Like to Die

by David Housewright

  I didn’t answer. Marilyn hadn’t expected me to.

  “Do you know how Randy really was hurt?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “His story sounds better.”

  “His grandfather certainly likes it. So does Brian.”

  “Where is Brian?”

  “He was told to stay in Chicago.”

  “By whom?”

  “My father. For the record, when I told him about Brian’s affair, my father blamed me. He said that Brian would never have committed such a grievous sin against God and man if I had been a better wife to him. Do you know what I mean by a better wife?”

  “I can guess.”

  “My father has called an emergency meeting of his executive staff to decide how best to deal with the Brian Problem. That’s what he calls it—the Brian Problem. He wants to oust him from the company with the minimum impact on business. He’s also meeting with a divorce attorney.”

  “He’s meeting with a divorce attorney.”

  “Apparently he doesn’t believe that I’m capable of dealing with such a delicate matter as my own divorce. Besides, he said there’s Bignell property and Bignell money involved. Before he left for Minneapolis this morning, he also made it official. He was so impressed by Randy’s tale of selfless courage, coupled with the initiative he took in trying to take over Erin’s company, that with Brian gone, Randy now becomes his heir apparent.”

  “I wonder what the Carlson School of Management would say to that.”

  “Randy draws a salary from Minnesota Foods starting Monday.”

  “Not what you planned at all,” I said.

  “We’ll see. Time is on my side, not my father’s. You haven’t answered my question, though—why are you here?”

  “I wanted to ask, are you still having Erin followed?”

  “No, why would I?”

  “Are you having me followed?”

  “Again no, why would I? Mr. Schroeder and his investigators have already given me everything that I needed.”

  “When did you tell Brian that you knew that he was sleeping with another man?”

  “Thursday evening. Why does it matter to you?”

  Thursday, my inner voice told me. And the talent from Chicago began following you the next day. That works.

  “What did Brian say when you told him that you had proof that he violated the infidelity clause in your prenuptial agreement?” I asked aloud.

  “He said the clause works both ways. But McKenzie, I’ve never cheated on my husband. Not once in thirty-two years, and believe me, I’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

  “Brian saw us speaking the night of the party. It’s possible that he’s having me followed because he hopes that we’re having an affair, that he can use it against you.”

  Marilyn stared silently at me long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

  “About Randy,” I said.

  “McKenzie, are you married?”

  “No, but—”

  “Give me your cell phone.”

  “Marilyn…”

  “Please.”

  I drew a diagram of a home plate to unlock the phone and handed it to her. Marilyn tapped the face about fifteen times and paused. I heard the cell phone that she carried in her pocket ring. She tapped the face again, and the ringing stopped. She handed back the phone.

  “If you’re interested, call me in a couple of months,” she said.

  I didn’t say if I would or wouldn’t, just nodded my head and slipped the phone into my own pocket.

  “What about Randy?” Marilyn asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “The people who hurt him—how much trouble is he in?”

  “He’s not in trouble anymore. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Did you help him?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You helped her, Salsa Girl. By helping her, you inadvertently helped Randy, too. That must have been what happened. You wouldn’t have bothered otherwise, would you?”

  I slipped a hand beneath the sling and caressed my bandage.

  “No, probably not. But Marilyn, keep an eye on him. If you notice him freaking out for some reason, if he’s hurt again, give me a call.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  I took my leave after that. Marilyn walked me to my car yet didn’t say a word until we reached the Mustang.

  “About Salsa Girl,” she said. “Tell her … tell her that I am grateful. Tell her that I’ll remember.”

  “I will.”

  “By the way, did you ever find out who she really is?”

  “I told you. She’s my friend.”

  * * *

  I drove the Mustang down the long, narrow private road until it intersected a county thoroughfare that led me around the city of Cambridge. That’s when I picked him up in my rearview mirror—the black Acura.

  “So that’s where you were,” I said aloud. “Staking out Marilyn.”

  His sudden presence so close to the Bignell estate more or less convinced me that I had guessed right, that Brian Sax had hired him. I thought of stopping the Mustang, letting the driver come up on my bumper, and asking him about it. But where was the fun in that? I wondered. Besides, what if I was mistaken?

  I led the Acura to Highway 65 and drove south. The driver stayed a quarter mile behind me and on my right. Very professional.

  As much as I hated to use my cell phone when I was driving, I put in a call to Herzog.

  “What now?” he said.

  “I’m being followed.”

  “The black Acura or someone else?”

  “It’s the Acura again.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Yeah, I have a plan, but you’re not going like it.”

  “Is this plan anything like what we did yesterday?”

  “Pretty close.”

  “’Kay, but here’s the thing. It’s gonna cost you ’nother five grand and you’re gonna do all the heavy lifting.”

  “That works for me.”

  “I don’t wanna see no fuckin’ Dyson this time, neither.”

  “Amen to that.”

