The Devil May Care (14 page)

I found Mrs. R's condominium on the fourth floor. The door was opened. I stepped across the threshold. Several investigators were already processing the crime scene. That's when I saw her. Mrs. Rogers was lying naked on the floor, her body bearing signs of terrible abuse. Her wrists were bound with an electrical cord and tied to the leg of a heavy chair. Her ankles were also lashed together and attached to her sofa. A clear plastic bag had been pulled over her head and fixed in place with a thick rubber band. Her eyes were open and so was her mouth—she had died fighting for breath.

Tschida caught up to me then. He cuffed my hands and dragged me outside—although I don't remember much about that.

Major Kampa didn't speak a word while I gave my account, and Lieutenant Pelzer only interrupted to ask a few pertinent questions.

“What do you know about this ETA that was supposedly stalking Navarre?”

“I never heard of it,” I said.

“Do you think Navarre is a fraud?”

“I'm still working on it.”

“Navarre's boat—the
Soñadora
—is it on the lake?”

“Anne Rehmann said he left her dock early that morning. Other than that…”

I had a few questions of my own, starting with how the killer managed to get inside a secured building.

“Suspect gained entry through an unlocked balcony door of an unoccupied condominium on the ground floor,” Pelzer said. “After that he just walked up to her place. There was no forced entry, so she must have let him in.”

“I was on the phone with Mrs. Rogers last night,” I said. “She said she had to hang up because someone was knocking on her door.”

“What time last night?”

“Nine.”

Pelzer closed his notebook. “The ME gave us a preliminary estimate of the time of death. Set it at about nine this morning.”

We both knew what that meant.

He had her for twelve hours,
my inner voice said.

“Sonuvabitch,” I said aloud.

“Where can we reach you if we have more questions?” Pelzer asked.

“South Lake Minnetonka jail, I guess. Assuming it has a jail. They might transfer me to your pretrial lockup in downtown Minneapolis.”

Kampa examined the SIG balanced on his thigh.

“Fuck that,” he said.

I was surprised. The way his head whipped around to look at the major, Pelzer was downright astonished.

Kampa slid out of the car and walked purposely toward Tschida, my SIG Sauer still in his hand. He saw Chief John Rock and waved him over. They reached Tschida at the same time. Kampa showed my gun to both of them. I couldn't hear what he said, but his words prompted Chief Rock to reach behind Tschida and smack him on the back of the head—an idiot slap. More words were exchanged, and Tschida half walked, half ran to the squad car. He opened the car door, pulled me out, unlocked the cuffs, and said, “Please, McKenzie, would you just get the hell outta here and don't come back?”

A few minutes later, both Major Kampa and Lieutenant Pelzer joined me where I had parked my Audi. Kampa returned the SIG to me, handing it over butt first.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Without backup from the Hennepin County Sheriff's Department, the South Lake Minnetonka PD ceases to exist,” Kampa said. “I don't work with screwups.”

“Thank you.”

“The book says you're all done, McKenzie. This is a capital offense, and you don't involve yourself in our investigation even a little bit or I'll toss your ass for obstruction, ex-cop or no—you're not even licensed. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“My gut tells me, though, that you might be useful. You can talk to Mr. Muehlenhaus and his daughter, for one. I doubt I can get through the front door. So you keep looking for Navarre if you wish. Just stay away from the murder, and don't even think of doing anything illegal, not even spitting on the sidewalk if you know what's good for you, and 'specially don't go around telling people that you're working with us, and we should be okay.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“Keep in touch, McKenzie.”

I watched Major Kampa turn and walk away. Lieutenant Pelzer lingered to give me his contact information.

“He's a real cop, isn't he?” I said.

“Yep.”

“You don't often see real cops rise up that high. Usually it's just the politicians.”

“Sometimes you get lucky.”

*   *   *

I didn't feel lucky, though. Or talkative. Yet there were debts to be paid, the first to Sarah Neamy. I had sent her to Mrs. Rogers's condo. She had seen what I had seen.

I found her in the office just behind the reception desk where I had first met her. The door was open, and I saw her sitting very still in a straight-back chair against the wall, her hands folded in her lap, looking down, a penitent schoolgirl in her uniform. She seemed to know who I was without looking up to see.

“How could someone do that to another human being?” Sarah asked. “McKenzie, do you know?”

In my time, I had heard that question answered in so many ways by so many people—psychologists, sociologists, criminologists, even stand-up comedians. Explanations included everything from a chemical imbalance in the brain to childhood abuse and neglect to environmental pressures to an overdose of Twinkies. For a long time, I went along with them. I used to pride myself, especially when I was a cop, on telling people, “I don't believe in evil, I believe in motive,” as if that somehow proved I had an understanding of the human condition that the average citizen simply couldn't fathom. I had seen so much over the years, though, that the theories no longer satisfied. I discovered that I preferred the much simpler answer that I gave Sarah.

“Some people are evil.”

She nodded her head as if she believed it, too.

“They're having an emergency meeting, the board of directors,” Sarah said. “I don't know exactly what they hope to accomplish. Better security. Armed guards? They kept saying it wasn't my fault. ‘It's not your fault, Sarah.' I don't know how it could be my fault. I'll probably be fired within the month, though.”

“Why?”

“It's all about the morale of the members. Everyone will want to put this behind them as quickly as possible. If I stay, the members, every time they look at me they'll be reminded of poor Mrs. R because they'll know I was the one, the one … that I discovered … I saw…”

I rested a hand on her shoulder, and she covered it with her own hand. She looked up at me for the first time.

“I'm sorry I sent you there,” I said.

“It's not your fault,” she said.

I said, “I'm sorry,” again, just the same.

