“The job can get so boring,” they told me, and said that anything I could do to add spice to their days would be appreciated.
So, on occasion, I’d ask them to help me out. In exchange, I would “find” things lying around the building, like a case of Irish whiskey or Minnesota Twins tickets, that I would turn in to the lost and found because security personnel weren’t allowed to accept gratuities from the tenants.
“No, nothing exciting,” I said.
“Too bad.” Jones sounded disappointed.
“Although…”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve noticed a vehicle hanging around the building that I don’t think belongs to one of the tenants. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Vehicle?”
“Black Chevy Tahoe, Minnesota plates.” I recited the number again.
“No kidding? We’ll get right on that. You know, we’re always looking out for the residents.”
“All this time I thought your job was to protect the building.”
“The building comes first, of course.”
“Just a name and address for now, and you know, don’t take chances, don’t put yourself at risk.”
“Never.”
“Christmas is coming,” I said. “Anything you guys want Santa to bring you?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I parked my Mustang in the garage built below the building, took the elevator up to the ground floor, and approached the security desk. There was a tiny artificial Christmas tree on the desk, and along with their dark blue suits and crisp white shirts, the guards wore red and green ties.
“Hey, guys,” I said.
“McKenzie,” Smith said. “We were just thinking of you.”
“Oh?”
“Someone pushed this through the mail slot.”
Smith handed me a sealed white number 10 envelope with my name written across it.
“Huh,” I said and put it in my pocket. “So, have you heard? Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes are coming to the Dakota Jazz Club here in Minneapolis.”
“I used to listen to them when I was a kid living on the East Coast,” Jones said.
“Really? That is a coincidence, cuz I just heard that there’s a table for four reserved and paid for under the name Jonas Smith. If you should run into someone named Jonas Smith, you might want to tell him.”
“We’ll do that.”
“Oh, and don’t mention this to Ms. Truhler. She might not understand, what with the Dakota being a competitor and all.”
“Not a word.”
* * *
I took the elevator to the seventh floor, got off, and started walking down the corridor. Up ahead, a man exited the condominium next to mine and turned toward me. He paused when he saw who I was.
Frank Fogelberg was a retired, twice-divorced stock trader, and he didn’t like me one bit. He complained bitterly because I have, on occasion, cranked the volume on my speakers all the way to eleven. He was right, of course; I was out of line. I apologized. Unfortunately, that wasn’t good enough. Instead, he brought me before the building’s tenant association and complained about being forced to listen to “that music,” the music in question being various forms of jazz. The association took my side, however. Not because it liked me but because it hated Fogelberg. Half of its members had fallen under his wrath at one time or another. He had actually accused a woman on the third floor of criminal negligence for having the audacity to bring brownies containing gluten to a potluck.
“Good evening,” I said as we approached each other.
Fogelberg refused to reply or even look at me as we passed.
“A pleasure chatting with you, Frank,” I said. “Let’s do it again real soon.”
He kept walking until, apparently, he thought of an appropriate reply.
“McKenzie,” he said, “I haven’t forgotten you.”
Well, okay, then.
* * *
A couple of minutes later, I was inside the condominium. I put a reusable pod into the K-Cup machine, reusable because it allowed me to brew my own blends instead of relying on the pods of tasteless coffee you get in the grocery stores and also because I’m on the environment’s side. While I waited, I tore open the envelope and found a sheet of paper with a name and address written in longhand.
Karl Anderson, my inner voice read to me. How many Karl Andersons can there be in Minnesota?
After my coffee was brewed and poured, I took the mug to my computer and Googled the name to find out. Turned out that there were about a hundred and sixty, but only one with a Mendota Heights street address. It took all of twenty seconds to find a match.
“Huh,” I said, probably for the twentieth time that day.
Apparently, Karl J. Anderson was “an award-winning private investigator, confidential, discreet, licensed, bonded, insured, call for a free consultation.”
According to the website, Anderson ran a full-service detective agency with twenty-five years of experience out of St. Paul that offered to assist clients involved in business law, criminal law, and personal injury law. Hell, he could do just about anything including surveillance, due diligence investigations, employee theft and financial fraud investigations, report retrieval and evaluation, subpoenas and court order service, and accident scene photography and video documentation as well as accident reconstruction.
The website didn’t mention that he provided close protection services. That doesn’t mean he won’t, my inner voice said.
What made me pause, though, was the part where Anderson claimed he offered comprehensive criminal and civil witness background research, thorough background investigations, and expert social media research and analysis.
I told the computer to play some Gershwin. Instead of his better-known works like Rhapsody in Blue, the virtual assistant surprised me by broadcasting Concerto in F through the speakers placed strategically in every nook and cranny in the condominium. Knowing Fogelberg wasn’t around to hear, I told the computer to increase the volume as I began to pace, because that’s what I do when I’m in a state of confusion, I pace.
