What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel

by David Housewright

  “So we scattered a few bread crumbs for Reinfeld to find,” Charles said. “Gave him the impression that KTech was a prime target for a takeover, which is untrue by the way. He started buying. Other shareholders saw him do it so they started buying, too. Right now our stock price is the highest it’s ever been.”

  “It’s not hard to profit from the herd mentality when it comes to the financial markets,” Porter said. “Especially if you’re driving the herd.”

  “Who’s been dropping the bread crumbs?” Harry asked. “Not you two?”

  “Jenna.” Both Charles and Porter turned and smiled on their sister. “It was her idea. She’s always been smarter than her big brothers despite her troubled past.”

  “Which is in the past.” Charles spoke as if he was daring her to contradict him.

  “Which is in the past,” Jenna repeated instead.

  “Tell me, though, Special Agent Wilson,” Charles said. “Do you think that’s why McKenzie was shot, because he discovered Reinfeld was trying to game us?”

  “We’re looking into it,” Harry said.

  “That would be”—Charles paused as if he was searching for the perfect word—“ironic.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Schroeder said. “What’ll happen to KTech if things don’t work out the way you plan?”

  “Who gives a shit, really? Like the man said, you can’t take it with you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m dying,” Charles said. “I have two and a half, three weeks tops. Unless I receive a liver transplant. Most of my family and closest friends, people we trust, have been tested to determine if they’re compatible. Unfortunately, they’re not.”

  “Is there a donor list?” Schroeder said.

  “There is. I’m in the bottom third.”

  “Couldn’t you…”

  “There are some things that money simply can’t buy.”

  “Go public. Advertise…”

  “That would destroy my company.”

  “A small price to pay,” Schroeder said.

  “You think so? In any case we have time, not much, but a little time before we need to make that decision.”

  “McKenzie,” Harry said.

  “McKenzie was a potential donor,” Porter said. “He and Charles even have the same blood type. Once he was made aware of the situation, he seemed keen to help us. That’s the part that caught us by surprise. He hesitated before making a full commitment, however. My impression was that he wanted to make a phone call first. Perhaps he wished to discuss the matter with his wife.”

  “Porter called almost immediately to tell me about it,” Charles said. “When you reach my position, any good news no matter how iffy—what did Emily Dickinson write? ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul…”

  “Then McKenzie was shot,” Porter said.

  Jenna turned and silently left the room. Porter called to her.

  “Jenna?”

  “I need to go home to St. Paul, take care of some things,” she said. “I’ll be back later.”

  Her brothers watched her go.

  “I worry about her,” Charles said.

  * * *

  The third of the four phone numbers on the FSU’s list confounded Detective Shipman, but like I said, she was a substandard investigator and prone to confusion. Okay, maybe she wasn’t as bad as all that. Bobby liked her and his judgment was usually pretty sound. I say ‘usually’ because I remember this one time when he decided it was a good idea to go down the slides at the Longfellow Elementary School while standing up. It’s the reason I have a chip in my front tooth. Anyway, the phone number confused Shipman. Instead of calling it, she decided to visit the owner, the Transplant Care Department of M Health Fairview Clinics and Surgery Center in Minneapolis, the M standing for the University of Minnesota.

  According to the website, University of Minnesota Health had one of the oldest and most successful transplant programs in the world. It could boast of more than fifty years of experience in the clinical care of more than 12,000 heart, lung, kidney, liver, pancreas, islet, and intestine transplant recipients as well as 4,600-plus living organ donors. It was also consistently ranked as a top provider by national and local publications. Which is why Shipman was disappointed when she walked into suite 300 on the third floor of the building located on the east bank of the university campus. She had expected something grand. Instead, she told me that it reminded her of the waiting room of her dentist’s office.

  She approached the woman sitting at the reception desk and flashed her credentials.

  “Yes, Detective?” The receptionist spoke without fluster or surprise as if being confronted by a plainclothes police officer happened to her at least twice a week.

  “You received a phone call early Tuesday evening…”

  “Yes.”

  “From a man named Rushmore McKenzie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Whom did he speak to?”

  The receptionist stared as if Shipman had spoken in a foreign language that she now needed to translate. After a few moments’ pause, she turned in her chair and spoke to no one in particular.

  “Who was on the phones Tuesday night?”

  A voice answered her.

  “Lisa.”

  The receptionist spun back to face Shipman.

  “Lisa Kohl might be able to help you. She’s not in. Won’t be until…” The receptionist glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not until after lunch, anyway.”

  “You don’t keep a log?” Shipman said.

  “Of everyone who calls and when they call? Why would we do that?”

  Because it would make my life so much easier, Shipman thought but didn’t say.

  “Lisa might remember this Rushmore McKenzie,” the receptionist said. “I can’t help you.”

  A woman had appeared behind the reception desk during the conversation. She was reading from a clipboard but her head had come up at the sound of my name.

  “What about Rushmore McKenzie?” she said.

  “Do you know him?” Shipman asked.

