What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  The audience erupted again. When Porter managed to get it settled down, he said “We’ll let you go now, Charles. Drink plenty of fluids.”

  “Wait,” Charles said. “Don’t you want to hear about our plans to educate driverless cars?”

  More laughter and applause followed before Charles launched into an exploration of artificial intelligence and the way people actually drive which, according to him, only occasionally reflected existing traffic laws …

  * * *

  “Then what?” Schroeder asked.

  “McKenzie leaned toward me and asked ‘What do you think?’” Reinfeld said. “I told him that I thought it was a very good performance, worthy of a hustler of Charles King’s caliber, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw KTech Tower.”

  “Why not?”

  Reinfeld looked up to his left again before answering.

  “Just a hunch,” he said.

  “What happened next?” Schroeder asked.

  “Something odd took place.”

  “Odd?”

  “McKenzie kept leaning toward me as if he wanted to ask something else…”

  * * *

  They had moved so smoothly and so quietly that neither Reinfeld nor McKenzie realized they were there until they sat down: two very large, very well-dressed men. One sat next to McKenzie and gazed at the image of Charles King on the giant monitor as if it were the only thing that held his interest. The other found a seat directly behind McKenzie. He leaned forward and rested a heavy hand on McKenzie’s shoulder.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  Reinfeld could tell that McKenzie was agitated yet was trying hard not to show it.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “It took you long enough.”

  The large man next to McKenzie turned his head as if he had just been insulted.

  “What?” he said.

  “I had thought you guys would have gathered me up when I signed in to get my meeting pass,” McKenzie said.

  “We had other concerns.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.”

  The man sitting behind him gripped McKenzie’s shoulder enough to make him wince.

  “Our employers wish to meet with you,” he said.

  “That’s why I came.”

  “Please, don’t make a scene. We wouldn’t want to disrupt the meeting.”

  “Of course not. After all, I own stock in the company.”

  “Eighteen hundred shares, we know.”

  “What?” Reinfeld spoke loud enough to be heard several rows away. “Eighteen hundred shares? I thought…” He ceased speaking when he noticed that people were looking at him.

  “Mr. Reinfeld, please,” the large man said.

  “Have you met Justus Reinfeld?” McKenzie said.

  The man tightened his grip on McKenzie’s shoulder.

  “You told me you owned four-point-seven percent of KTech stock,” Reinfeld said.

  “I said that four-point-seven percent of my net worth is in KTech stock.”

  “That is not what you said.”

  “Maybe not those exact words…”

  * * *

  “Why is that important?” Greg Schroeder asked.

  “It’s not,” Reinfeld replied. “Just some confusion…”

  * * *

  The two large men must have sent a private signal to each other because they both stood in unison.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” one of them said.

  McKenzie rose reluctantly.

  “See you around, Justus.” He spoke loudly enough for people to turn and gaze at him. It was as if McKenzie wanted them to see him being escorted from the auditorium by two security guards …

  * * *

  “Are you sure they were security?” Schroeder asked.

  “Who else?” Reinfeld said.

  “Where did they take him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you see McKenzie again?”

  “No.”

  “You did contact him, however.”

  “Did I?”

  “The police found your private number on McKenzie’s cell.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Reinfeld said. “I called him. I called to ask what happened after he was led away.”

  “What did McKenzie say?”

  “He said that he couldn’t speak right then, that he had something important that he needed to do, and that he would get back to me later.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  “He was lying,” Schroeder said. He was sitting in his car in a parking lot across the street from the Ruth’s Chris Steak House in downtown Minneapolis and speaking to Commander Dunston on his cell phone; Detective Shipman listening in. “According to your FSU, the call lasted six minutes. It wouldn’t have taken McKenzie that long to say he’d call right back.”

  “I agree,” Bobby said.

  “Considering H. B. Sutton’s theory of what Reinfeld is up to,” Shipman said, “I can’t believe he would call McKenzie just to ask him what happened with the security guards.”

  “More likely he wanted to know McKenzie’s exact intentions,” Schroeder said.

  “Or buy him off,” Shipman said.

  “Or threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn’t keep his big mouth shut,” Bobby said. “Like someone did with Nina Truhler.”

  “So now what?” Schroeder asked.

  “I’d love to question him myself, but a man like that would lawyer up in a heartbeat.”

  “I agree.”

  “Let me think about it,” Bobby said.

  “What should I do next?” Schroeder asked.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Why don’t I run out to KTech and see if anyone in security will answer my questions; find out where they took McKenzie and why.”

  “You might need some leverage. I’m going to reach out to a friend of mine to see if he’ll help supply it.”

  “Does he owe you a favor?”

  “No, but he owes McKenzie.”

  Shipman laughed.

  “Who doesn’t owe McKenzie a favor?” she asked.

