by Matt Goldman
We talked about the details of Earl Davis’s case. BrainiAcme is a boutique ad agency. A certain Fortune 100 company hired it to create viral YouTube videos. But six weeks in, Davis felt the job was a shell. What the certain Fortune 100 Company really wanted was to hire away his best talent and take them in-house. I was supposed to follow around his employees to see if they were having any off-the-book meetings with the Fortune 100 Company. But fortunately, Linnea Engstrom disappeared, and I got shot by an arrow and almost bled to death. So the exciting business of tailing ad agency creatives would have to wait.
I fed him a load about how excited I was to work on the BrainiAcme case. He said he understood the importance of my search for Linnea Engstrom.
“I have a seventeen-year-old daughter. I can’t imagine. Do you think she ran away?”
“I can’t discuss it,” I said. “You understand.”
“Of course. If she did, you can hardly blame her. Roger Engstrom is a piece of work.”
My eyes asked Ellegaard’s if this guy knew Roger was dead. Ellegaard’s eyes said no. “Yeah?” I said. “You know Roger?”
“Anyone who works in tech in this town knows Roger Engstrom. That guy’s bounced around since the early nineties. Always talks his way into a CEO job then sends the company into a nosedive but manages to jump ship just before it crashes. I’m a New Yorker. I don’t get it. This town is too polite. No one wants to talk shit about anyone else. So Roger kept getting gigs. But after what he did at app-Etite his reputation caught up with him.”
“Is that a food company?”
“No. App development. They had a load of VC money and he fucked it up. Put it all into a series of games no one liked. That’s why he moved up to Warroad. He finally achieved clown status in the Cities. Guess he found a new sucker up there.”
16
I sat shirtless on my stainless steel kitchen counter as Jameson White cut off his morning’s work with scissors.
“What are those scissors called,” I said, “the kind with the flat piece for cutting off bandages?”
“Bandage scissors,” he said.
“I guess sometimes the answer is just that simple.”
“Sometimes it is.” He balled up the gauze pads and wrap and tape and threw them into a plastic bag. He inspected the wounds in front and back for over a full minute then said, “No sign of infection. How’s the pain?”
“I’ve had a good distraction, so I haven’t fainted yet. It feels like I’m getting stabbed when I move suddenly or get bounced around in the car. Other than that, it’s a constant throbbing ache.”
“Oh, brother. There’s a few conditions that fall into the constant-throbbing-ache category, aren’t there? I sometimes wonder if the good Lord gave us those so when we’re on our deathbed, we think, Well at least I don’t have to deal with that shit anymore. This dyin’ ain’t so bad.” Jameson White cleaned the area with alcohol then applied an ointment. It stung. “You have a high tolerance for pain, my friend.”
“Chalk that up to a general insensitivity.”
“Ha!” He cut open a new package of gauze pads and a new roll of wrap. “So those distractions that are helping with the pain, are they personal or professional?”
“Both, but the professional have pushed out the personal, so I guess work gets most of the credit.”
“Tough case, huh?” He taped the pads over the wounds then said, “Gonna have to lift your left arm a bit to wrap this. You may feel it.”
He did what he’d threatened, and I felt it. I closed my eyes and breathed through the sausage making in my shoulder. I said, “Yeah, this case has some moving pieces. Most, on their own, make sense. A teenage girl disappears. Another teenager girl is sexually adventurous and winds up dead. A husband tells his wife he has a business meeting but instead meets another woman at her house. A businessman moves away because he’s burned all his bridges in town. But there are a few things I just can’t get my head around, like who makes a bow and arrow their weapon of choice?”
“Someone who doesn’t like guns,” said Jameson. “Or maybe someone who’s fine with guns but doesn’t want to make any noise.”
“Then why not just use a knife or a cord around the neck?”