  “I wouldn’t say I know him. I spoke with him Tuesday. I remember because of the name. Rushmore.”

  “Did he tell you where it came from?” Shipman asked. “His name?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Shipman flashed her credentials again and asked if she could speak to her.

  “Sure,” she said, another woman who wasn’t intimidated by Shipman’s badge. “I’m Sara Barsness.”

  “May I ask what you do here?” Shipman said.

  “I’m a transplant coordinator.”

  * * *

  Shipman sat across from Barsness in her small office.

  “Why did McKenzie call you?” she asked.

  “He didn’t call me specifically. He called the department and his call was transferred to me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted information about liver transplants.”

  “For himself?”

  “Could have been for himself,” Barsness said. “Or a family member. Friend. He kept using masculine pronouns, he, his, so I concluded that he was speaking about a man, other than that…”

  “He didn’t give a name?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “No.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “General information.”

  “Such as?” Shipman asked.

  “Such as nationally, nearly 17,000 individuals wait for liver transplantation each year, while only 6,700 deceased-donor organs, those coming from brain-dead donors, become available and many of them are rejected, meaning that the survival rate is not—it’s not what we would like. I told him that a positive outcome is much more likely to be achieved for transplants involving live donors, but convincing someone to donate a portion of their own liver to someone they don’t know is daunting at best. The vast majority of live donors are family memb
ers or extremely close friends. Strangers donating to strangers is extremely rare, only about two hundred a year.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He asked what it took to become a live donor and I told him that matching livers with recipients is based on age, blood type, organ size, and other factors.”

  Shipman flashed on one of my notes—the one where Emma King asked about my blood type.

  “What about A-negative blood?” she asked.

  “Patients with type A blood can receive a liver transplant from someone else with type A blood or from someone who has type O, the universal donor. However, a donor who has type A blood can only donate to someone else with type A or type AB blood. The rhesus, the Rh factor in blood, positive or negative, is not relevant.”

  “Is it better that a family member donates as opposed to a friend or stranger?”

  “McKenzie asked the same question. It’s better but not by a great deal. It does help with tissue matching. Other than that—we’re also concerned that the donor’s body mass index is thirty-two or less, that his liver, kidneys, and thyroid are healthy, that he hasn’t been exposed to transmittable viruses such as hepatitis, HIV, and COVID-19. Also, we want the donor and recipient to be close in age and roughly the same size physically. What I’m saying is that a lot of different issues can influence the patient’s outcome.”

  “What else?” Shipman asked.

  “He asked how long it took. I told McKenzie that typically, a liver donor spends approximately seven days in the hospital, and will have an additional six to eight weeks of recovery time. After all, we are taking a piece of his liver and giving it to someone else; it’ll take time for the donor’s liver to regenerate, to return to normal size. I also told him that there were risks involved, such as the possibility of infection, blood clots, pneumonia, and bile leakage. Only he wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted to know how much time before the procedure could take place. I told him that usually the process takes from four to six weeks including consultations with an independent living donor advocate and psychiatrist, although in rare emergency situations, it could be completed in as little as forty-eight hours.”

  “What did McKenzie say to that?”

  “He said, ‘Good to know.’”

  “What else?”

  “That was it. That was the extent of our conversation.”

  “You didn’t ask for a name? You didn’t demand to know who he was calling about?”

  “We don’t push, Detective,” Barsness said. “We guide. We explain.”

  * * *

  Harry and Schroeder had driven separately, yet their cars were parked close enough in Charles King’s driveway that they could walk to them together.

  “I like the King boys,” Harry said. “You wouldn’t think that anyone that rich would be that unpretentious. More to the point, I believe them.”

  “So do I.”

  “Too bad about the scotch, though. Can you imagine?”

  “Jenna King seemed upset when her brother started talking about his illness; the way she left the room,” Schroeder said.

  “Do you blame her?”

  “McKenzie said that Reinfeld said that one of the Kings might vote his way in a takeover attempt. Do you think he meant Jenna?”

  “Could be. Could also be a bit of tradecraft; Jenna pretending to be on Reinfeld’s side when in actuality she’s setting him up for her brothers.”

  “I’d like to interview her.”

  “She lives in St. Paul,” Harry said. “It shouldn’t be hard to get an address.”

  “You’re going to stay on the case?”

  “I play poker with McKenzie once a month. What do you think he’ll say if I blew him off to go back to work?”

  “I hear you,” Schroeder said.

  “Except that I have to go back to work. There are a few things that I need to take care of first.”

  “What things?”

  “Government things.” Harry glanced at his watch. “How ’bout we meet in a couple of hours.”

  “Where?”

  SIXTEEN

  Club Versailles took up a large chunk of a peninsula more or less in the center of Lake Minnetonka, about five miles from the King estate by land. It appeared as if the builders had insisted that it closely resemble Sun King Louis XIV’s palace, only more luxurious. I had been there twice. Both times I expected to see a troop of Musketeers patrolling the grounds.

