We weren’t terribly far from the house where Juan Carlos Navarre had lived, where Mrs. Rogers had lived, and it occurred to me that Arnaldo had staked it out in case Navarre returned. He wasn’t actually following me; he merely saw me driving past and jumped on my tail—he must have recognized Nina’s Lexus from when he saw it during our trip to Galena. None of this was important, of course, yet knowing it somehow made me feel better.
When the Caddy slid in front of me and slowed down, I followed its lead and pulled onto the shoulder. On one side of the road was a brown house with huge windows that was built to resemble a Swiss chalet. On the other side was a long wooden dock. A blue and white canvas canopy had been erected at the tip. There was a boat beneath it.
I sat in the Lexus for a moment before deciding it would be rude of me to wait for Arnaldo since he had the broken leg and all. So I left the vehicle—after first checking the load in the SIG Sauer and shoving it between my jeans and the small of my back. I slipped my sports jacket on as I exited the car, walked around the back bumper, and approached the Caddy from the passenger side. The window had been rolled down. I noticed that Arnaldo wasn’t wearing his seat belt and the door was unlocked—facts that I kept to myself.
Arnaldo gestured toward the driver. It was the same man who had been driving when they had followed me to Dunn Bros.
“We’re getting better,” Arnaldo said.
“So you are,” I said.
The driver grinned at the compliment.
“To what do I owe the pleasure this time?” I asked.
“You made promises…”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Arnaldo.”
“We’re having it again. We’re gonna keep having it until you do what you said you were going to do. You think you can make promises to the Nine-Thirty-Seven and not keep ’em, McKenzie? Is that what you think?”
“It’s not what I think.”
“Why didn’t you call us, then? Huh? Navarre, whatever Abana calls himself, his boat was docked at the restaurant, wasn’t it? When were you gonna tell us about that? Huh? Huh? We hadda find out on our own.”
Maria, my inner voice said. Remember what Cesar told you—don’t get involved.
“I promised to find Navarre, not his boat,” I spoke aloud.
“Don’t fuck with me, McKenzie. You think you can fuck with me? I will cut off your balls and feed ’em to you.”
“Arnaldo, when you say real stupid shit like that you ought to smile so a guy knows you’re joking, otherwise bad things could happen,” I said, although the man had a legitimate point. It would be dangerous to break my word to the Nine-Thirty-Seven. Arnaldo was as frightening as a summer cold. If Cesar should take offense, though …
One problem at a time.
“Where is he?” Arnaldo asked. “Where is Jax Abana? You said you’d deliver him up. Where the fuck is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know? It’s been three fucking days.”
“How long have you been looking for him? Hmm? Back off, Arnaldo.”
“You fucking telling me what to do?”
“Arnaldo…”
“No one fucking tells me what to do. ’Specially some white-ass motherfucker. I’m tired of waiting. I am fucking tired of you. You know what I’m gonna do? You don’t deliver Abana right fucking now, I’m going to pay your woman a visit. Yeah, that’s right, Nina Truhler. Think I don’t know her name? Think I don’t know where she lives? Lives in fucking Mahtomedi. Yeah, I’ll go pay her a visit. She’ll love a visit from us. Won’t she?”
Arnaldo glanced at his driver and hit him playfully on the arm. The driver didn’t appear happy. I think he realized that his buddy had gone too far over the line, even if Arnaldo did not.
“Yeah, she would,” he added. “Give her some dark meat…”
You did warn him, my inner voice said.
I yanked open the Caddy door and grabbed Arnaldo by the throat.
I dragged him from the car and threw him into the ditch between the road and the shoreline.
He hit the ground and rolled down the modest hill, the cast on his leg bouncing off the rocks, dirt, and tuffs of grass.
I slammed the car door shut and pulled the SIG Sauer out from under my sports jacket. I pointed it through the open window at the driver.
“Get out of here,” I said.
The driver stared at the gun as if he had never seen one before.
I put a round through the driver’s-side window. The safety glass shattered into a thousand tiny shards that flew all around him.
The driver quickly started the Caddy and drove off.
I turned toward Arnaldo. He was trying to stand but was having a tough time managing it with the cast.
I used my shoe to push him back down onto the ground.
He cursed me until I pressed the barrel of the SIG Sauer against his cheek. The muzzle was still hot and burned a small circle into his flesh that I knew would probably disappear in a few days. He whimpered at the pain just the same.
“I’m going to say this slowly in words that you’ll understand,” I told him. “If you go near Nina I will kill you. I will kill your sister. I will kill your driver and every one of you Nine-Thirty-Seven pukes. I will kill your mother. I will kill your father. When your brother gets out of stir, I’ll be standing on Pickett Street waiting, and then I’ll kill him, too. You go tell Cesar I said so. Be goddamn sure you tell him why I said so. Go ’head, Arnaldo. Make him proud.”
I stood over him. Arnaldo looked frightened, yet not nearly frightened enough as far as I was concerned. I fired two rounds, one on each side of his head. He screamed as if the bullets had hit him. Dirt exploded upward, soiling his face and throwing debris into his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and screamed some more.
