The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  “After Riley was born, I was exiled from the Pointe. Banished. I was allowed to return only on special occasions. I could see my daughter only during supervised visits. I was told if I tried to challenge this arrangement, my father would see to it that the courts declared me to be an unfit mother and forbid me forever from having any contact with Riley. He would have done it, too. You and I both know it. Then there was money. I had none of my own. My parents paid me an allowance—one hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year—to stay away. If my name were printed in the newspaper, they would dock my allowance. They made the same arrangement with Alex except, instead of giving him money, they allowed him to have a bank.

  “Not once did they say they were doing this to protect Riley from her irresponsible parents. No, they always said they were doing it to protect the Muehlenhaus legacy. If you ask me, it’s the Muehlenhaus legacy that Riley needs to be protected from.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I found it fascinating the way we find all screwed up families to be fascinating. I just didn’t know what it had to do with me, and I told Sheila so.

  “You can be a man and look out for her,” Sheila said.

  “I already promised your parents I would do that.”

  “I can’t pay you what they’re paying you.”

  “They’re not paying me anything.”

  “I have other assets.”

  Sheila leaned back in her chair to give me a good look at them. They were impressive, I must admit. Yet I had learned long ago that temptation exists everywhere and it comes at you from the strangest places at the oddest times. If a man isn’t careful, he could fall all the way down the staircase and not even know it until he hit the bottom step.

  “Navarre is missing,” I said. “Riley asked me to find him. I said I would. For what it’s worth, I also intend to look out for her.”

  God knows someone needs to, my inner voice said.

  I left without looking back.

  SEVEN

  I had a dream that I’d been dreaming in various forms ever since I graduated from the University of Minnesota. In the dream I was back in school, in my senior year, going for my BS degree in criminal justice. It was finals week and I needed to pass an exam in order to graduate, but I couldn’t find the classroom where the test was being held no matter how hard I searched. Not only that, I hadn’t studied. I had signed up for the course, yet for reasons that seemed vague to me, I had never bothered to attend a single lecture. Now my entire future was at stake. Yet the dream ended before I learned what happened—it always did.

  This time I was awakened by the sound of my telephone. It rang and kept ringing, always a bad sign. Despite the fact that I carry an expensive smartphone, I still maintain a landline at my home. None of my friends call that number, though. Only tradesmen, political groups, and charities, and they usually give up after five rings. It became clear after the seventh that whoever was calling wasn’t going to give up without an answer. I rolled out of bed and picked up the receiver.

  “McKenzie,” I said.

  “Rushmore McKenzie?”

  “Who’s calling please?”

  “This is Chief John Rock of the South Lake Minnetonka Police Department.”

  Oh, crap, my inner voice said. I had been on the job for over eleven and a half years. It didn’t matter. Whenever a cop approached me I still asked the same question—what did I do? This time I flashed on what Greg Schroeder had said about an accident on Highway 7 the day before. Oh, crap.

  “Yes, Chief,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You spoke yesterday afternoon with Ms. Mary Pat Mulally, owner of the Casa del Lago restaurant here in Excelsior.”

  I couldn’t think of a reason to deny it, so I didn’t.

  “Ms. Mulally told you that her place of business was being watched by individuals unknown to her,” the chief added.

  “Yes,” I said, drawing out the word slowly.

  “She said you confronted one of these individuals in the parking lot.”

  Dammit, it is about the accident.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said.

  “I want to talk to you about that,” the chief said. “Please meet me at Casa del Lago immediately. Or at least what’s left of it.”

  “It’ll take about forty minutes for me to—wait. What do you mean, what’s left of it?”

  “Someone set it on fire last night.”

  * * *

  I dialed Bobby Dunston five seconds after I said good-bye to the chief. He identified me through caller ID.

  “It’s a little early for you, isn’t McKenzie?” he asked. “It’s barely nine A.M.”

  “I need help.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying since we were kids.”

  I told him about the call from Chief Rock.

  “I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a South Lake Minnetonka Police Department,” I added.

  “Small, maybe a dozen full-time officers. Created through a joint powers agreement between the cities of Excelsior, Greenwood, Shorewood, and Tonka Bay. Usually handles thefts, burglaries, property damage, driving offenses, disorderly conduct and public intoxication complaints—that sort of thing. Most of the heavy lifting is done by the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “You’re just a frickin’ fount of information this morning, Bobby.”

  “Isn’t that why you called me?”

  “I called because I was hoping you had something on the Mexican Mafia and the kid I told you about.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look into it.”

  “I wish you would. It would be nice if when I meet the chief I had something in my pocket to bargain with—you know, in case I’m in trouble.”

  “When aren’t you in trouble?” Bobby sighed dramatically. “Haven’t we had this discussion before about you not involving me and the St. Paul Police Department in your little escapades?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “As long as we’re on the same page. I’ll call you back.”

  * * *

  He did, too. I took the call even though it meant driving with one hand through the narrow streets of Excelsior until I reached Casa del Lago. I parked in the back of the lot, putting plenty of space between the Audi and the official vehicles, a single fire truck and a couple of police cars.