“You think whoever shot you could have walked right up to you and strangled or stabbed you? They either aren’t strong enough or brave enough or just want to be stealthy. Arrows can’t fly as far as bullets but they can fly pretty damn far. I’ve never shot one before, but I saw it on the Olympics in Brazil. I don’t know how far away the target was but it looked like about a football field. That ain’t nothing. Probably better range than a pistol. And no noise. I bet if you shot at someone and missed, they might not even know it.”
“You’ve put some thought into this.”
“What else am I going to do while waiting for your call? I got taken off the market for two full weeks. Now I’m like all pretty things, sitting on a shelf waiting to be used. Plus, I have treated more gunshot wounds than I can remember, but you’re the first person who got shot by an arrow. I looked at those arrowheads on the internet. That’s some nasty shit. Like four-sided razor blades. At high speed, they go through you like you’re made of Jell-O or something and cause way more bleeding than a bullet.”
The service door opened. I didn’t need to look to know it was Lauren. It was the way she pulled open the heavy door, first a foot or so before wedging herself inside and giving the thing one last nudge with her shoulder. She slid past and the metal slab closed hard, the pneumatic cylinder at its top in need of replacement. Then her keys jingled the way they do as her boots scuffed up the cement stairs from the loading dock to the old factory floor. “Hello,” she said.
“Jameson, this is Lauren.” I said it quickly, almost before Lauren finished her “Hello” so Jameson didn’t have time to ask if she were Micaela. “Lauren, Jameson White.”
She walked over, and I caught a whiff of hospital mixed with something faint and flowery she always smelled of. Jameson turned, smiled, and shook her hand. They exchanged nice-to-meet-yous then Lauren said, “I mentioned to Micaela that Nils might be more receptive to treatment if he got it from someone other than me.” Lauren’s emerald eyes swung toward me to start a conversation I would have to end. Then she looked back toward Jameson. “Micaela offered to hire someone full-time for a little while, and I thought it was a good idea. Looks like it’s working out.”
Jameson said, “You’re the one who wrapped him up last night, right? You did a nice job.”
“Thank you. I’m a bit out of practice. Wounds aren’t my specialty. I was hoping it would get him through the night.”
“No, no, don’t be modest, girl. You’re good.”
“Not that good,” said Lauren, her eyes on my freshly dressed wound but her mind somewhere else.
“Well that wraps it up, ha-ha. I will see you at the end of the evening, Mr. Shapiro. Don’t even think of skipping it. We got that hole in your shoulder on the mend.” Jameson White put his Windex-blue jacket over his gray cotton sweatshirt then lowered himself down the loading dock stairs, carrying his nurse’s bag like an old lady carries a purse, by the handles as it banged off his knees.
I slid off the counter, grabbed my corduroy shirt with my right hand and started to work the left sleeve over my damaged wing.
“Not like that,” said Lauren. She stepped toward me. “Like this.” She took over and we said nothing until my shirt was on and buttoned. Then she said, “Are you headed back out?”
“I have to be at the Xcel Center at 7:00 for the Warroad semifinal.”
“Are you free for an early dinner?”
I hadn’t eaten lunch and was hungry, so we walked to Bar La Grassa on Washington and arrived just as they were opening the doors at 5:00.
We took a semicircular booth in the dining room and sat under a large black-and-white print of Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. The dining room was quiet, but the bar in the front room had filled. The noise of people who worked in offic
es no longer being in offices drifted our way.
I knew what this dinner was about, so when Lauren asked how my day went, I said the case took a turn and left it at that. If I told her I had discovered Winnie Haas’s and Roger Engstrom’s bodies with arrows in them, we might have avoided the unavoidable. After Lauren gave me a perfunctory version of her day, she said, “I’m sorry to do this now, but we need to talk about things.”
A waitress with red hair, not natural but cardinal red, appeared and asked if we wanted to start with drinks. Lauren ordered an Able Black Wolf Stout, and I ordered the same. The waitress smiled and disappeared.
Lauren said, “I’m not going to put this on you by asking where you are in this relationship. But I want to tell you where I am.” She slid out the napkin from beneath her silverware and put it on her lap then said, “I am … I’ve been …—Oh, fuck it. I am putting it on you. You’re the problem, Nils.”
