Dead West

by Matt Goldman

  “Now,” said Beverly, “what I haven’t heard much about is that memorial service or celebration or whatever cockamamie thing Ebben called it. I want to know every last detail.”

  I told her about the house in Hancock Park and the people in attendance, including Ebben’s business associates and Juliana’s large family. I did not mention Vasily. I told her about the catering and Ebben’s speech, saying he had planned to bring Juliana back to Minnesota in the spring to canoe the Boundary Waters and to meet his family. I even relayed a half-honest version of what Ebben had said about Beverly Mayer. What he actually said was she probably wouldn’t find anything nice to say about Juliana, but it would be impossible to say something negative. I altered that into Ebben having said even his tough-as-nails grandmother would have liked Juliana. She seemed pleased with the characterization.

  “And what about Ebben’s emotional state?” she said. “I’ve spoken to him, and he seems to be holding up. But how did he seem to you, Nils? I’m concerned.” Her smile stayed put. I found it unnerving.

  I said, “He loved Juliana. He’s hurting. He’s keeping himself in motion, taking meetings, having people at the house, but he’s hurting.”

  “Well, that’s as it should be. He loved that girl. But you said he’s active, continuing his business, having people to the house. That seems like a good sign.”

  “I think so.”

  Arthur Mayer grunted a nod.

  Beverly Mayer said, “Ebben’s coming home next month for Arthur’s ninetieth birthday. I’d like to introduce him to one of the governor’s staffers, a terribly bright and attractive young woman from Washington, D.C. She moved to Minnesota last year, is single, and hardly knows a soul outside the capital. Do you think Ebben’s ready for that?”

  It was Beverly Mayer’s twinkly smile that undid me. Her oh-so-gracious pushing aside of Juliana’s death. Her gentle sweeping aside of Ebben’s grief. Clearing the way for this is what I want. I’m used to getting my way. Do you think everyone else is finished with their obstructive nonsense so I can get what I want? I said, “Well, he’s your grandson. You’ve known him thirty-five years. Does he usually fall in line when you order him to do so?”

  Her twinkly smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What do you think, Arthur? Is one month of mourning sufficient for Ebben before Beverly shoves her handpicked bride down his throat?”

  Beverly Mayer’s fingers dug into the soft wool covering her lap. “Mr. Shapiro, there is no need to be rude. I will not tolerate rude.”

  I stood. “Is that why you sent me to Los Angeles, Mrs. Mayer? You couldn’t believe your stroke of luck that Juliana Marquez dropped dead and you wanted to know if Ebben was over her? Hell, if him working in show business would sully the family name, just imagine what Ebben marrying a Mexican would do?”

  “That is quite enough, Mr. Shapiro.”

  “You did your homework on me, Mrs. Mayer, talked to all of your esteemed contacts. The St. Paul chief of police, I’m sure he didn’t sugarcoat it. You knew who you were hiring. Hope I lived up to my reputation. I look forward to your Yelp review.” Her outrage morphed into confusion. “Don’t get up. I can show myself out.”

  “Wait,” said Arthur, his voice small. His eyes lifted toward me and, with effort, his head followed. He had a new Band-Aid on his chin. I don’t know if he cut himself shaving or the skin had worn thin in a new spot. “The answer is no.”

  Beverly said, “What are you talking about, Arthur?”

  “Mr. Shapiro asked me if one month is enough time for Ebben to mourn. My answer is no. One month is not enough time.” Arthur Mayer turned his head toward his wife. I don’t remember if his spine actually creaked or if I just imagined the sound effect because it fit the picture. “What do you think, Beverly?”

  “I think it’s time for Mr. Shapiro to leave.”

  I said, “Adios, amigos.”

  I found my coat, opened the ten-foot-tall mahogany doors, and stepped onto the stone veranda. Minus five degrees and I counted half a dozen pedestrians and a fat-tire cyclist pedaling east on Summit Avenue, his or her face hidden behind ski goggles and a balaclava. Plenty of people born here leave as soon as they’re able. They move to Florida or North Carolina, Arizona or California. But most of us stay. Are we crazy? No. Just a little chilly five or six months a year.