  Neither Bobby nor Schroeder answered.

  “What are your plans, Detective?” Bobby asked.

  “More phone numbers,” Shipman said.

  “Good.”

  Everyone said good-bye and hung up and Shipman muttered so no one but her could hear, “When this is over you are so going to owe me, McKenzie.”

  * * *

  Chopper liked his geek-in-chief’s blue T-shirt printed with the words:

  YOU MATTER

  UNLESS YOU MULTIPLY YOURSELF

  BY THE SPEED OF LIGHT SQUARED

  … THEN YOU ENERGY

  He didn’t say anything, though, for fear that he would be subjected to a lecture about Einstein’s theory of relativity or how African-American nerds are marginalized in geek culture—he had heard them both before. Instead, he rolled his chair back and forth behind the geek’s computer terminal.

  “That didn’t take long,” the geek said.

  “What?”

  “The ticket site; they’ve already countered the software we installed yesterday.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Their bots are battling our bots for supremacy. Their bots are winning.”

  “What does that mean?” Chopper repeated.

  “It means we’re no longer able to circumvent their security measures. We’re no longer able to buy bundles of seats. We’re back down to a maximum of four.”

  “What about the other ticket sites?”

  “They’re still open for business.”

  “Then buy.”

  “I know. Vuhroom, vuhroom…”

  “Have you ever been to Monster Jam?” Chopper asked.

  “Giant trucks making lots of noise, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t get it, either.”

  The geek went back to buying, Chopper returned to his desk, and Herzog entered the
office. Chopper looked at his watch.

  “Tryin’ to run a business, here,” he said. “Kinda hard when your employees come and go as they please.”

  “I wanted to check on a few things.”

  “What things?”

  “Talked to RT. He said his tenant be happy to sit down with you.”

  “Happy?”

  “What the man said.”

  “Where?”

  “Como Pavilion,” Herzog said.

  “In St. Paul? That’s crazy.”

  “Just repeating what was said.”

  Chopper leaned back in his chair.

  “Am I the only one who thinks this is fucked?” he asked.

  “Oh, it is. Totally. That’s why I was checking it out.”

  “What do you think?”

  “If you still want to go through with it…”

  “I do.”

  “Against my advice…”

  “It’s a public place; plenty of people about.”

  “So?”

  “So, maybe he’s as afraid of us fucking with him as we are of him fucking with us.”

  “Whatever, man. There are some tables set way in the back of the pavilion overlooking the lake. Time comes, we’re gonna get there early so we can pick the one we sit at.”

  * * *

  There were plenty of places to park when Schroeder reached KTech Tower. He selected a slot with a sign that read Visitor Parking Only and waited. Apparently, he waited long enough that the guards monitoring him on their security camera became anxious. Two of them exited the building and approached Schroeder’s vehicle, one on each side. Schroeder watched them in his rear- and side-view mirrors, two very large, very well-dressed men and he immediately thought of the two guards that, according to Justus Reinfeld, had escorted McKenzie from the auditorium. He waited until one of them used his knuckle on the driver’s side window.

  Schroeder powered down the window.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’d like to see some identification,” the guard asked.

  “Who are you?”

  The guard sighed dramatically.

  “I work the security desk for KTech Tower,” he said.

  “Proprietary or contract?” Schroeder asked, enjoying the moment.

  “Excuse me?” the guard said.

  “Do you work for the owners of the building or do you work for a private security firm that has a contract to secure the building?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “My experience, private security firms are more professional, more likely to adhere to the rules set down by the board of Private Detective and Protective Agent Services. Guys working for the building have been known to bend the rules to please the owners of the building. Do you guys ever bend the rules to please your employers?”

  “Let me see some ID.”

  Schroeder decided the guard was about to lose his temper, so he handed him his wallet. The guard took one look and tossed it over the roof of the car to his partner.

  “Fuckin’ shamus,” he said.

  “Most people don’t use that word anymore,” Schroeder said, “unless they watch a lot of old movies on TCM.”

  The second guard tossed the wallet back. The first guard pretended to accidently drop it on the asphalt and then accidently step on it.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said.

  He ground the wallet under his heel some more before picking it off the ground and tossing it inside the vehicle.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Schroeder said. “I have plenty more.”

  “What do you want?” the guard asked.

  “Is that an existential question?”

  “Why are you here, asshole?”

  “I’m waiting for a friend. When my friend arrives, I’ll step inside and all will be revealed.”

  The guard took a step backward and grabbed at Schroeder’s door handle.

  “Step out of the vehicle,” he said.

  The door didn’t open. Schroeder had locked it when he saw the two guards approaching.

  “No, no, it’ll be safer if I stay right here,” he said. “If I step out of the car you might provoke a confrontation that would result in me kicking your ass all over the parking lot. You wouldn’t want your friends to see that.”