  * * *

  Exactly thirty minutes later I drove into the same parking lot near Chopper’s building as the evening before. Herzog had picked the spot because he figured it would make the driver less anxious than being led out of the city to some isolated location and because he already knew there were no cameras anywhere nearby; that was the kind of thing Herzog paid attention to. There were plenty of high-rise condos and apartment buildings, of course, but we were far enough away from them that anyone who bothered to look outside their windows would only see a couple of indistinguishable figures in the distance.

  Herzog was already parked in the lot. I drove past his SUV and stopped my Mustang about thirty spaces away and at a right angle to him. The black Acura slowed and came to a halt on the street. I don’t know if he had ID’d Herzog’s vehicle or not. I removed the sling for the same reason that I had when I met with Reyes the day before and slipped out of the Mustang. I leaned against it while giving the Acura what Victoria Dunston called a microwave, holding my gloved hand still while slightly wagging my fingers.

  I half expected the car to drive away. Instead, it pulled in to the lot and slowly proceeded to a spot about three car lengths away from where I was standing. The car stopped again, its driver’s side door was opened, and a man slid out; I noticed that he kept the motor running.

  It was the first time I got a good look at the man who had been identified as Levi Chandler. He was about my age and dressed in a wool overcoat that made him look like he worked in one of the tall buildings that made up the Minneapolis skyline. He threw a glance over his shoulder to where Herzog’s SUV was parked.

  “Is your friend going to join us?” he asked.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Chandler closed the door and circled the Acura. I folded my arms over m
y chest as he approached even though it caused my shoulder to throb.

  “You’ve been following me,” I said. “Why? Were you too shy to just walk up and say hello?”

  “My boss wanted to know everything about you before we talked.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Carson Brazill.”

  Not Brian Sax, my inner voice said. Although it could be his lover, I suppose.

  “I don’t know him,” I said aloud.

  “He knows you.”

  “What does he know?”

  “He knows where you live. He knows some of your friends. He knows about your woman and the club she owns in St. Paul. It’s a nice club. I’ve been there.”

  “Do you know which way is east?”

  “East? What?”

  “Do you know which direction is east from where you’re standing?”

  Chandler glanced around as if looking for a sign. He found the sun over his left shoulder and pointed to the right.

  “Turn that way,” I said.

  He looked at me as if he were unsure whether I was pranking him or not. I gestured with my chin. He turned to his right. I flicked my hand at Herzog’s SUV, and a red dot of light from a laser sight centered on Chandler’s chest. He brought his hand up as if he wanted to brush the dot away, just as Reyes had done, but then let it drop. He actually straightened up, his hands at his side, as if bravely facing a firing squad.

  “Is this supposed to frighten me?” he asked.

  “It frightens me, and I’m not the one who’s going to be shot.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You’re the guy who’s been following me around. You’re the guy who’s threatening the people I care about.”

  “I didn’t threaten—”

  “What do you want, Levi?” I deliberately used Chandler’s first name. It’s an old cop trick designed to make the suspect feel inferior.

  “My boss wants to speak with you, Rushmore.”

  So he knows the tricks of the trade, too, my inner voice said.

  “Fine,” I said aloud. “Get him on the phone.”

  “He wants to meet with you in person.”

  “Oh? Somewhere we can have each other shot with high-powered rifles?”

  “Somewhere public. Somewhere where we can all feel safe. How about Rickie’s?”

  I took a step toward him and raised my left hand. I made sure Chandler saw me do it.

  “If you go anywhere near that place again I’ll kill you,” I said. “Do you understand?”

  He stared at my hand as if I were the one holding the rifle.

  “Do you understand?” I repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I won’t go anywhere near Rickie’s again,” Chandler said.

  “You claim you know all about me. Then you know I’m not fucking with you. Not about this.”

  “This doesn’t need to be a thing.”

  “Then don’t make it one.”

  I stepped backward and slowly lowered my arm until my hand was resting against my thigh. I didn’t feel the pain the gesture had caused my shoulder until I heard Chandler sigh.

  “Look, McKenzie,” he said. “It really doesn’t need to be a thing. Talk to the man. He’s not going away until you do, and then afterward we can all go home.”

  My inner voice repeated what it had said the evening before. Who did you piss off in Chicago?

  “Mall of America,” I said aloud. “Are you familiar?”

  “Near the airport. What about it?”

  “Third floor, south food court, across from Panda Express. Have Brazill meet me there in thirty minutes. In thirty-one minutes, I’ll be gone.”

  “Panda Express? Are you kidding me?”

  “You don’t need to eat it. Now get out of here.”

  Chandler moved cautiously to the driver’s side of his Acura. The fact that the red dot stayed with him each step of the way made him nervous. Eventually he drove off. I went to the back of the Mustang and popped the trunk. Inside the trunk were the gym bag still filled with the $15,000, the Taurus nine-millimeter, Nick Dyson’s IDs, and Randy’s flip-phone. I took out $5,000 and closed the bag and the trunk. By then Herzog had driven up. He unrolled the window, and I handed him the cash. He handed it to whoever was sitting behind him. I didn’t bother to look for a face.

  “So, what?” Herzog asked.

