The Devil May Care (19 page)

“It's going to be beautiful,” he said. “Just beautiful. Six stories. Ninety-four thousand square feet. Right here—parking ramp, four hundred stalls, connected to the main building with a skyway. Lake is here; trees, park benches. I'll be moving Lake Minnetonka Community to the ground floor; the drive-through will be right here. There'll also be space for a restaurant—we're negotiating with three different national chains and an independent. Caribou has already signed on to operate a coffeehouse. In fact, we're forty-four percent occupied and the building won't even be finished for another fifteen months. It's all mine, too. Thirty-four-point-five million dollars, not counting tenant fit-out and some soft costs. Not a dime of it is Muehlenhaus money. Not a nickel.”

“How about Navarre?” I asked. “Is any of his money invested?”

Brodin's head came up. His eyelids blinked at me like the shutter of a camera.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked. He grabbed a few more french fries and washed them down with soda.

“Just curious,” I said.

“I resent your manner.”

That's all right, I don't mind,
my inner voice said. Fortunately, I was smart enough to keep it to myself (and that hasn't always been the case). I needed information; I needed the man to talk, and antagonizing him wasn't going to get it done.

“Mr. Brodin, I don't mean to be rude,” I said. “You're a serious man and serious things are happening. I need your help.”

“What things?”

“Have you heard about Mrs. Rogers?”

“Yes. Tragic.”

“Did you hear that Anne Rehmann was assaulted in her real estate office?”

Brodin reached for what I assumed was a chicken tender, dipped it in barbecue sauce, and took a bite.

“I don't think I know her,” he said.

“The man who attacked them was seen outside Riley's building this morning.”

His eyes grew wide.

“It was just dumb luck that I was there to stop him from attacking your daughter.”

He took another bite of chicken, and it occurred to me that Brodin was compulsive in the same way an alcoholic was compulsive. The difference was that instead of trying to drink his troubles away, he ate them.

“This person is definitely looking for Navarre,” I said. “I hope you can help me find him first, find him before any more damage is done.”

Brodin set down the remains of the chicken and wiped his large hands with a napkin.

“Juan Carlos Navarre.” He pronounced the name slowly and carefully like a child identifying the thing he disliked most. “Mrs. Rogers introduced us at the club. He told me he was a Spanish national, that he was moving to Minnesota. He said he wanted to transfer funds from his bank. He asked if I could accommodate him and I did.”

“A bank in Madrid?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“How much?”

“I have a duty of confidentiality to my customers.”

“I have five million dollars. Can you at least tell me if it's more or less than that?”

“Confidentiality is not just confined to account transactions. It extends to all the information the bank has about the customer. And McKenzie, you're worth four-point-two million dollars.”

“I am?”

“Don't you keep track?”

“I have people for that,” I said. Actually, I had a person—H. B. Sutton, who was a financial genius even if she did live on a houseboat. She's been chiding me for months now because I can't be bothered to come in and review my portfolio.

Four-point-two million?
my inner voice said.
Better set up an appointment.

“You seem to know a lot about my finances, yet you won't tell me about Navarre's,” I said aloud.

Brodin ate the rest of the chicken tender.

“Can you at least tell me if he's tried to access his accounts in the past week?” I asked.

“No.”

“Following the money might be the only way to find him.”

“That can't be my concern.”

“The police—”

“If the police come to me with a warrant, I'll give them whatever information the court orders me to give them. Beyond that—I will not breach client confidentiality. Stop asking. If I won't break the rules for that old man on the lake, I sure as hell won't do it for you.”

“Mr. Muehlenhaus asked you to violate confidentiality?”

“Many times. That's why I'm not welcome at the Pointe, why he works so hard to turn my daughter against me. One reason, anyway. If you don't jump when Muehlenhaus says, he jumps on you. You of all people should know that. Fucking McKenzie.”

“When I first learned Mr. Muehlenhaus called me that, I was kinda honored. Now it just pisses me off.”

“Try living with ‘deadbeat son-in-law' for twenty-eight years.”

Brodin raised his cup of soda as if toasting me and drank from it. He was a man of halves, I decided. Half handsome, half smart, half ambitious, half brave, half spoiled. The toes of his expensive Italian shoes were brightly polished, yet the heels were scuffed.

“You told Riley that Navarre was a con man who was only after her money,” I said. “That makes sense if he doesn't have any. If he does…”

“He can't be trusted.”

“Why not?

Brodin waved his hand as if that explained everything.

“Besides,” he said, “there's no comparison between his wealth and hers, none. Wait, you want a comparison? He can afford to buy a luxury suite at Target Field to watch the Twins play baseball. She can buy the goddamn team.”

“Is Riley really worth that much?”

“The old man has been slowly transferring his assets into her name, been doing it for years, so when he dies she won't have to pay taxes on his estate. The death tax, they call it. The old man can't cheat death. He sure as hell can cheat the tax man.”

“Does Navarre know this?”

“I have no idea what he knows, what Riley might have told him. I should never have introduced the two of them at the club's Fourth of July party.”

“You introduced them?”

That's not the way Riley told you it happened,
my inner voice reminded me.
Or at least that's not the way she remembers it.

“I was chatting with Navarre,” Brodin said. “He saw Riley and asked, who is that girl with the white hair? What else could I do?”

Another french fry. Another sip of soda.

“Riley was always a wild girl,” Brodin said. “She takes after her mother.”

“I didn't get that impression.”

“Wild might be a bit harsh. Willful? Tell her to do one thing and she'll do the opposite out of spite. That's why Sheila married me, because her family told her not to. It's also the reason why she won't divorce me. Because that's what her family wants.”

He chuckled.