  The club had private docks, a golf course, numerous tennis courts, two swimming pools, sauna, steam room, whirlpool, 2,400-square-foot fitness facility, formal dining room, and a grand ballroom. Only it was the bar that interested Shelby most because that’s where Justus Reinfeld’s model/receptionists said he would be. He was sitting alone at the far end and sipping what looked to her like straight whiskey and munching from a bowl of trail mix—trail mix! At Club Versailles. Swear to God.

  Shelby was too smart to walk right up to him, though. Instead, she mounted a tall, walnut stool with a leather cushion and a high back that she was convinced cost more than her entire dining-room set. She swiveled to face the bartender, her skirt riding dangerously up her thighs.

  Her dress was black, contrasting nicely with her strawberry hair, low-cut, inexplicably tight, and ended a half dozen inches above her knees when she was standing straight. It had originally belonged to Nina. Shelby had borrowed it three years ago because she said she was on a mission and claimed there was nothing in her own closet that would do. “I’m the mother of two teenage daughters,” she complained at the time. Later she said that the dress had been so well received that she didn’t want to give it back. I didn’t know what that meant and I didn’t ask. Nina, on the other hand, said, “Keep it, honey. I have more if you need them.”

  The dress was only slightly inappropriate for Club Versailles at that time of day. The bar was about half-filled. A third of the patrons were dressed for golf or tennis; another third looked as if they had ducked out of the office early. The final group, well, they looked as if they were on a mission, too.

  The bartender leaned in and Shelby ordered a martini. Give her credit, she didn’t say “vodka” and she didn’t say “shaken not stirred.” Also give her credit; she stared straight ahead until the martini was served. It was only after she took a sip of the drink that she tilted her head just so to look at Reinfeld and found that he was staring at her. She smiled, yet said nothing.

  “I like your outfit,” Reinfeld said.

  “This old thing?”

  “I appreciate a woman who dresses for cocktail hour.”

  “You never know what a cocktail hour might lead to.”

  Reinfeld gestured at the empty stool closest to Shelby.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  Reinfeld moved himself and his drink, but not the trail mix, down the bar and cozied up next to her.

  “I’m Justus Reinfeld,” he said.

  “Justus Reinfeld the investor?” Shelby smiled like she was meeting her favorite celebrity.

  “You heard of me?”

  “I read the business section.”

  “You are?”

  “Shelby Mullin,” she said, which was only partially a lie; Mullin being her maiden name.

  “I like the name, Shelby. Is it yours or did you make it up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shelby, I can’t help but notice that you have an indentation at the base of your third finger left hand where your wedding ring would be if you were wearing your wedding ring.”

  Give her credit some more, she didn’t panic. Instead, Shelby raised her hand, examined it front and back, and said “That’s odd. I wonder what could have caused it.”

  Except the game was up.

  “Who do you work for?” Reinfeld asked.

  “Work for?”

  “Did you really think I was stupid enough to fall for something as antiquated as the badger game?”

  “I don’t understand.”
r />   “Who do you work for?” Reinfeld repeated. “The King family?”

  “I don’t know the Kings.”

  “That asshole McKenzie?”

  “McKenzie?”

  “Or are you just a freelance whore trolling for victims?”

  “Mr. Reinfeld!”

  “Whatever you are, you’re not a member of the club, are you? You’re not the guest of a member.”

  Reinfeld waved the bartender over and spoke into his ear. The bartender went quickly to the manager. A few moments later, two security guards were escorting Shelby off the premises, each holding an arm.

  “Let me go.” Shelby attempted to wrench her arms free, but they were held firm.

  As the guards were pulling Shelby out the door, a second woman entered the bar. The two women were careful not to let their eyes meet.

  The second woman paused, navigated past a thrashing Shelby and the guards, and moved around the bar to near where Reinfeld was standing. Unlike Shelby, she was dressed for success in a tailored blazer, matching high-waisted pencil skirt, and a white embroidered top. ’Course, it never mattered what she wore. Even clothed in a green plastic garbage bag she would still have been the most beautiful woman in the room.

  “What was that about?” she asked. “You know what? I don’t care.”

  The woman continued to the bar and mounted a stool between where Shelby and Reinfeld had originally sat. Reinfeld watched her closely as she pulled her cell phone from her bag and set both on top of the bar. She tapped a couple of icons on the cell and spoke loud enough for Reinfeld to hear.

  “This is Heavenly,” she said. “I’m at Club Versailles. Where are you?”

  She tapped a couple more icons and leaned back. The bartender approached.

  “Vieux Carré,” Heavenly said.

  “Vieux Carré?” the bartender repeated.

  “Rye whiskey, Cognac, sweet vermouth, Bénédictine liqueur…” Heavenly held up her hand. “How about an old-fashioned?”

  “Coming right up.”

  The bartender retreated.

  Reinfeld moved forward. His glass of whiskey was close enough to where Heavenly was seated that speaking to her as he reached for it would not have seemed like an overt violation of her space.