  I told him.

  “Mall of America,” Herzog said. “Want me to go with you?”

  “I’d like that very much, but you know those people. Black man like you—security would be watching every step you took from the moment you entered the mall until you left. I want to be safe, but I also want to move about unnoticed.”

  “They have metal detectors everywhere, McKenzie. You’ll never get a piece inside the building.”

  “Neither will Brazill and his people.”

  “Yeah, I gitcha. ’Kay. Give me a call later. Let me know if I should be worried.”

  I said I would.

  * * *

  The Mall of America, just south of the Twin Cities in Bloomington, might have been the most secure building in Minnesota. It had its own on-site police precinct, K-9 units including bomb-sniffing dogs, 150 security guards, many in plainclothes, bicycle patrols around the perimeter, holding cells in the basement, and a dispatch center that monitored God knew how many cameras in the mall itself plus its various parking ramps. It wasn’t only that it wanted to protect its 520 stores, 50 restaurants, half-dozen museums and theme parks, 12,000 employees, and 35 million-plus yearly visitors. Apparently it also feared African Americans, Hispanics, anyone who looked Somali or Muslim, shoppers who wore apparel that was likely to cause a disturbance, whatever that meant, and teenagers. Teenagers were forbidden to enter the MOA after 4:00 P.M. unless accompanied by an adult.

  I had only been in the place a half-dozen times in the past twenty-five years and never as a result of my own free will. I remembered the Panda Express from the last visit, though; don’t ask me why. I was seated at a small round table in the food court opposite the fast food joint, my leather coat draped over the back of the chair, and sipping a root beer from the A&W. I had the distinct impression that I was being watched, although I couldn’t tell with any certainty who was doing the watching. I attempted to observe the people around me without being obvious about it. There were many dozens. They all seemed suspicious to me.

  I once dated the woman who created the MOA’s original theme line—There’s a place for fun in your life … Mall of America. Only I couldn’t imagine anyone having fun in what was ostensibly a colossal shopping center. At least I didn’t.

  My all-purpose watch told me that Brazill was tardy. I was tempted to blow him off, see how much he liked it, when I saw Chandler approaching with a deliberate gait. There was a man walking with him, only not as fast; Chandler needed to slow down so he could catch up. I placed him at about sixty, with white hair and a three-piece Tom Ford suit. He looked like a guy whose idea of fast food was a four-course meal at the Commodore, a bar and restaurant where F. Scott Fitzgerald once hung out.

  When they reached my table, Chandler said, “Mr. Brazill, this is—”

  “McKenzie,” Brazill said.

  He made no attempt to shake my hand, so I didn’t try to shake his. Instead, I sucked the rest of the root beer through the straw until I hit the bottom of my paper cup and started making a loud slurping sound.

  “You’re late,” I said.

  Chandler rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe I was behaving like such a putz.

  Clearly he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does, my inner voice said.

  Brazill glared at me as if he were trying to melt my face with his X-ray vision. I made a production out of looking at my watch.

  “So, you want to talk, what?” I said.

  Chandler grabbed a plastic chair and held it for Brazill. Brazill glared at him, too, as he sat at the table. Neither of them removed his wint
er coat.

  “I don’t like being followed,” I said. “It makes me uneasy.”

  “I don’t care,” Brazill said. “I have some questions to ask, and you’re going to answer them. Make no mistake about that, McKenzie. You’re going to answer them. We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way, but you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

  “Wow, that was impressive.”

  It really was, my inner voice said.

  “I might have been frightened, too,” I said aloud. “If I knew who you were.”

  “If you were from Chicago, you would know Mr. Brazill,” Chandler said.

  “Yeah, well, this isn’t Chicago. Fellas, there’s a thing we call Minnesota Nice. It’s all about being polite and courteous even to people we dislike intensely, like minorities. If you act nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Or not. You never know. Give it a try, see what happens.”

  Chandler rolled his eyes some more. Brazill leaned in close to me.

  “Where’s Christine Olson?” he said.

  I tried hard not to react to the name. Apparently I didn’t do a very good job of it, because Chandler said, “What?” I leaned back in my chair and regarded Brazill carefully before glancing up at him.

  “Christine Olson, the woman who went missing in Chicago fifteen years ago?” I said. “That Christine Olson?”

  “You do know who she is,” Brazill said.

  “I don’t. I really don’t. I came across her name while I was searching for someone else.”

  “Don’t lie to me, McKenzie.”

  I wagged my finger at Brazill.

  “I’d be offended by that suggestion,” I told him, “except I have no idea what you’re talking about. How would you know what research I’m doing? Why would you care?”

  “I’ve been searching for this woman for fifteen years. You’re going to tell me where she is.”

  “I don’t know. Who is this woman, anyway? Who is she to you? A relative? A friend?”

  “She has something that belongs to me, and I want it back. Now, where is she?”

  The food court grew quiet; heads turned toward us.

  “Hey, pal,” I said. “This is the Mall of America. You’re not allowed to raise your voice here.”