I sunk back into the leather booth. Lauren did not ask the question she wanted answered. A man/boy with 1890s whiskers came over, lit the candle on our table, and left. I said, “I love you. But I feel like we’re not moving forward.”
She nodded and thought then said, “Does that mean you want to end it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What kind of chicken shit answer is that?”
“If two people love each other, they can make a relationship work. Or, if two people are not in love with each other but their relationship functions in a way they both value, they can make that work. In either case, both people’s expectations are met. So no one is disappointed. But if one person is in one place and the other person is in a different place, well, that’s when things get difficult.”
Lauren said, “How clinical of you. Kind of boiled it down to the nuts and bolts there. I trust you’ve conducted enough experiments and collected enough data for a thorough analysis.”
“Okay. You want to tell me what that was about?”
“I’m a human being, Nils, not a fucking case.” I failed to see the difference, but succeeded in not telling her so.
Cardinal Head returned, set two mugs of beer on the table, and asked if we were ready to order. Lauren said she was fine with whatever I wanted. I took that figuratively and literally and ordered small plates of gnocchi, roasted butternut squash, grilled leaks, and bruschetta with soft eggs and lobster. The waitress praised my choices and left.
I sipped my beer and turned my body toward Lauren, leaning my right shoulder into the dark leather. She did not turn to meet me. She bit her lower lip and reached for the votive on the table then turned it between her thumb and finger. The flamed danced. I could see the clear lens of her left eye, the iris underneath reflecting green even in the dim light. More people slipped into the dining room. The restaurant had grown louder but our booth remained quiet.
Lauren said, “We’re not in the same place, Nils.”
“It’s felt that way for a while. I’ve hoped it would pass. And maybe it will. But I feel your frustration every day.”
“What you feel is not my frustration but my disappointment. I am so disappointed in you, Nils. We were on this great road together then you just veered off and left me by myself.” Lauren took a sip of her beer. Then another. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re where you are. Because then, what are we even doing? Just hanging out? Hoping something changes? That doesn’t work. Not for me anyway.”
The conversation continued but got soft, like wet tissue without form and barely holding together. 1890s Whiskers brought the food. We said nothing while he set the plates on our table. He was slow and chitchatty and, by the time he left, we’d forgotten who last said what and what needed to be said next.
We ate without commenting on the dishes or anything else. Then I said, “I’m sorry I can’t be where you want me to be.”
She reached for her beer, stopped, and said, “And I’m sorry for keeping you from getting there.” She turned and looked at me for the first time since we sat down and said, “I have to go.” She slid out her side of the booth and walked away, her jacket clutched in one fist.
I had finished my beer, but Lauren had barely touched hers. I lifted her pint but stopped. She’d left a lip print on the glass just below the rim. My eyes glossed over, and the candles in the dining room twinkled like stars.
17
I drove to St. Paul, spent twenty-five dollars to park in a small lot to avoid getting trapped in a ramp, and paid double face value for a ticket from an individual who does not go to the dentist every six months. Inside the Xcel Center, I bought a coffee then made my way to the standing area at the top of the arena to gaze at the Warroad student section below me. The Xcel Center is a hockey arena with symphony hall acoustics and living room comfort. It’s intimate and inviting, and fans watch the icy oval of speed and violence as if they’re looking into another world.
Both teams had taken the ice for warm-ups. The higher seeded Warroad Warriors, wearing black jerseys with white and gold insignia, circled the close end of the ice. Wayzata, wearing white jerseys with blue and yellow, circled the far end. High above the glass, I heard sharp blades gouge ice as they propelled skaters over the gray sheet, leaving behind trails of dusty snow.
I used binoculars to watch Graham Peters and Luca Lüdorf skate with their teammates. Left crossovers clockwise then right crossovers counterclockwise then the same but skating backward, then the goalie drifted into the net for warm-up shots. Coach Kozjek, black windbreaker over a white shirt and gold necktie, stood behind the boards, arms folded. His assistant coaches clustered at the opposite end of the bench, leaving the hockey god with his thoughts.