I had finished my coffee and the computer was playing the Second Rhapsody when Nina walked through the door.
“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you until late.”
Nina took off her coat and dropped it and her bag on a chair near my desk. She told the virtual assistant to lower the volume as she approached me.
“Are you trying to annoy Frank again?” she asked.
“Never.”
“You’re going to think I’m wanton.”
“In what way?”
“You know what we did last night? And this morning? All day long I’ve been thinking how much I want to do it some more.”
“You’re the girl of my dreams, you know that, right?”
We crossed the living room area and met in the middle for a hug and a kiss.
“Aren’t you going to at least buy me dinner first?” I asked.
“Later.”
We kissed some more.
“I noticed you were pacing,” Nina said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking—why would a psychic medium require the services of a private investigator?”
“I know why I would. Are we talking about Hannah?”
“We are.”
“She’s involved with a PI?”
“I don’t know if involved is the correct word. Or even that he’s working for her. But Hannah, or at least her mother, knew him well enough to invite him to their home. Nice house, by the way. You’d like it.”
“A couple of thoughts come to mind,” Nina said.
“Yeah, I can imagine. Harry’s on your side, by the way.”
“I’ve always liked Harry.”
“Here’s the thing, what’s got me pacing—as unlikely as it sounds, all of this makes perfect sense if Hannah is telling the truth about Leland and Ryan Hayes and the missing money. If she’s not, what’s the point? You n
eed to remember, she didn’t come to me with all of this nonsense. It was revealed at a group reading that Shelby just happened to attend. Hannah couldn’t have known that Shelby and I were friends, could she? Even if she did and this is all part of some elaborate plot, what’s her endgame?”
Nina removed her shoes, took my hand, and led me toward the bedroom.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why don’t we sleep on it?”
SIX
Nina snuggled up close to me, her arm thrown over my chest, her head resting against my shoulder.
“Your cuddling skills have improved immensely,” she said.
“Practice makes perfect.”
“I nearly didn’t come home.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I almost didn’t come home because—should I tell you what I’m afraid of?”
“I didn’t know you were afraid of anything.”
“A couple of things,” Nina said. “Mostly I’m afraid of becoming my mother. I told you about my mother.”
“Bits and pieces.”
“My mother was a whore. For a long time I thought she was a sex addict. Except addicts try to hide their disorder, don’t they? They lie about their behavior; they do their thing at times and in places where there isn’t anyone around to see. They don’t want the people they care about, who care about them, to know that they’re hooked. Isn’t that so?
“Only Mom didn’t care who knew. She even brought partners home with her. To our home. One day my father found her in bed with a man, she didn’t even know his name. Mom told him to pull up a chair and watch. Dad didn’t care for that. She told him that if he didn’t like it, he should leave. So he left. Left me in the care of a woman who neglected me, who often spent nights and weekends away, at least when she wasn’t entertaining guests in the room next to mine. I was fourteen years old going on thirty. I never saw Dad again. I don’t think he actually divorced my mom, because he kept sending her money, enough to keep a roof over our heads, enough to keep me in a good school, enough to help me get through college without any debt. As for the rest of my family, my grandparents and aunts and uncles, apparently their disgust for my mother extended to me as well. Naturally, the first chance I got, I ran off to marry a man who abused and demeaned me every single day. ’Course, you know all about that.”
“Bits and pieces,” I said.
“If it weren’t for Erica, I don’t know what would have become of me. Her birth shocked me into a kind of sanity. From that moment on, I took charge of my life, disowned my mother and the rest of the family, divorced my husband, moved to a different city, built Rickie’s, and lived in such a way that no one would dare call me the names they called Mom. I gave Erica the life that she deserved. And what did she do? She enrolled at a university that’s located twelve hundred miles away; she tried to get as far away from me as she could.”
“How often does she call?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How often does she call you, this wayward daughter of yours? Every day?”
“No. Maybe three, four times a week?”
“Plus texts. Plus Facebook postings. I’m not entirely sure why Erica picked Tulane over the other schools that accepted her. Maybe she did it for the scholarship money they offered so she wouldn’t have to put too much of a burden on her mother. Or because it was ranked in the top fifty among national universities. Or because she simply liked New Orleans. As for going away to college, if I had to guess, I’d say she did it for the same reason most kids go away to college, because she needed to figure out who she was, and remaining home under the watchful eye of her mother wasn’t going to help. It certainly wasn’t to escape her mother, who is absolutely nothing like her grandmother. I mean, the girl comes home and it’s you and her for at least a full day, hugging and kissing and talking and shopping and taking selfies and acting like best friends who haven’t seen each other for a dozen years, so let’s not hear any more of this ‘my daughter doesn’t love me’ crap because that’s what it is.”