  The guard took another step backward and Schroeder realized that he had pushed his luck as far as it would go, especially when the guard unbuttoned his coat and swept it back to reveal his piece. Schroeder was convinced the guard would have reached for it, too, except at that moment another vehicle entered the lot and maneuvered to a stop just a couple of parking slots away. The two guards and Schroeder watched as the driver slid out of the car and approached them.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The second guard’s words were polite but his tone not so much.

  The driver pulled a wallet of his own from his suit pocket, opened it, and held it near his face as if he wanted to convince the crowd that it matched the picture on his identification.

  “Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said.

  Schroeder opened his car door. The guard was startled by the sound and glared at him.

  “The friend I was telling you about,” Schroeder said.

  “Fuck,” the guard said.

  “Now that’s a word that nearly everyone uses.”

  * * *

  I never did learn her name, the admin who manned—womanned?—the reception desk in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Regions Hospital, the one that Shelby said wasn’t afraid of God much less Bobby Dunston. I picture her, though, looking a little like a feisty librarian, wearing her white linen coat, and sitting behind her desk. I picture her looking over the lenses of her reading glasses at the man who appeared in front of her.

  He was a big man, but that didn’t impress the admin, and he wore a blue blazer, white shirt with blue tie, and gray slacks, which didn’t impress her either.

  “I’d like to see a patient named McKenzie,” he said.

  “Mr. McKenzie is not accepting visitors,” the admin answered.

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “What is your relationship to the patient?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “A relative? Yes. We’re cousins.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Look, lady, all I want is five minutes with the man.”

  “Mr. McKenzie is not receiving visitors.”

  “If he’s asleep I can come back…”

  “He won’t be receiving visitors then, either.”

  “What exactly is wrong with him?”

  “We do not release patient information except to immediate family.”

  “I’m his cousin.”

  “Then you should contact his wife.”

  “Nina Truhler.” The man spoke as if he had just won a trivia contest. “See, I know McKenzie’s wife.”

  “I’m sure she knows you, too,” a voice said.

  Both the man and the admin turned to find Dr. Lillian Linder approaching the desk. She gestured at the bruise and slight swelling at the side of the man’s mouth.

  “Is that where Nina punched you?” Lilly asked.

  The admin scooped up the handset of her telephone and punched a button on the base.

  “Security to SICU,” she said.

  The man’s head pivoted from Lilly to the admin and back to Lilly again. He turned and made for the exit. Once he departed, the admin hung up the phone.

  “I haven’t had this much fun since the virus,” she said. “How about you?”

  * * *

  I love Harry, the nickname bestowed on Special Agent Brian Wilson because of his uncanny resemblance to the character actor Harry Dean Stanton. Harry didn’t particularly care for the nickname; okay, I’m the one who gave it to him. Only it was better than some of the other things he had been called by friends and colleagues alike, the worst being Surfer Girl when he was at Quantico, becaus
e he shared the same name as the man who co-founded the Beach Boys. Also Kokomo. “Hey, Kokomo.” He hated that, too. We became pals about eight years ago when I helped the FBI and ATF bust a gun-running operation out of Lakeville, Minnesota, mostly by accident. It’s a long story.

  Harry waved his credentials at the security guards standing with their mouths hanging open in the parking lot of KTech Tower.

  “Two days ago, a man named Rushmore McKenzie was escorted from a shareholders’ meeting held in the auditorium of this building.” That was pretty much Harry’s style, no chitchat; getting directly to the point. “Would you two gentlemen happen to know anything about that?”

  The guards glanced at each other. It was the first guard who spoke.

  “No license holder shall divulge to anyone other than the employer, or as the employer may direct, except as required by law, any information acquired during—”

  Harry raised his hand like he was stopping traffic.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

  The guard pointed at Greg Schroeder.

  “He’s the one who brought up the board of Private Detective and Protective Agent Services,” he said.

  “You Schroeder?” Harry asked.

  Schroeder nodded.

  “Let’s see some ID,” Harry said.

  That caused Schroeder to crawl inside his vehicle to retrieve the wallet the first guard had tossed there. He handed it to Harry who couldn’t help but notice the scuff marks and dirt on the outside and the dented badge and creased plastic identification card on the inside.

  Schroeder gestured at the guard.

  “He stepped on it,” he said.

  “It was an accident,” the guard said.

  “What are you guys, eleven?” Harry tossed the wallet back to Schroeder and pointed his jaw at the guard. “Let’s go talk to your employer.”

  “Wait,” the guard said.

  Only Harry didn’t wait. He marched directly to the entrance of the Tower, Schroeder and the two guards following behind. He stepped inside the building and moved in a straight line to the desk, where two security guards in matching suits were sitting. Harry flashed his own ID again; I think he enjoyed doing that as much as Shipman did.