  23

  Stone Arch Investigations is in the Saint Anthony Main Building on a cobblestone street along the Mississippi River. Downtown Minneapolis sits on the other side of the river and, in winter, naked trees offer a clear view of our small but expanding city of tall glass buildings juxtaposed against repurposed grain silos and vintage signs for Gold Medal Flour and Pillsbury.

  Our assistant Kenji Thao greeted me with, “Mr. First Class is back to slum it with the rest of us.”

  “I missed you too much, Kenji. Had to give it up.”

  “Where’s Jameson? I like that guy.”

  “As far as I know, he’s still in Los Angeles.”

  “That’s what you say about lost luggage. Not your friend.”

  I found Anders Ellegaard in his office, working to the whispery exhale of forced-air heat. I never know what he’s doing at his desk, but I don’t ask because he’d tell me and then he’d get way too excited about accounts receivable or health insurance coverage or his new marketing plan. I’d have to listen because I’d asked, and for that I could never forgive myself.

  Ellegaard wore a Brooks Brothers suit, charcoal with a light blue shirt and royal blue tie. Suit-wearing was a habit he couldn’t break from his fifteen years as a detective for Edina PD. It was his uniform and, still mourning the loss of his shield, he was reluctant to let it go.

  I said, “How was your phone call with Beverly Mayer?”

  “Welcome home, Shap.”

  “How pissed was she?”

  “Pretty pissed.”

  “I was feeling a bit protective of Ebben.”

  “Ebben’s a big boy. He can protect himself.” I sat down. Ellegaard looked up. “I hear you did well out there.”

  “From Mrs. Mayer?”

  “Yes. She didn’t appreciate your attitude this morning, but said you did an excellent job in Los Angeles.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell her the whole story.” Then I told Ellegaard the whole story. About Vasily threatening me and assaulting Thom. About my turkey sandwich with Sebastiano and Debra’s freak-out when hearing about Sebastiano’s assistant photographing her computer screen. About Ebben refusing to get the police involved and refusing to drop the project. I explained how The Creative Collective worked, how Ebben funded it and hoped to profit from it. And I told him about Jameson leaving me for Dr. Li.

  Ellegaard said, “What’s Dr. Li’s first name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Seems like an odd detail to overlook for an investigator of your caliber.”

  “Yeah, well. I may have an emotional block in that area.”

  “Understandable. You had a busy thirty-six hours, Shap.” I must have made a face or something because Ellegaard said, “What?”

  “It felt different.”

  “Different than what?”

  “Different than before Gabriella and Evelyn. I’ve worked cases since those two came into my life. Mostly routine stuff. That insurance fraud case and some background checks and what’s-her-face’s adultery thing. But Los Angeles was the first murky, dangerous, twisted bundle of lies and liars. Those kinds of cases have always sucked me in. And I’ve always stayed in regardless of personal safety or just plain common sense.”

  “That you have.”

  “And I don’t come out until I have answers. But not in Los Angeles. I mean, I think Juliana was murdered. Accidentally, but that’s almost worse because Ebben was the intended target, which means he could still be a target. I don’t trust his agent. I don’t trust his manager. This Vasily character is nuts and may or may not be working for someone else. Maybe even working for one of the people on Ebben�
��s team. All that and I couldn’t wait to get home. To sit in that boring condo with Gabriella and Evelyn when she’s with us. I used to have nothing to lose. Now I have too much.”

  Ellegaard shut his laptop. “Sounds like I might be getting the Nils Shapiro I’ve always dreamed of.”

  I shrugged. “At your service.” He looked down at nothing and shook his head. Now it was my turn to say, “What?”

  “It won’t work, Shap.”

  “What won’t work?”

  “You playing by the rules. Playing it safe.”

  “It’s worked for you.”