“You don’t know that,” Nina said. “I mean the part about not being like my mother.”
“Why are we having this conversation, anyway?”
“My runaway libido has given me cause for concern.”
I started to chuckle.
“You think that’s funny?” Nina asked.
“I just had an image of you chasing your libido down the street and me chasing after.”
“I don’t know why I talk to you.”
“Nina, how often have you left work in the middle of the day because you wanted to have sex with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fortunately, I’ve been keeping track. Not often enough.”
“Stop it.”
“I think this is a first.”
“I guess.”
“Trust me,” I said. “I’ll let you know if it becomes a bad habit.”
“It’s just that sometimes, McKenzie—all this talk of psychic mediums, Shelby wanting to talk to her grandfather, all those other people wanting to connect with dead relatives, it reminds me … My mother died a couple of years before I met you. She asked to see me before she passed. I didn’t go. I was too busy. I wasn’t, but that’s the excuse I used. Add that to everything else … Sometimes I become afraid.”
“Of what exactly?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Hard to say because you don’t know or because you don’t want to speak the words out loud?”
Nina hesitated before she said, “My father abandoned me. He left my mother, I get that, but he also abandoned me. Then I abandoned her and later my husband.”
“Are you afraid that I’ll do the same thing? That Erica will do the same thing? She won’t, you know. Neither will I.”
“You’re in love with Shelby Dunston.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You made her daughters your heirs.”
“Yes, I did, right after I came into my money. I also named their father my executor. A couple of years ago, I gave him a copy of a revised will that added Erica to the list. The three of them will share equally.”
Nina raised herself up with an elbow and looked into my eyes. “You never told me that,” she said.
“Yes, I did. Didn’t I?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, I wrote Erica into my will. I hope you don’t mind.”
Nina settled back against me after kissing my cheek. The fact that her warm body was so close made the conversation easier. If we had been standing on opposite sides of the room, I’m not sure how it would have gone.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re in love with Shelby,” Nina said.
“Shelby’s the childhood crush that I never quite got over and probably never will. She and Bobby both understand that. You, on the other hand—you are the woman of my dreams. And my life. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that many times. Plus, you’re right here.” I pulled her close to prove it. “I am not letting you go. Ever. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
“How many times have I asked you to marry me, anyway?”
“Just the three.”
“What have you always answered?”
“Why ruin a good thing, something like that.”
“The last time?”
“It was at the Louvre in Paris. You went down on one knee in the same room where they keep the Mona Lisa.”
“After you said why ruin a good thing, what did I say?”
“You said the next time I’d have to ask you.”
“Are you asking?”
Nina remained silent. She remained silent for a long time. When she finally did speak, she said, “We should get something to eat.”
* * *
We were wearing robes, mostly for convention’s sake, sitting on stools at the island in the kitchen area and eating a Denver omelet that I put together in about ten minutes.
Nina said I was a great cook. I said if she gave me another thirty minutes I would really impress her. She looked at her watch, paused, and said, “Starting now.” I said, “Are we talking about the same thing?” She said, “Your phone is ringing.” I said, “Don’t change the subject.”
My phone was ringing, though. I had left it on my desk in the office area and went to retrieve it.
“This is McKenzie,” I said, which is how I usually answer my phone.
“Mr. McKenzie, this is Smith down in security.”
“Smith.” I looked at my own watch. “I thought you and Jones were done at five.”
“The bosses have decided to alter the shift patterns, don’t ask me why. Jones and I caught the two-to-midnight shift.”
“That sucks.”
“My wife agrees with you. On the other hand, we now only work four days a week. Anyway, Mr. McKenzie, there’s a woman down here who wants to speak with you.”
I was watching Nina when I said, “You can’t possibly imagine how bad your timing is.”
“Her ID says her name is Kayla Janas.”
“I don’t know a Kayla Janas.”
“She claims to be a psychic medium.”
SEVEN
“I don’t want her in my house,” Nina said.
She waved a hand in front of herself as if to say look at this.
“Okay,” I said.
“Also, you can’t just get dressed and go down there. You need to take a shower first.”
“Why?”
“Because you smell like me.”
“I like the scent. I want to bottle it and use it as cologne.”
“Shower. Please.”
I did, thinking at the time that Nina was being modest, that she didn’t want Kayla Janas or anyone else, for that matter, to suspect what we’ve been doing for the past hour.
But if Kayla really was a psychic, wouldn’t she know anyway? my inner voice asked.
* * *
From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel Page 6