  I could see the front of the restaurant. It was deeply charred. A load-bearing wall must have collapsed, because the roof above the door was listing hard to the right. From the outside, the rear of the restaurant appeared more or less intact; the Excelsior Fire District had positioned huge fans in the windows and doorway that blew smoke out across Lake Minnetonka. The patio seemed unscathed. Mary Pat Mulally sat at one of the tables. She looked as if she were attending the funeral of someone she dearly loved. There were two women doing their best to comfort her. What made me hesitate before leaving the Audi was the identity of one of the women—Riley Brodin.

  I left the car and walked toward them. Before I got halfway, a large man wearing a white shirt stretched tight across his ample stomach and an indifferently knotted black tie intercepted me. There was a gold badge pinned over his left breast and a triangular patch with the words SOUTH LAKE MINNETONKA POLICE DEPARTMENT sewn to his right shoulder. Two men standing behind him looked almost exactly the same except they were smaller and their shirts were blue.

  “You McKenzie?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Chief John Rock. This is Officers Tschida and Lindberg.” No one offered to shake my hand, so I didn’t offer to shake theirs. “What do you know about this?”

  You wouldn’t think that someone who was a cop would have a problem with authority, yet I do, so my first inclination was to play the smartass with Rock. The anguish in Mary Pat’s face made me reconsider.

  “You’re pretty sure it’s arson, I take it,” I said.

  “Someone smashed the glass in the front door and tossed a Molotov cocktail inside,” the chief said. />
  “They weren’t trying to hide the crime. What about security footage? Cameras pick up anything?”

  Tschida and Lindberg glanced at each other. They seemed impressed that I knew about such things.

  “Nothing we can use,” the chief said.

  “Where were you last night?” Tschida asked.

  Chief Rock gave him a hard look yet said nothing.

  “When last night?” I asked.

  “Approximately four thirty A.M.”

  “So when you say last night, what you really mean is early this morning, right?”

  “Where were—”

  “I was in bed. No, there aren’t any witnesses to confirm my alibi.”

  I reached for the smartphone in the left inside pocket of my sports jacket. The abrupt movement caused all three officers to flinch. I paused, said, “I’m reaching for my cell,” then slowly pulled it out.

  The chief and Lindberg relaxed. Tschida did not. “Are you armed, McKenzie?” he asked.

  “I have a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer locked in the trunk of my car.”

  “Do you have a permit to carry?”

  I stopped fiddling with my cell long enough to answer. “Yes. It’s in my wallet. The wallet is in my right inside coat pocket. Do you want me to reach for it?”

  He snorted at me.

  Lindberg asked, “Why do you have a gun?”

  I found the pic of the kid I met the day before and handed the smartphone to the chief.

  “This is why,” I said.

  Chief Rock held the phone up for the officers to see.

  “The shirt—is that gang sign?” he asked.

  “Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia. That’s why I have a gun in the trunk of my car. I’d be wearing it behind my right hip, only I didn’t want to make you guys nervous.”

  “Why?” Tschida asked. “D’you think we’d be scared or something because we’re just a small-town police department?”

  I ignored the question. Instead, I gestured toward the restaurant’s patio. “One of the young ladies with Ms. Mulally is Riley Brodin.”

  “Old man Muehlenhaus’s granddaughter?” the chief asked. There was a sense of awe in his voice that I found disturbing.

  “Turns out she has a boyfriend named Juan Carlos Navarre who’s been missing since Saturday. She asked me to find him. Navarre is an investor in the restaurant. I came here yesterday afternoon to ask Ms. Mulally what she knew about Navarre’s disappearance, which wasn’t much. She told me that Casa del Lago was being watched. I asked the kid about it. He had nothing to say.

  “The kid, by the way, is named Arnaldo Nunez. He’s eighteen. The car is owned by his mother. The Nine-Thirty-Seven was a street gang in West St. Paul that was crushed about eight years ago. The kid was way too young at the time to be involved. It turns out, though, that his older brother was a founding member. His name is Cesar Nunez, and he’s currently doing time in Stillwater for a drug conviction stemming from his time with the gang.”

  “How do you know all this?” the chief asked.

  I could have invoked Bobby’s name; I knew he wouldn’t approve, though. Instead, I said, “It’s all public record.”

  “So you think Nunez is responsible for the fire,” Tschida said. “What reason would he have?”

  I had a thought, but I kept it to myself. Instead, I glanced around the area, looking for Navarre and anyone who might be doing the same. I saw no one that appeared even remotely suspicious. ’Course, by then I was late to the party.

  “All I know about Nunez is what I told you,” I said.

  Chief Rock returned my smartphone.

  “He couldn’t have been involved,” he said.

  “Why not?” Tschida asked.

  The chief spoke to his officer like a teacher lecturing a student who hadn’t been paying attention in class. “Because he’s currently in Two Twelve Medical Center with a shattered leg and a concussion, the result of a car accident on Highway 7.”