I returned to the Lexus. I set the SIG on the seat and started the car. My hands were shaking as I drove away.
EIGHTEEN
Greg Schroeder was waiting in his car at the mouth of the long narrow road that led to Mr. Muehlenhaus’s estate. He started it up and fell in behind the Lexus when I drove past, making it look as if he had been escorting me all along. We drove to the end of the driveway. There was an enormous amount of room, yet Schroeder insisted on parking at an angle on my rear bumper so that it would be difficult for me to drive away without him first moving his vehicle. He left his car in a hurry and approached mine. I watched him in the mirror. By then the jitters from my confrontation with Arnaldo had mostly subsided, and I was calm enough to be amused by his behavior.
“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” I said, quoting Rembrandt. Or was it King Solomon?
He opened my door and gestured for me to get out.
“Really, Greg?” I said.
“This is where I remind you that I saved your life. Twice. C’mon, play along.”
I let him pull me out of the Lexus by my arm and give me a shove toward the colossal house. Muehlenhaus was standing between the white columns that held up his porch. He descended the steps as we approached, the massa greeting his field hands. We stopped when we reached him. Schroeder released my arm and took a step backward.
“Here he is, Mr. Muehlenhaus,” Schroeder said.
“Thank you, Gregory,” Muehlenhaus said.
I found it all sort of entertaining. I turned my head and looked at Schroeder to see how he was taking it. That’s why I didn’t notice Muehlenhaus raise his hand.
He slapped me.
It wasn’t a particularly hard slap. I had been hit harder by teammates who were congratulating me for scoring a goal in a hockey game, an admittedly uncommon occurrence—and I was reminded that despite his robust health, Muehlenhaus was an eighty-something-year-old man. Yet none of that registered until later. What flashed in my brain at the moment of impact like a lightning strike was Arnaldo Nunez and his threats against Nina.
I slapped him back.
I regretted it immediately. I was angry with Arnaldo, not hi
m. Only there was no way to take it back.
Muehlenhaus reeled at the blow and brought his hand up to cover his mouth.
Schroeder dashed past me and grabbed the old man by the shoulders to keep him from falling.
“He hit me,” Muehlenhaus said.
“I saw that,” Schroeder replied.
“Do something.”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Muehlenhaus? Do you want me to shoot him?”
The way that Muehlenhaus’s eyes grew wide, I realized that was exactly what he wanted done.
“If you want me to shoot McKenzie for not taking your bitch-slap like some kind of indentured servant, I will. That’s what you would have done, right, Mr. Muehlenhaus? You would have just stood there and taken it.” Muehlenhaus’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just say the word. You’re my employer and my friend. If you want me to kill him, I will.”
“No,” Muehlenhaus said. He pushed Schroeder away and stood on his own two feet. He glowered at me. “There are other ways to deal with someone like McKenzie.”
“No, there really aren’t,” Schroeder said. “There’s nothing that he needs…”
Except Nina, my inner voice said.
“Nothing you can take from him that he can’t do without. We’ve already talked about this.”
You did?
“We agreed that’s what made him useful to you,” Schroeder added. “So let’s decide right now what to do about this. Do you want me to kill him?”
“No,” Muehlenhaus said.
“Hire a couple of guys to beat on him?”
“No.”
“Well, then…”
Muehlenhaus muttered the words under his breath, yet I heard them just the same—“Fucking McKenzie.”
“What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Muehlenhaus?” I asked. “You didn’t really bring me here to slap me around, did you?”
“I told you to stay out of my family’s business.”
“You didn’t really believe I would, did you?”
“Riley has run away.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“I want my granddaughter back safe and sound.”
“I agree with the safe and sound part, but—”
“But what?”
“She did leave with Navarre voluntarily.”
Muehlenhaus stepped in close, and for a moment I thought he might take another poke at me. I clasped my hands behind my back so he could have a clean shot.
“Navarre is a criminal,” he told me. The way he said it, Muehlenhaus could have substituted the most vicious personal slur and he would have meant the same thing. “Riley does not have enough pertinent information to make a sound judgment about the man.”
That was probably true, I told myself.
“It is up to us to decide what’s best for her,” Muehlenhaus added.
I wasn’t entirely sure about that. Out loud I said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe Navarre is a danger to her.”
“We have to do something.”
“I’ve already alerted detectives throughout the area to be on the lookout,” Schroeder said. “They have descriptions of Riley, Navarre, and Riley’s Infiniti. I think we should expand the search to the whole Midwest, if not the entire country. Of course, that would cost a great deal of money.”
Muehlenhaus waved his hand as if he were shooing away a fly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Can it be done quietly?”
“Quietly takes longer,” Schroeder said.
“What are the police doing?”
“The police are looking for Collin Baird. Legally, they have no reason to look for Navarre or your daughter.”
Again he waved his hand. “A mere technicality,” Muehlenhaus said. “I can deal with that with a phone call.”
“So much for quiet,” I said.
“Do you have something to say, McKenzie?”
