by Matt Goldman
“Exactly.”
“That’s what we’re already doing. And wouldn’t you rather let this one fade away quietly? Every time one of his sculptures disappears, people will start talking about him again.”
“I want him gone, Nils. For good.”
“Kjellgren’s a double-murderer. At least that’s what the police are saying. And the press. He can’t be convicted, of course, being inconveniently dead. But ‘Arndt Kjellgren Did It’ is front-page news. And all over TV. How much more dirt do you want on him?”
“I haven’t seen any news about Kjellgren bombing our mail room.”
“What?”
“Well, come on. Who else would have?” You, I thought. Digging up more dirt on Kjellgren felt bizarre. Halferin said, “And there are just as many news stories from Kjellgren’s supporters speculating he didn’t commit those murders. Conspiracy theories. Insane stuff like that. We need proof that would stand up in court.”
“Why?”
Halferin shouted, “To clear this firm’s name! And to clear the crazy rumors out there about Karin Tressler being involved!”
Halferin’s face reddened through his olive skin. Why was he so anxious to pin the bombing on Arndt Kjellgren? What did he expect me to find, a manifesto and bomb-making kit? I said, “You seem pretty worked up about what people think. Maybe you should hire a P.R. firm, not a detective agency.”
“Of course I’m worked up. Who wouldn’t be if their livelihood was at stake? No, Nils. I need you on this. I need the best. Find me the dirt, and I’ll give that to a P.R. firm.”
I let him catch his breath, then said, “All right. I’ll see what I can do. And maybe you can help me.”
“How so?”
“I’d like access to Todd Rabinowitz’s emails.”
Halferin shook his head. “I can’t do that. They’re full of information covered by attorney-client privilege.”
“Okay,” I said. “What about Celeste Sorensen’s emails?”
Halferin looked like he might laugh or throw up. “What about them?”
“Can I see them?”
He opted to laugh. “No.”
“Why not?”
“For the same reason. Everything in this office runs through Celeste. Her emails are full of confidential information.”
“All right,” I said. “Can you look at them?”
“Yes,” said Halferin. “They’re property of the firm. But why would I? What exactly would I be looking for?”
“It’s possible Celeste was having an affair with Todd Rabinowitz.”
“What?” said Ian Halferin just shy of a shout. “Where did you come up with that? It’s ridiculous, even as a possibility.”
I let Halferin’s voice bounce around the mostly glass-walled room then said, “How do you know?”
“Robin Rabinowitz was the one having an affair. That’s what the police said. As far as Todd knew, he was happily married.”
“Not true,” I said. “He and Robin were about to separate. That is not conjecture. It’s a fact.”
Ian Halferin sank in his chair. He looked down in thought but it didn’t take him long to look back up for confirmation. I nodded. He said, “I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t or won’t?”
Ian looked at nothing. “A little of both, I guess.” He remained in his trancelike state then said, “Even if that’s true, Celeste Sorensen is born-again. Marriage is next to godliness to her.”
“It is for a lot of people. She wouldn’t be the first believer to stray.”
Halferin rubbed his forehead as if he could smooth out the creases. “But neither Celeste nor Todd would be stupid enough to communicate anything illicit over company email.”
“I agree,” I said. “But there might be some flirtation in the beginning. Little salutations and sign-offs. Jokes. Sharing of personal information. The precursor to something illicit that even they weren’t aware of at the time. That could be in the company email.”
“And if something illicit was happening between Todd and Celeste,” said Halferin, “then so what? Arndt Kjellgren killed Todd. Arndt Kjellgren killed Robin. Arndt Kjellgren blew up our mail room. I’m sure of it. Even if the highly unlikely is true, that Todd and Celeste were romantically involved—No. Let me restate that. Even if the impossible is somehow true, what difference does it make?”
I was thinking how absurd this conversation was the day after Ian Halferin had me drugged and slugged and thrown in a van when his office door opened without the courtesy of a knock. I looked up and saw Celeste Sorensen with a crooked smile on her face. She threw an aggressive look my way then stepped to the side.
Karin Tressler walked in. She said, “Hello, Nils Shapiro.”
29
Karin Tressler didn’t wait for my reply. She walked toward me and didn’t stop until she’d violated my personal space. I looked up at her tanned, taut face. Even from my low angle, she was attractive. Like a once-famous actress hawking skin creams or an evil queen. She sported a slight, playful smile the way people can when feeling invulnerable. I stood, shook her hand, and said, “Nice ambush, Ms. Tressler.”
She sat in the chair next to me. Celeste Sorensen’s crooked smirk remained. The office manager swung her eyes toward Ian Halferin, swung her hips around, then swung the door shut as she left. Ian Halferin had not just wanted to discuss Arndt Kjellgren. Ian Halferin wanted to set a trap. He succeeded.
He looked at his watch then said, “I’m sorry. I’m late for a meeting.” He stood and left his office. I considered getting up and saying Dammit, I’m in that meeting, too, then following him, but curiosity kept me put. Karin Tressler wanted an audience with me. When her underlings had failed to get it, she stepped in to do the job herself just like Darth Vader would have done. I had to find out what was so goddamned important.