  I might have told the chief that Nunez had plenty of help—the drivers of the red Sentra and black Cadillac DTS I saw at Navarre’s house came to mind. I became distracted when he pressed a beefy index finger against my shoulder and said, “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, McKenzie? A pile-up on Highway 7?”

  “No, why would I?”

  The chief stared at me as if he expected the steely glare in his eyes and the scowl on his face would be enough to cause me to break down and confess. When that didn’t work, he said, “I think we’ll have a talk with Mr. Nunez.”

  “I’d like to be there,” I said.

  “This is police business,” Tschida told me. “You police?”

  I returned the phone to my pocket. “See you guys around,” I said and resumed my walk to the patio. I half expected the cops to call me back. They didn’t.

  * * *

  The three women were sitting so that they faced the burnt-out restaurant, their backs to the patio table. Mary Pat Mulally sensed my approach. She turned her head expectantly, yet when she saw that it was I her expression became disappointed. Riley Brodin recognized Mary Pat’s frustration and rubbed the back of her shoulder.

  “He’ll be here soon,” she said.

  The third women didn’t speak, although she clutched Mary Pat’s hand as if she feared the consequences of letting go. Up close I recognized her as the young maître d’ who greeted me when I came to Casa del Lago the day before—Maria.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened,” I said.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Mary Pat wanted to know. “Why?”

  I caught Riley’s face. Her expression gave nothing away.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Was it the people who were watching, the kid in the Chevy Impala you talked to?” Mary Pat asked.

  “The police are checking it out.”

  “I told the police about the people watching the restaurant,” Mary Pat said, “and the private investigator looking for Juan Carlos. I told them about you, McKenzie. They didn’t believe me, the police. They wanted this to be an accident, a wire shorting out, a grease fire. When the fire marshal told them it was arson, they seemed disappointed, like it was a big inconvenience to them.

  “McKenzie, I don’t know what to do. What if the insurance company denies my claim because—I think they call it the arson defense. If they suspect the fire was deliberately set, they won’t pay off even if I didn’t set it.”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Riley said. “My father will be here any minute.”

  “If they don’t pay…” Mary Pat ceased speaking as if it were too painful to finish the sentence. After a few moments she said, “Look at my place.”

  It seemed like a really bad time to ask if anyone had seen Navarre, so I didn’t. Instead, I waited. I tried to lure Riley away with head gestures so I could speak to her privately, only she would have none of it. Finally a man approached.

  “He’s here,” Riley said.

  Alex Brodin had a round face that didn’t like the sun and a round body that was wrapped in a crisp blue suit expertly tailored to accommodate his girth. The suit dripped of money, and so did the platinum watch around his wrist. I didn’t know what Sheila Brodin had seen in him. I suppose he might have been an athlete once; he might even have been handsome. Now he looked to me like a man who made his living selling tips at Canterbury Park racetrack.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” he announced to the group.

  “Good morning, Dad,” Riley said.

  The way Brodin looked at her—I should say the way he didn’t look at her—there was something workmanlike about it. As if he were a painter and she were the side of a house. His feelings toward his daughter were all business.

  “Good morning,” he said. He moved to the table and stood in front of Mary Pat. “I spoke to the insurance company. There will be an investigation just as I told you over the phone. They will be looking for motive and what they call opportunity evidence that implicates you in se
tting the fire.”

  Mary Pat cried out in pain and sorrow. Brodin continued speaking as if she hadn’t made a sound.

  “You must be prepared to produce your business records and answer questions,” he said. “And make your key employees available to answer questions as well.”

  “You mean me?” Maria asked. She released Mary Pat’s hand as if she had suddenly learned it was radioactive.

  “Everyone,” Brodin said.

  “How long will it take?” Mary Pat asked.

  “The company refuses to commit to a timetable. You can expect that their investigators will be thorough. The company has a fiduciary responsibility to its shareholders, after all.”

  Mary Pat barely had enough voice to get the words out. “What about my place?”

  Even the birds that flew in the clear blue sky above knew she was hanging by an emotional thread.

  “This is why we insisted that you buy business interruption insurance.” Brodin seemed pleased with himself when he said it. “You’ll have enough money to make your mortgage payments and compensate your vital employees for six months.”

  “That won’t fix my restaurant. I need the money to rebuild before winter sets in, before my repeat customers forget about me, or I could lose everything.”

  “It’s doubtful the insurance company will make a determination anytime soon. Nor can we be confident that its decision will go in your favor.”

  “What about you? You can loan me what I need to rebuild, and when I settle with the insurance company, I can pay you back.”

  “I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

  “What does that mean?” Riley asked.

  Brodin didn’t answer his daughter. Instead, he spoke directly to Mary Pat. “Minnetonka Community is already carrying a sizable loan on the business…”

  “I was paying it off,” Mary Pat insisted. “I was ahead of schedule. The restaurant was making good money.”

  “I appreciate that. Unfortunately, it’s a matter of collateral.” Brodin gestured toward the burnt-out restaurant. “You no longer have much.”

  “Are you saying you won’t help me?”

  “There’s only so much that I can do.”