I recalled what Riley’s mother told me—She deserves her chance.
“If you make your granddaughter the subject of a nationwide manhunt simply because you don’t like her choice in men—”
“He’s a criminal.”
“Riley might not see it that way. She might see it as you trying to control her life, like you did her mother’s.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Only what I’ve been told.”
“By Sheila?”
“Yes.”
Muehlenhaus glared at me, yet it wasn’t personal. He felt he had to glare at something while he thought it over, and my face was closest. A moment later, his eyes refocused.
“I don’t know what my daughter told you, or how much of it is true. The fact remains that my granddaughter—whom I love dearly—is behaving foolishly, whether you agree with that assessment or not. The fact remains that her relationship with Navarre has put her in danger.”
“Perhaps.”
“I want her home,” Muehlenhaus said. “I want her safe.”
“So do I.”
“See to it.”
Muehlenhaus spun around and made his way back toward the house. I called to him.
“I’m sorry about the slap.”
“Just bring her home, damn you.”
I waited until he was inside the house, the front door slammed shut behind him, before I said, “That went well.”
“This is the third time I saved your life,” Schroeder said.
“This doesn’t count. You weren’t really going to shoot me.”
“Muehlenhaus knows people who are a helluva lot scarier than I am.”
“Girl Scouts selling cookies on the corner are scarier than you are.”
“What I’m saying.”
We made our way back to our cars.
“I don’t know how to find these kids, Greg—no idea where to even begin looking for them. Do you?”
“The feds could issue a hotwatch order, try to trace their movements through credit card transactions or cell phone use.”
“If they do, they’ll have to do it off the books. I doubt a judge would issue a warrant. Neither of them has actually been accused of a crime. Freezing Navarre’s assets is already pushing it.”
“One good thing. If we can’t find them, Collin Baird won’t be able to, either.”
“I would feel a whole lot better if I believed that.”
“You don’t?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
* * *
Nina was sitting at her desk and finishing dinner when I arrived at Rickie’s. I watched her eat—Atlantic salmon roasted in a cherry-bacon crust with lemon butter sauce, braised vegetables, and heirloom potatoes. It was Monica Meyer’s Chef Special for the day. Meanwhile, she watched me drink.
“Are you sure you don’t want some food to go along with all that Scotch?” Nina asked.
“I’ll grab a cheeseburger later.”
“Don’t let Monica hear you say that.”
“Why? Is she going to yell at me, too? Do you know three of your employees stopped me on the way to your office to ream me out? Jenness wasn’t even going to pour me a drink, and I promised to pay for it this time.”
“They all think you’re a bad influence on me.” Nina dabbed at her stitches with her fingertips as if she wanted to make sure they were still there. The bruise had already changed from deep purple to an almost pretty blue-green. “It’s possible I might have embellished the story somewhat. You know, for dramatic effect.”
“Did you tell them you assaulted a federal officer, too?”
“The man reached for a gun. I did what I had to do.”
“You told them that?”
“At the time I thought Agent Cooper was reaching for a gun, so—yes.”
“Nina, forget the saloon business. You oughta go into politics.”
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? I bet I could get Monica to make you a cheeseburger.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re just going to sit there and brood. And drink. Is
that it?”
“That depends. Who’s playing upstairs, tonight?”
“The Willie August Project.”
“I love those guys—‘Empire at Twilight,’ great song.”
“So your plan is to sit, brood, drink, and listen to modern jazz.”
“I’m a multitasker.”
“Give me back the keys to my Lexus, since you won’t be driving home.”
“Are you going to tuck me into bed, too? What a wonderful woman you are, Nina Truhler.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. By the way, I was thinking I might take your advice and start playing the piano again. This place practically runs itself now…”
There was more—something about a trio and taking up where Blossom Dearie left off. I wasn’t listening, though. Instead, my head was filled with thoughts of Riley Brodin and my inability to find her, much less look out for her, as I had promised. Did she love Navarre so deeply that she was willing to risk her life to be with him? Would she turn her back on her family, on the Muehlenhaus name and all that it meant—not to mention the money? I couldn’t think of anything more foolish, and yet people have done that sort of thing before, haven’t they? Many times. With tragic consequences. Shakespeare wrote about it. So did Leo Tolstoy and Alexandre Dumas. I was sure Nina would find it very romantic. ’Course, she had always been a glass-half-full kind of gal, while I prided myself on being a realist—on seeing a glass that’s neither half full nor half empty, but rather one that’s twice as big as it needed to be. I heard her mention a piano teacher and refresher courses …
“Are you listening?” she asked.
“Sorry. Guess I’m a little preoccupied.”
“You have to give him credit.”
“Give who credit?”
“Juan Carlos.”
“Why?”
“He did get the girl, didn’t he?”
“I doubt he’ll keep her long.”
“You’re just being cynical.”
“Says the women with three stitches in her head. I thought you were voting that Juan Carlos Navarre was legitimate?”
“Yeah, well, the more I think about it, the more implausible it sounds. I think now what happened was that David Maurell—”
“You mean Jax Albana.”
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