“Juan Carlos didn't do this, did he?”

“No. It's someone looking for him.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“If you find Juan Carlos, will that help you find out who … hurt Mrs. R?”

“I hope so.”

“Juan Carlos had to fill out a questionnaire before he could be considered for membership in the club. I can get you the form. Will that help?”

“It might.”

“Come back tomorrow.”

“Sarah, just get me a copy. Keep the originals. The county deputies might want them, and I don't want to mess with those guys. They did me one favor, I don't expect another.”

“I will.”

“You should go home.”

“Home?”

She looked at me as if it were the first time she had ever heard the word.

*   *   *

I returned to Anne Rehmann's office. It was locked up tight. I called her number and was sent to her voice mail. I told her she could return my call—even though I hoped she wouldn't—otherwise I would try to see her tomorrow. I didn't want to talk any more, didn't want to comfort anyone, didn't want to think. It was Thursday evening in early October, and there were any number of sporting events taking place that could distract me from the day. Baseball was in the first round of playoffs, college football was approaching midseason, the NHL was ramping up—there might even be a game on the NFL Channel. If that failed, I had access to a cabinet stocked with beer, wine, and other assorted alcoholic beverages. All things being equal, drinking myself silly didn't seem like a bad idea.

Halfway home, though, I broke my cell phone rule again and called Nina.

“Can I come over to your place?” I asked.

“'Course you can, you know that. You don't have to call first.”

“I thought this time maybe I should.”

“Are you all right, McKenzie?”

“No. No, I'm really not.”

TEN

I woke in Nina's bed to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Nina used to make lousy coffee—the EPA considered it a toxic substance—and I would invent excuses to avoid drinking it, until the head chef at Rickie's gave her a tutorial on how it was done. Now it was fabulous. Still, it wasn't enough to rouse me. I lay there instead, naked between the warm sheets, and listened to the sounds of morning outside the window. Even in the suburbs you can hear it, traffic like surf in the distance, a barking dog, a child's squeal, and for a moment I felt the icy hand of panic grip my heart. What the hell was I doing with my life? Where was I going? What did I hope to accomplish? They were questions I had been asking quite often lately, yet the events of the previous day made them seem more urgent. Questions without answers. Or did I simply refuse to give them answers for fear that I wouldn't like what they revealed?

Screw it, I told myself. I flung the top sheet aside and slid out of bed, determined to make the best I could of the day.

I had clothes in Nina's closet and bureau. I found them, and after taking a quick shower and shave—yes, I kept a razor there, too—I put them on. I paused briefly to check my cell. There were two messages from Riley Brodin, one from Mr. Muehlenhaus, and another from Greg Schroeder—nobody that I wanted to talk to at the moment. I ignored them all and sent a text message to Victoria Dunston.

“Well?” it read.

A few moments later she replied.

“OMG! U want 2 get me in trouble? I'll call l8er.”

I went downstairs and found Nina in the kitchen. I would have paid real money to see her in the clinging silk number she had worn the previous evening. Instead, she was wearing gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting black T-shirt that proclaimed her affection for the Preservation Hall Jazz Band—a gift from Erica, who was attending Tulane University in New Orleans. The sweat at her temples and down the center of her back proved that she had already made her morning run. It did little to lessen my desire for her.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.” She went to her coffeemaker and retrieved the glass pot. I said, “You're up early.”

“Actually, you're up late.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight fifteen. That wasn't late for me, but then I was gainfully unemployed.

I sat at the table. She leaned across me and poured the coffee into a mug. “What are your plans for today?”

I pulled her down until she was sitting on my lap.

“I was toying with an idea,” I said.

Nina kissed my cheek. “Besides that.”

“I haven't decided.”

“Yes, you have. You're going to find the man who killed your friend, who attacked the real estate agent.”

“I am?”

Nina slid off my lap and returned the coffeepot to the maker.

“You decided that yesterday before you even called me, you know you did,” she said. “I was just wondering how you were going to go about it.”

“The key is Navarre. If I find him … I don't want to talk about that right now.”

“All right, change of subject.” She sat across from me. “I've been thinking.”

I took a sip of coffee. Damn, it was good, and I wondered if Monica Meyer would share her formula with me. Probably not. She and I had been fencing with each other—sometimes playfully—ever since the chef was hired to manage Nina's kitchen.

“What have you been thinking?” I asked.

“Should we make this permanent?”

I took a deep breath the way you do just before you dive into a lake.

“What?” I asked.

“I was thinking…”

“Are you proposing, Nina? Because if you are…”

“No, no, God no.”

“The answer is yes.”

“What I meant, should we move in together?”

“Not marry?”

“You and I have no business getting married to anyone, much less to each other.”

“I beg to differ.”

“McKenzie, if we were married you'd want me to be Shelby Dunston, the perfect wife of the perfect policeman, keeping the perfect home, raising perfect children, providing you with a refuge from the troubles of your day, and let's face it—I'm not Shelby. I'm not the perfect wife. Ask my ex-husband if you don't believe me. I'm a girl who runs a saloon and likes it. I spend twice as much time there as I do here, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

“You—I'd want you to be the dutiful husband, mow the lawn, shovel the snow, open jars, and pretty much attend to my every desire. Only you're not that person, either. You're an adventurer. You do what you do for fun and because you think you're making the world a better place and because of some code of justice that you've never been able to articulate even to yourself, much less to me. Marriage would demand that we both make compromises for each other that would interfere with the lives we want to live. We'd end up making each other miserable. Look, we've had this conversation before.”

“So we have.”

“Well?”

“Would I be moving in with you or would you be moving in with me?”

“We could find a place that we both like. Somewhere in the city. Somewhere with a view of the river.”