The students of four teams filled the four corners of the arena. Warroad below me. Wayzata in the opposite corner. Duluth East in black and red to my right. Elk River in the same colors to my left. Parents, lovers of the game, college and NHL scouts, filled the seats between. All had come to see the best high school hockey in the United States. And often, that’s what it was.
I aimed the binoculars on the Warroad students. The band sat right behind the glass and the rest of the students behind them, a mass of black and gold, painted faces, shiny beads, and big hats. I didn’t know what or who I was looking for, but it wasn’t Linnea Engstrom. She couldn’t hide here. Her father had yet to be officially identified as one of the Woodbury murder victims, but word had leaked out. Even if the entire student body had conspired to keep Linnea’s presence a secret, a teacher, a parent, someone would spot her and report it. All four sets of fans buzzed, but Warroad was more subdued. Despite standing directly above them, they were the quietest of the four towns. If Linnea Engstrom were here, Warroad’s buzz would top them all.
I spotted Anne Engstrom’s sister sitting high in the Wayzata section. She seemed to be alone. I wasn’t sure why I’d come to the game other than to observe most of Warroad’s citizens in one time and place. But when I saw Anne’s sister, I lowered the binoculars and headed to the opposite corner of the arena.
She sat in the top row. I stood behind her and said, “Excuse me.”
She turned around. She’d changed into a royal blue sweater and carried a black jacket over her right arm. Her ponytail, rimless teardrop eyeglasses, faded Levi’s, and adorable cheeks remained.
“My name is Nils Shapiro. I—”
“I know who you are.” She stood. “Mel Rosenthal. I’m Anne Engstrom’s sister.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“I guess, yeah.” Her seat was in the middle of the row. Fans blocked her exit on both sides. I offered her a hand. She took it, climbed up and over her seat. I’d seen her sitting down at Crestmoor Bay and hadn’t realized she was so short, five foot one at most.
We walked to the escalator, descended to the club level, and found a hightop in the bar at the Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 Club. Cherrywood, slate, and stone that came together in a suburban chain restaurant kind of way, comfortable and pleasant—the kind of place that won’t fuck up a burger or chicken wings. Fan
s from Elk River and Duluth East filled the dining room while awaiting the start of the second game.
I ordered another coffee and hoped it’d be better than the concession stand cup that had gone down like brown water. Mel Rosenthal ordered a glass of Old Vine Zin. She was at the X because her daughter, Ivy, played trumpet in the Wayzata band. Mel hadn’t told Ivy about Uncle Roger yet. It didn’t seem right if Linnea didn’t know. She said Anne was staying with their parents, who lived in the first alphabet of St. Louis Park just west of Cedar Lake. “Sleeping in her old room. It’s terribly sad. All of this is terribly sad.”
I said, “Are you close with Linnea?” Mel Rosenthal blinked a few times and pushed her empty coaster around. “Is this hard to talk about?”
“Kind of,” she said. “It’s difficult to explain … well, let’s just say, it’s not an appropriate time to speak ill of anyone.” She looked up at me with the grayest of gray eyes.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but it is the time. It’s an important time. The few days after a kid disappears are crucial.”
Mel Rosenthal nodded then said, “Okay.” She swallowed. “Linnea and I had been quite close the last few years. She would call or text me every day. I guess she reached an age where the differences between her and her parents inspired her to seek out a more like-minded adult. In some ways, I guess, Linnea outgrew her parents.”
“In what ways?”
Mel Rosenthal winced. “I suppose a nice way of putting it is Linnea’s emotional intelligence exceeds her parents’. She’s a sensitive kid. Always has been. Roger and Anne tried to deal with it by buying her stuff. When she was little, she saw a dog get hit by a car, so they bought her a pet rabbit to distract her. She’d see something on the news and get depressed—they’d buy her an iPad. It worked when Linnea was young, but when she hit her teens, it stopped working.”