian. He was younger than she was, although not nearly as young as Cordova, and smart. Shipman liked smart. Only she had been in an office romance once before and while it had been fun if not downright exciting, it had affected her work and she vowed never to allow that to happen again. Besides, she reasoned, if she wanted unencumbered and uncommitted sex, she now knew exactly where to find it.
“What?” Brian said.
“What?” Shipman repeated.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m just wondering what you’re doing here.”
Brian held up a sheet of paper.
“I put names to the telephone numbers on McKenzie’s cell,” he said. “As you requested.”
“They have this wonderful new invention you might have heard of. It’s called email.”
“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see your beautiful smiling face.”
“As my father would say, you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, Brian.”
“Would you put me in handcuffs, first?”
Shipman made a gimme gesture with the fingers of her hand. Brian handed over the sheet of paper.
“I did send you an email,” he sa
id. “There’s nothing like a hard copy, though, don’t you think?”
“Thank you.”
Brian moved around Shipman’s desk so he could hover over her shoulder. There were four names on the list. Shipman recognized two of them. The others meant nothing to her. She decided to take them in order, thinking that one call might have led to another.
“Now, about that lunch.” Brian spoke quietly. His soft breath tickled Shipman’s neck.
Shipman’s desk chair was on wheels. She pushed it back, putting space between the two of them.
“Do I need to give you a very long list of reasons why you and I are not going to happen?” she asked.
“That’s today. What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow the list will be longer.”
“Audentes fortuna juvat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fortune favors the bold. I’ll see you around, Detective.”
Shipman watched the tech move toward the door and felt compelled to call out to him.
“Hey, Brian.” He turned to look back at her, only Shipman couldn’t think of what she wanted to say. “Never mind.”
Brian smiled as if that was exactly what he had wanted to hear.
* * *
According to FSU, I had spoken to Justus Reinfeld on the phone for all of six minutes late in the afternoon of the day I was shot. Yet what piqued Shipman’s immediate interest wasn’t that his name appeared first on the list. It was the fact that I didn’t call him. He had called me.
Shipman did some quick research on Reinfeld, which was a lot more than I had done. She discovered that he was what my old man would have described as a wheeler-dealer. One website labeled him an American investor and philanthropist. Another said Reinfeld was a hedge fund manager, entrepreneur, and company advisor. They both agreed that he was the proprietor of All Uppercase Investments, a venture capital fund with $3.8 billion in assets under management that specialized in investing in early-stage technology companies such as Twitter, Lyft, Netflix, Instagram, Kickstarter, and KTech. Prior to founding All Uppercase, Reinfeld had worked on mergers and acquisitions for a multinational investment bank with offices on Wall Street.
Shipman punched his number into her phone. It was answered after the fifth ring.
“Who is this?” a male voice asked.
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 18