  “Because I’m me. But even with me, it’s relative. I didn’t choose to be a cop in a sleepy suburb. I sent my résumé all over the state. Edina is the municipality that hired me. Dumb luck. But when I wore the uniform, I still had to deal with potentially dangerous situations. Calls to domestic disputes. And traffic stops. Edina is one of the safer places but you never know who’s driving through and who might have a gun in the car. You don’t know their state of mind. Every time I pulled someone over I thought of Molly and the girls. Then a couple years into the job—I’ve never told you this story—Target built its first SuperTarget. I worked the grand opening. Huge event. Press from all over. I got assigned to shadow Target’s CEO. He liked me and at the end of the day, asked me to come work security for Target. Not store security. Corporate. First thing that popped into my head was no more traffic stops. No more domestic disputes. Pretty much a nine-to-fiver. Better pay. Better benefits. Better long-term career outlook. I talked to Molly. She said she’d support whatever I wanted to do.”

  “I’d be trembling with suspense but I know what you did.”

  “You know what I ultimately did. But first, I called Robert Stanley and asked if I could buy him dinner.”

  Robert Stanley was one of the Minneapolis cops who trained Ellegaard, Gabriella, and me at the academy. He supplemented our education far beyond the manuals and exercises and operating procedures. To Robert Stanley, the job wasn’t just about right versus wrong or good versus bad. The job was about people and their humanity and the importance of not ignoring that humanity even in the most inhumane scenarios. At the most brutal crime scenes committed by the most heinous criminals against the most vulnerable victims. Don’t let people’s humanity fall through the cracks just because you’re chasing a monster.

  Robert Stanley was one of the few Minneapolis cops who didn’t resent Ellegaard and me for not coming back to Minneapolis PD after we were laid off. We stayed in touch with him, even hired his daughter, Leah, as our receptionist during her gap year before law school. Leah will graduate next year and has threatened to return to Stone Arch as an investigator.

  Robert Stanley died in my arms a couple years ago. Ellegaard was there.

  Ellegaard said, “I took Robert to Murray’s.”

  “Murray’s. Home of the butter knife steak.”

  Ellegaard smiled. “I told him about the offer I’d received to work corporate security for Target. He asked me a few questions. I answered. Then he asked me why I became a cop. Was it because of the money? Was it because of my personal safety? I said of course not to both. He pointed out that if I sacrificed my principles for my family, I’d resent them. Maybe not right away, but eventually, as impossible as it sounded, I’d hold it against Molly and the girls even though they had nothing to do with it. So better to take a few risks than to resent my family.”

  The forced-air heat breathed hot and heavy. I said, “So why’d you leave Edina PD for Stone Arch Investigations?”

  “I became a cop to pursue justice. And I get more of that working with you than I did for a suburban police department.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ellegaard laughed. “Yeah, well, it certainly wasn’t for the money or job security.”

  Ebben Mayer’s name popped up on my cell phone. I answered the call.

  He said, “Nils, they can’t find him. They can’t find him anywhere.”

  24

  Ebben said, “I called Sebastiano last night on the drive home from LAX to tell him about Jay Rosenstein wanting me to meet with all the agents. He didn’t answer his cell. I texted. No response. When I woke up this morning, I still hadn’t heard from him. That doesn’t happen in this town. Agents return calls. At least, they return mine. I called Debra, and she said she’d heard Sebastiano had gone AWOL. No one can find him. I’m at ACI for the big agency meeting right now. I went to Sebastiano’s office and his assistants told me they have no idea where he is.”

  I said, “Do you think now’s the time to call the police?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Hey, I got to go into the meeting. I’ll call you when I get out.”

  I hung up and told Ellegaard about Ebben’s call. He said someone should look into whether Sebastiano has a history of taking off without telling anyone—some people do.

  I said, “Or Vasily has him. He is going after Ebben and his associates one by one. He ran Ebben off the road. He tailed Brit. He threatened me. He beat up Thom.”

  “Anything happen to the manager?”

  “Debra? Not that I know of. Had a nice chat with her in Ebben’s backyard last night. She wants Ebben to pull the project. She didn’t mention any direct threats against her.”

  Ellegaard nodded and thought for a moment and said, “When Ebben calls back after his meeting, ask if he still keeps a residence in Minnesota, and if he does, whether or not he has a Minnesota driver’s license.”

