The Devil May Care (15 page)

I liked that she said “the city.” I'm a St. Paul boy, born and raised, and can't imagine living anywhere else, although … When I came into my money I moved my father and myself to a house on Hoyt Avenue. I thought I was moving to St. Anthony Park, a smart neighborhood near the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota. Unfortunately, I didn't realize until after I made an offer that the house was on the wrong side of the street; I had inadvertently relocated to the suburb of Falcon Heights—and Bobby Dunston and my other childhood friends have been teasing me about it ever since.

“Whose name would we put on the lease?” I asked.

“Mine, of course.”

“Why of course?”

“If things go sour, I'll be the one throwing you out.”

“Why can't I throw you out?”

She stood and spread her hands wide as if she were revealing herself to me.

“Yeah,” I said. “You've got a point.”

*   *   *

Despite my best lobbying efforts, Nina insisted on taking a shower and getting dressed alone. Apparently she needed to go early to her club, and I wondered if this was what she meant by compromises. It took me twenty-five minutes to drive from her place in Mahtomedi, a suburb northeast of St. Paul, to my home. That's something I won't miss, I told myself as I pulled into the driveway—the long commute. It wasn't until I put the Audi in park and turned off the engine that I noticed the back door to my house was standing wide open.

I started the Audi again, opened the garage door with my remote, and drove inside—I didn't want to be exposed to the open back door when I got out of the car. I exited through the side door of the garage, dashed across my lawn, and hugged the side of my house. I was carrying the SIG in both hands, the safety off, as I edged along the stucco wall until I reached the open door. I poked my head around the jamb, glanced inside, and quickly pulled it back again. I didn't see anyone, and no one threw a shot at me so I looked again, this time lingering for a moment. The house had a lot of windows, especially the kitchen. The morning sun shone through them, giving it a light, airy, and
empty
appearance. I eased myself inside.

The dining room was on the right; the “family room,” as my father called it, was on the left. I went left because if I were waiting to ambush me, that's where I would be hiding. The room was cluttered with furniture, overflowing bookcases, vinyl records and CDs and the machines needed to play them, speakers, personal computer, flat-screen TV, and Blu-Ray player. Nothing seemed out of place. Even my Dr. Who sonic screwdriver had been left undisturbed.

Most people who find their homes broken into but nothing missing would be relieved. I was nervous with the realization that the intruder had not come to steal. Plus, he was savvy enough to bypass what I had been led to believe was a state-of-the art security system.

This is the second time someone got past your home defenses,
my inner voice reminded me.
You'd be better off keeping geese.

It was easier to search my house after I left the family room because there were so few places to hide. My dining room consisted of a matching table, buffet, and a half-dozen chairs. There was no furniture in my living room and two of the upstairs bedrooms at all. I bought the house for my father and myself. That's why I took the price on Teachwell—to buy the house and guarantee my father a comfortable retirement. My mother died when I was in the sixth grade, and it had just been the two of us. Unfortunately, he passed six months later, and I never got around to furnishing it properly.

A quick glance in my basement proved that the floor safe where I stowed a few guns, cash, and a couple of false IDs was unmolested. The safe and its contents got me thinking. If Navarre was from Spain, he must have a passport, right?

I returned to the kitchen. There were dishes on the table and a couple of empty Summit Ale bottles that I hadn't noticed before.

Really?
my inner voice said.
The sonuvabitch raided my refrigerator?

I looked closer. He had finished off my leftover beef stroganoff. Yet beyond that, he had done no damage whatsoever. I was convinced the intruder was the same man who killed Mrs. R and who attacked Anne Rehmann. Anne had used my name in her office. Learning more about me, including where I lived, probably hadn't been all that difficult for him. Which increased my anxiety. I imagined him sitting in the dark, eating my food, drinking my booze, waiting for someone to hurt. If Nina and I had been living together, it might have been her …

I tossed the SIG onto the tabletop. It bounced against a bottle and came to a rest. While I stared at it, the old questions returned—what was I doing with my life, where was I going—plus a new one. Nina's life had been endangered once before because of me; would I dare put it at risk again?