“Sheila can be as mean as she is pretty,” he said. “Damn if she isn't very, very pretty.”

“I met your wife. You're right. She's very pretty.”

“I won't give you a dissertation on our marriage, McKenzie. It wasn't a happy one. People say—old man Muehlenhaus says—I married her for money and position. They're wrong. I loved her. Truly, I did. Sheila was oh, so beautiful and exciting, and I loved her. She didn't love me, though. She was getting older and she thought she should marry and have children because that's what we teach women they should do. That's what the Muehlenhauses expected her to do. I just happened to be standing there at the time. Some people shouldn't get married, though. They don't have the disposition for it. Sheila is one of them. Doesn't mean they're selfish or self-centered. Doesn't mean they're bad people. Sheila isn't a bad person no matter how hard she works at it. Just a lousy wife. I only regret … I just wish we could have done better for Riley's sake.”

*   *   *

I left Brodin to his fast food and returned to the Jeep Cherokee feeling no further ahead than when I started. I wondered if Lieutenant Pelzer was doing any better and gave him a call. He informed me that his deputies had painstakingly searched Lake Minnetonka yet were still unable to find the
Soñadora
.

“How is that possible?” I asked.

He didn't know.

That's when I suggested that he get a warrant to access Navarre's accounts at Lake Minnetonka Community Bank since it was clear Brodin wasn't going to give them up willingly.

“That might give us an idea where he is,” I said.

“What will I tell the judge?” Pelzer said.

“That you're acting on the personal observations of a credible confidential informant who has provided reliable information in the past.”

“What observations are those?”

“Whatever observations you need, LT.”

“Did you play fast and loose with the law when you were in harness, too, McKenzie?”

“On occasion.”

“I'll think about it. In the meantime, this should make you happy. We found blood at the crime scene this morning. Apparently you hit your target.”

“How much blood?” I asked.

“Enough that we're checking every hospital and health-care clinic in the Cities.”

“You're right, that does make me happy.”

We promised each other to keep in touch, and I ended the call.

Now what?
It was my inner voice speaking, yet I heard Anita Pollack.

When I slipped the cell back into my jacket pocket, my fingers found the card Mary Pat Mulally had given me. Looking at it made me smile. The woman was a true optimist, and of all the people I had met in the past week, I liked her best.

Think it through.

Think what through? I asked my former partner as I stared at the photograph of the burnt-out restaurant.

The fire.

What about the fire?

When was it set?

According to the South Lake Minnetonka PD, at approximately 4:30
A.M.
Thursday. Dammit!

You see it now, don't you?

Mrs. R's killer had her for twelve hours—9:00
P.M.
to 9:00
A.M.
He couldn't have set the fire. It certainly wasn't Navarre. He had been with Anne Rehmann at the time. Besides, he had no motive.

So who did it?

*   *   *

Two Twelve Medical Center in Chaska was new. From the intersection of Highways 212 and 41 just south of Lake Minnetonka, it resembled one of those business motels that promised travelers a clean room, continental breakfast, and free Wi-Fi. The wide-open lobby, complete with a Subway sandwich shop, gave off the same vibe. It wasn't until you noticed the sick and injured waiting God knows how long for assistance from people who seemed too busy to help them that you knew it for what it was.

A nurse gave me the room number for Arnaldo Nunez without asking why I wanted it, and I took the elevator to the fourth floor. I didn't trouble the medical personnel at the nurse's station. I simply hung a left and followed the carpeted corridor until I found the room. The door was open, so I didn't bother to knock. Nunez was lying fully clothed on top of the bed, his hands behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. His left pant leg had been scissored off six inches above the knee to accommodate the cast he was wearing. A pair of crutches was leaning against the bed.

He turned his head and looked expectant when I entered, and it occurred to me that he was waiting to be discharged. When he saw I wasn't a doctor, his face clouded and his eyes became fierce.

“What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.

“Just checking up on you. How's the leg?”

“Broken in four places. They had to put in a steel rod.”

I whistled low as if I were impressed, but I really wasn't. I stepped closer to the bed and gave his head the once-over.

“I was told you had a concussion, too. Doesn't look like there's any permanent damage, though,” I said.

“Fuck you,” Nunez said. “I got headaches. I've been nauseous for two days.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

“How is it my fault?”

“You wrecked my car.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“You did. You must have.”

“Why would you say … you don't remember what happened, do you?”

He didn't answer, yet for a moment his eyes seemed to reach for a memory that was just beyond his grasp.

“Amnesia about the events that cause a head injury is pretty common,” I said. “I've had a couple of concussions myself, so I know.”

“You don't know nuthin'.”

“I know you tried to burn down the Casa del Lago the other night.”

“I already told the cops. I ain't had nothing to do with that.”

“No, not you personally. I meant your playmates in the New! Improved! Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia. The guy in the red Sentra or the one who was driving the black Cadillac DTS, probably. Nice T-shirts, by the way. Does your mother know you're wearing those T-shirts? How 'bout your brother?”

“Fuck you.”

“I'm sure the boys and girls in West St. Paul are very impressed.”

“You just an asshole. You don't know nuthin' about it.”

“I know this much, Arnaldo—what do your friends call you? Arnie? I know this much, Arnie. I know you're looking for someone. You set fire to the restaurant to draw him out.”

“You police? If you police you have to say.”

No, you don't have to say,
my inner voice told me.
Where do criminals get that idea from, anyway?

“No, I'm not police,” I said aloud. “Arnie…”

“Don't call me that.”

“Arnaldo. I'm not a policeman, and the ones who questioned you yesterday, they're nothing to worry about, either. If you don't help me, though, I can arrange for you to meet some
real
cops, like the ones who put Cesar away.”