I said, “Maybe you should sit in Halferin’s chair. It feels a little awkward being on the same side of the desk with you.”
She looked behind us and said, “Let’s sit back there.” She stood, and I followed Karin Tressler to the boss of any company’s obligatory couch, chair, coffee table area. The furniture was upholstered in blue-gray leather to reinforce or establish Ian Halferin’s manliness. The coffee table was natural cherry. On it: one cut-crystal dish of M&M’s and another of almonds. Karin chose the chair because chairs are where bossy people sit. I kept my distance and sat in the middle of the couch.
She said, “I’m not going to bite.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you have. I’m quite the demon lady according to some.” I looked at her but said nothing. She tilted her head to steer the conversation in a new direction. “Why did you make that comment about traffic lights the other day?”
“It’s the kind of thing I would have said to the TV if I’d seen you on TV. But you weren’t on TV. You were right in front of me so I said it to you.”
“Were you trying to pick a fight with me?”
“You know, I think I was.”
“I’m not an anarchist.”
“Too bad. Anarchy is way better than fascism.”
“Ouch.” She smiled and crossed her legs.
I felt furious because I wasn’t furious. With her, anyway. I found Karin Tressler charming, informal, and smart. Kind of unfair when you’re trying to hate a person. I said, “I think you only have a problem with me saying government has no business regulating intersections because I’m me. What if it was one of your wealthy donors? Or a working-class person who’d vote for you? Then would it have bothered you?”
“Did I say it bothered me?”
“No, you didn’t. But your question implied it.”
“You sure do jump to a lot of conclusions when it comes to me, don’t you, Nils Shapiro?”
“I’d say take logical steps, not jump. And if you don’t want me to come to my own conclusions, maybe you’d like to be more forthcoming about things like, for example, why you and Halferin just set me up.�
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“All right,” she said, “I will.” She grabbed a few almonds from the dish and popped them into her mouth. “The M&M’s are tempting, but I’m on that damn caveman diet.”
“Why? Cavemen had a life expectancy of eight.”
Karin Tressler burst into laughter, choking on her almonds. She had a sense of humor. An evil queen isn’t supposed to swirl levity in her cauldron of nastiness.
She said, “I’m fascinated by how you solved the Duluth murders and that murder in Edina. And I have a friend in St. Paul who relayed a story from the St. Paul chief of police about what you did in Warroad. You seem to have a knack for understanding what makes people tick.”
“There are a few women out there who would beg to differ.” I helped myself to a few M&M’s.
“Oh, really? Romance isn’t as simple as solving murders?”
“Romance has too many variables. In murder, at least one variable is fixed because it’s dead.”
She laughed and fingered a thin gold chain on her neck. What in the hell did this woman want? “Do you know,” she said, “my late husband used to spend ten hours a week working on his fantasy sports teams.”
I’d forgotten Karin Tressler was a widow. I was surrounded by them lately.
“That was on top of the seventy hours a week he worked. And yet studies have shown that he would have done just as well flipping a coin when choosing his players. Ten hours a week when he could have spent ten minutes coin flipping. Ten hours a week wasted. He got nothing for his efforts.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“I do not know that. Please tell me what he got.” The joy on her face was gone. She let go of the gold chain.
“He got ten hours of joy. Or at least pain-numbing focus. But I know what you’re saying. That’s ten hours he could have spent with you.” I threw more M&M’s in my mouth and tried to suck off the candy coating before biting into them.
Karin Tressler said, “You have a way of cutting right to the matter at heart, don’t you, Mr. Shapiro.”
“I suppose.”
“Well, let me do the same. I don’t believe in surrounding myself with yes-men. I want to hire you to help me understand my opposition.”
“Excuse my language, but holy shit—I’ve had more job offers in the last week than I’ve had in the previous forty years.”
“My campaign manager wants me to sit through focus groups and read left-wing position papers. Sounds like a boring waste of time. Why not hire one highly intelligent individual who really understands people?”
“Are you equating what motivates a person to vote for a particular candidate to what motivates a person to commit murder?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. A person feels disenfranchised. Disempowered. Wronged. Cheated. A terrible sense of injustice. Those feelings send people to the polls. And they also motivate people to commit crimes.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s no way for the law-and-order candidate to talk.”
“Of course, I’d have to put up with your sarcasm.”
I said, “What makes you think I’d have any interest in helping you get elected?”
“You will if you get to know me. I’m much more complex than the way I’m portrayed. I want to understand my opposition not so I can beat them but so I can include them.”
“Include them in what?”
“My constituency. My policy. How I vote on legislation.”
“Bullshit, Ms. Tressler.”
“It’s the truth. I don’t want to win if I can’t represent the vast majority of my district. And I can’t do that if I’m partisan.”
“Do you remember your primary campaign?”
“That was the primary. The general election is different.”
“Sounds like a game.”
“A candidate needs her base, that thirty percent of the electorate who will stick with her no matter what. After securing her base, she just needs to sway relatively few of the undecideds out there.”