I lifted my eyes to the window. I could see the pond with the fountain at the center that my father had built in my backyard just before he died. At one time there were a dozen ducks nesting on its banks, plus a flock of wild turkeys that had taken up residence. I had actually tried to name them all. The turkeys were gone now, and the ducks—a few still paused on their flight south, attracted by the open water, yet not nearly as many as before, and none nested there.

You could move to someplace safer,
my inner voice said.

Sure we could, I told myself. Sure we could.

I turned my back to the pond and the gun and the questions and went to the wall phone. I didn't know why I still maintained a landline. Just too lazy to cancel it, I guess. I called my security firm. I told the woman who answered that my home had been invaded yet the alarm had not sounded. At first she didn't believe me. Something in my voice convinced her not to argue the point, though. I told her I wanted the system repaired. She said she would send someone right out. I hung up. A moment later, my cell phone rang.

“What?” I said.

“Don't yell at me,” Victoria Dunston said. “People keep yelling at me.”

“I'm sorry, Vic. It's been a long morning so far.”

“Tell me about it. We're not supposed to use our cells or iPods or anything else in class or the teachers will confiscate them. If the bell hadn't rung just as you texted me I'd be screwed.”

“I didn't know that. I'm sorry.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm hiding out in the band room, so it's okay. I have my laptop up. You want me to tell you what I know?”

“Please, except if it'll be safer for you to talk after school…”

“No, no, I got this. Umm, okay. Felipe Navarre. He was an interesting man. Made a lot of money, 'specially in the tech industry. He didn't invent anything, but he had this thing for being able to see stuff coming years before it arrived, you know? He was also politically active. About ten years ago, there was a group calling itself Euskadi Ta Askatasuna—which is Spanish for ‘Basque Homeland and Freedom'—that the EU labeled as terrorists—”

“Wait,” I said. “Is this ETA?”

“You heard of them?”

“Not till yesterday.”

“Same here. ETA, they wanted independence for what they called the ‘Greater Basque Country,' which consisted of pretty much all of northern Spain. There's an article that was printed in
Diario de Navarra,
a newspaper in the city of Pamplona in the region of Navarre, which is a part of northern Spain. This is where Felipe's family is from, by the way. Apparently they emigrated generations ago. Anyway, according to the article, ETA kidnapped someone close to Felipe and forced him to pay a ransom for the person's safe return, which he did. A couple weeks later,
El País,
a newspaper in Madrid, reported that the kidnappers were caught and executed, although the ransom money was never recovered. But here's the thing—the papers never identified who the victim was, male or female. I guess Felipe was notoriously protective of Susan, his wife, and the rest of his family. By the way, Susan Kowitz met Felipe when she went to Spain as part of the University of Minnesota's Learning Abroad Program. It must have been love at first sight, because she never came home.”

“What about Juan Carlos?”

“Zippo. I mean, I looked everywhere for him. There were about a dozen obituaries printed when Felipe and Susan were killed, and not one mentioned a son. But here's the thing—I keep saying that, don't I? Here's the thing—the papers didn't mention anyone else in his family, either. I guess that means he didn't have a family or everyone in his family was keeping a low profile. Because of the kidnapping, maybe.”

“What about the car accident?”

“Seems to be a straight-up accident. Felipe and Susan were at a party; he drank too much, rolled his car off a mountain. His blood-alcohol level was one-point-three something. That surprised me, by the way, that the police reported that. I didn't know foreign countries cared about drunk driving as much as we do.”

“There was no suggestion that ETA was involved?”