  “You think I should accept his offer if we can rationalize we’re licensed to work for a Minnesotan?”

  “It’s an option, but it’s up to you. It’s one thing to follow your calling. It’s another to work two thousand miles from Gabriella and Evelyn. Ebben can hire someone there. I can get some names if he wants.”

  I nodded. “Any more business to discuss? Because we’re not going to get away with it at dinner.”

  “I think that’s it. Spoon and Stable at seven. And leave your wallet at home. This is our engagement present to you and Gabriella.”

  “Do we have to write a thank-you note?”

  “That would be polite, but you don’t have to.”

  “Check with Molly. Because I won’t accept if we have to write a thank-you note. Unless we can write it on the receipt or something at the table. I just don’t want to have it weighing on me.”

  “That’s kind of a weird thing to say. Maybe you should talk to Gabriella. She might like to write thank-you notes. It’s possible she even has special stationery with matching envelopes.”

  “Don’t talk that way about the woman I love. She doesn’t have those things. You take that back.” I stood. “See you at seven. I’m wearing jeans. Don’t make me look bad.”

  I left the office for Linden Hills. Micaela had bought an old firehouse and converted it into an office. She left the pole, but no one used it to get from the second floor to the first except me. She’d turned one of her conference rooms into a nursery where her full-time nanny watched Evelyn while Micaela worked. Micaela took breaks to nurse Evelyn and to stroll her down to Lake Harriet when the weather permitted.

  Micaela was out at a meeting when I got there. I told the nanny she could take off for a couple hours. She said Evelyn’s cold had grown worse, and that I may have to use the miniature turkey baster to clear her nose. I fed Evelyn lunch. Sweet potatoes and bananas and some other squished mash that contained turkey, spinach, and apple. Micaela insisted Evelyn eat a certain brand of organic free-trade zero-carbon-footprint food. It tasted just like the supermarket stuff. I know. I tried both.

  I crawled around on the floor mat with Evelyn, got her to laugh at a few of my best faces, changed her diaper (organic, free-trade food doesn’t make that any more pleasant), read a few books to her, and shut the blinds. She lay on my chest as we rocked to Nirvana Unplugged. Something about the simple 4/4 rhythm of acoustic rock calmed my baby girl and would hopefully give her excellent taste in music and spare me from ever having to hear Radio
Disney. She sang along for bit, saying, “Ba ba ba ba ba ba…” until she fell asleep. I didn’t feel like transferring her to her crib, so I napped with her. I’d had little sleep in the past forty-eight hours and had breathed six hours of airplane air. The nap did me good.

  Twenty minutes later my phone buzzed on the side table. I let the call go to voicemail, transferred Evelyn to her crib, kissed her perfect-smelling head, tiptoed out of the nursery, and found Micaela working at a desk just outside the door.

  “Good daddy-daughter time?”

  “She asked a lot of questions. We had to have the talk.”

  Micaela’s strawberry blond frizz fell just past her shoulders. She wore a white wool jumper thing and black leggings, an outfit a giant toddler might wear. But it suited her. Motherhood suited her. She looked tired and content and peaceful. She said, “I’m glad you got some extra time with her. She kind of likes you.”

  “Good. I kind of like her.”

  “I have a week of meetings in London and Paris next month. I’m happy to take Evelyn with me, but if you and Gabriella want, I can leave her with you and not put her through all that travel.”

  “We’d love to have her.” That’s how it had gone the last ten months. A casual take it as it comes custody arrangement. Not a lawyer in sight. We chitchatted a bit more, then I hugged the firepole and made my exit.

  I got in the Volvo and returned Ebben Mayer’s call. He answered on the first ring.

  He said, “It’s a shit show here, Nils. Sebastiano’s disappearance has nothing to do with Vasily. He left to start his own agency. It’s a free-for-all for his clients. I just got off the phone with him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’? It’s a huge deal. Everyone’s filing lawsuits. It’s all over Deadline. That’s what the meeting was about. Jay Rosenstein must have suspected it last night. Half of Sebastiano’s clients were there. It looked like the Golden Globes in that room, and they were blowing smoke up everyone’s ass.”