I took some almonds to round out my balanced meal and said, “Why are you talking about yourself in the third person and why are we having this conversation? Politics are boring.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“The almonds are terrible compared to the M&M’s.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Will you accept the job?”
“I need to ask you some questions first.”
“Of course.”
Karin Tressler uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together, and sat up straight as if she were interviewing for a job. Then she giggled—this was a game to her. But she wasn’t going to find it as fun as she’d imagined.
I said, “Did you have Todd Rabinowitz killed?”
“What?”
“Simple question,” I said. “Did you have Todd Rabinowitz killed?”
“No.” Her feminine voice boomed. She looked all business. Eyebrows vee’d, mouth small, eyes intense, nostrils flared.
I kept my tone light. “Were you sleeping with him?”
Her mouth opened, and her eyes went wild. “God no. What is this about? That case is closed.”
“Have you had any conversations with GLMPD about the case?”
“What?!”
“Quit making me repeat my questions. Have you discussed Todd Rabinowitz, Robin Rabinowitz, or Arndt Kjellgren with anyone from the Greater Lake Minnetonka Police Department?”
“Of course I haven’t. Everything I know I’ve heard on the news or from Ian Halferin and Susan Silver. What are you implying?”
We locked eyes. She didn’t look away. She was either telling the truth or was an excellent liar. Her interest in politics made me favor the latter. Then she looked away and in a businesslike tone said, “I hope you’ll consider my offer. Thank you for listening.”
She stood and walked out of the room.
30
I waited for Halferin to return, but after five minutes, he didn’t. So I got up and left. I made it into the reception area when a voice said, “Hold it right there, Nils Shapiro.” It was my friend on the rolly chair, still wearing the optical film on her face. She said, “I called my cousin, Dana.” She set down a can of Diet Coke stabbed by a bendy straw tipped with lipstick. “Dana said you two dated all of junior year and you were the first boy who she let touch her you-know-where and make her you-know-what. So I find it a little hard to believe you don’t remember her.” She frowned the frown of the bamboozled, arms crossed over her torso. I didn’t respond. She said, “Well?”
I walked over to the reception desk and said, “Can I be honest?”
“That would be refreshing.”
“Of course I remember Dana Glass. But if I admitted it, you would have asked me about other people we might know in common. Then we would have discussed summer camp. Then you would have asked what line of Shapiros I come from. And the conversation would have gone on from there. And on. And on. And on.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Not in and of itself. But as of late, I’m not a huge fan of tribalism. And you can’t hate on tribalism without scrutinizing your own. Now, if you want more details on my adolescent sexual exploration with your cousin, I’m happy to give them, but otherwise, I don’t have much to say.”
The receptionist listened without expression. When I finished, she lifted her Diet Coke and sucked on the bendy straw. I second-guessed my outburst. Rule #1: Always ingratiate yourself to support staff. But I’d made a mess of that with Celeste Sorensen and then again with—I looked at the nameplate on the desk—Sheryl Glass.
Sheryl Glass set down her Diet Coke and sighed. “Well, I did ask you to be honest. And you know what? You’re right. That is how the conversation would have gone. I didn’t know it bothered some people. Guess you learn something every day.” The phone rang. She answered the call and talked into her headset, sent the call on to wherever it needed to go, and vacuumed more Diet Coke into her
gullet. “And, since we’re being honest, Dana never did marry. She has quite the reputation.”
“I blame myself. She was the first girl I got past first base with. And I was terrible. Dana dating a lot of men is probably just her way to erase my fumbling hands from her memory.”
“You are honest.” She offered a smile and said, “Hey, you want a pop or a water to go?”
“I’ll take a water, thanks.” She reached down behind the desk and opened a mini fridge. She handed me a cool plastic bottle. It had a custom label—the Halferin Silver logo. I don’t know why they felt the need to advertise to people who were already in the office. I said, “How long have you worked here, Sheryl?”
“Since the beginning.”
“What’d you think of Todd Rabinowitz?”
The receptionist swiveled on her rolly chair to make sure the room was clear. It was. “Todd Rabinowitz was the best. A mensch. I cry every night thinking about what happened to him.”
“Did you know Robin?”
“Of course.” She looked around the room again. “I didn’t like her so much. But it’s still terrible what happened to her.”
“Are you comfortable talking about this?”
“Not really.”
“Then I’ll talk. This place you work, Sheryl, something’s rotten about it. You might not know it or see it because you’re used to it. Business as usual, like a musty-smelling house you don’t notice anymore. But if I were you, I’d polish up my résumé.”
Sheryl Glass looked at me and said, “Thank you. That’s probably good advice.”
I said, “Anything you want to tell me about this place?”
She shook her head. “I know who signs my checks, and it’s not you.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for the water.”
I almost made it to the door when Sheryl Glass said, “I’m going to find out if Dana’s still interested in you. If she is, will you talk to her?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
The receptionist got solemn and looked dead at me. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious. Because if you are, I’ll play yenta. You two would make an excellent couple.”
“Sure, I’m serious. Got to swing the bat, right?”