“Nope, none. I looked into it because I knew it was the kind of thing you'd want me to look into. It's kinda moot, anyway.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The accident was such a long time ago and because—McKenzie, there is no ETA, anymore. A few years after the kidnapping, it declared a cease-fire. The year after that ETA announced—wait, I have the quote here—it announced a ‘definitive cessation of its armed activities.” A year after that it disbanded, so … I guess this means I don't get my bonus.”

“The execution of the kidnappers—who did that? The Spanish government?”

“I don't know. Want me to find out?”

“See if you can. Probably won't amount to anything, but you never know. And don't worry about your bonus. I'll take care of you.”

“You're the best, McKenzie.”

“How are things at home?”

“Better. The guy who cheated off my paper told the principal that I didn't know he was doing it, so I'm off the hook. He took an F and a two-day suspension. It was kinda sweet, you know, him taking the bullet for me.”

“Honey, it's sweet until he demands payment. Then it becomes something else.”

“What are you saying?”

“Just be careful. This kid could be all right, just a guy who took a step out of line, and don't we all from time to time? Or he could be something else. You'll know when…”

“I'll know when he says he did something for me and now I should do something for him. I have a father, McKenzie. He talks to me all the time.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I appreciate that I also have a friend.”

“Yes, you do.”

“So when do I get my two hundred bucks?”

“One hundred. It's two hundred if you get a photo. Do you have a photo?”

“I'm working on it.”

“That's my girl.”

*   *   *

I mulled over what Victoria had to report until the security guys arrived. Nothing she told me supported Navarre's story. Unfortunately, it didn't entirely refute it, either. 'Course, Navarre could easily have learned everything Vic had discovered and shaped it to his advantage. She took all of a day and a half. Who knows how much time Navarre invested and what resources he employed besides the Internet to research his role? If it was a role.

“You sonuvabitch,” I said aloud. “Who are you? Where are you? What are you doing here? Why are you hiding?”

Because of the lack of furniture, my house always had a kind of echo. “What the fuck?” I shouted and then listened as the words bounced from wall to wall. That's when the security guys chose to knock on my door. Talk about bad timing. I allowed my black mood to spill onto them. Probably it was unfair, although they discovered what the intruder had done to disable the alarm system quickly and with a minimum of chitchat. He was very clever, the intruder.

Don't you forget it,
my inner voice warned.

The techs repaired the system at no charge and then upgraded it at a discount so no one could bypass it again the way the intruder had. They thanked me for my business. I apologized for being rude. They left. I set the alarm, locked the house, and climbed into the Audi. I adjusted my holster and at the same time remembered the cell phone in my jacket pocket. I listened to the messages left on my voice mail.

“McKenzie,” Riley Brodin said, “the police want to talk to me about Juan Carlos. What should I do? Call me.”

“You sonuvabitch,” said Walter Muehlenhaus. “How dare you involve my family in a murder investigation? You and I are going to have a serious conversation and damn quick.”

“McKenzie, it's Schroeder,” the third call began. “You just can't help yourself, can you, pal? Give me a shout. We need to talk before Mr. Muehlenhaus has you whacked.”

“Oh, McKenzie,” said Riley. She was weeping as she spoke. “Is Juan Carlos responsible for all of this? Am I? Poor Reney…” She continued to cry until the voice mail cut her off.

I sat behind the wheel and waited for the courage to start the car and back it down the driveway. It was a long time in coming.

ELEVEN

The Cities, or perhaps I should say “the Greater Twin Cities,” although residents rarely call it that, actually consists of 188 communities scattered across seven counties. My place in Falcon Heights is more or less in the center of them. As a result, I'm not awfully far from anywhere. It took less than fifteen minutes using freeways and side streets to reach the Warehouse District in Minneapolis, and by then my mood had cheered considerably. There was something about being “up and doing, with a heart for any fate,” as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's “Psalm of Life” would have it. I wasn't even annoyed when I couldn't find an empty space on the street near where Riley Brodin lived. I hung a U-turn at the intersection and came back from the opposite direction, thinking I'd have to park farther away. Oh, well.