The Devil May Care (2 page)

“His name is Juan Carlos Navarre,” Riley said.

That made me lean back and say, “Huh.”

“I know what you're thinking,” Riley told me. “There's a sleepy little village called Navarre on a spit of land between the upper and lower parts of Lake Minnetonka, pretty much at the center of the lake. Juan Carlos said he looked into it and couldn't find a connection to his family or even the region called Navarre in northern Spain. It's just a coincidence.”

Actually, that's not what I was thinking. I was thinking that Navarre's name was very similar to Juan Carlos Navarro, the captain of the Spanish Olympic basketball team that the USA beat for the gold medal in London, yet I nodded my head in agreement just the same.

“What does he do?” I asked.

“He's an entrepreneur. Like his father.”

Felipe Navarre had owned several businesses in Spain, most of them headquartered in Madrid. Riley read the names carefully to me from a document that she had stored on her smartphone. She had compiled all the information she had on her boyfriend, which I found telling—although I didn't tell her that.

According to Riley, Juan Carlos was the only child of Felipe and Susan Kowitz, an American who grew up in Prior Lake, Minnesota. Sadly—and Riley sounded sad when she told me this—Felipe and Susan were killed in an automobile accident seven years ago while Juan Carlos was away at college. The boy inherited everything, but he didn't want to run his father's businesses as much as he wanted to build his own, so when the debt crisis hit Spain, he sold off his holdings and decided to try his luck in the United States. He had dual citizenship because he was his mother's son, so there wasn't an issue with him immigrating to America.

“Juan Carlos speaks perfect English with the cutest accent,” Riley said. “He came to Minnesota because he wanted to be close to his roots, his mother's roots. He settled on Lake Minnetonka because, well, because he fell in love with the place just like the Europeans who used it as a summer vacation home did back in the 1850s.”

They met—Riley and Navarre—at Club Versailles, also located on Lake Minnetonka. The club had a swimming pool, a diving pool, hot tubs, saunas, a private beach, and a pier with slips for dozens of boats both big and small. It had tennis courts, an executive golf course, a driving range, walking and bike trails, locker rooms, a fitness center, a ballroom, banquet facilities, a restaurant and bar with live music on the weekends, hotel rooms for rent and condos for sale, and a long waiting list. It was one of those places that sold shares instead of memberships, and if you had to ask how much it cost you couldn't afford to join. I had heard about it but have never been inside the place.

“It was love at first sight,” Riley said. Nina had returned to our spot at the bar just as Riley spoke those words, and she smiled. “During the Fourth of July weekend. There was a dance at the club after the fireworks. I was standing on one side of the dance floor and Juan Carlos was at the other and our eyes met and I—I don't even remember who I was with, who I was talking to. I just walked toward him and he walked toward me and we met in the center and—have you ever seen
West Side Story,
the part where Maria met Tony? It was like that. It was like—it was like we had known each other before and we were being reunited after many years. Have you ever had that feeling? I told Juan Carlos about the feeling, and he told me that we had met before. In our dreams.”

The way Riley smiled, I got the impression she liked the dream.

“Let me guess—the Sharks and Jets are against it,” I said.

“My family hates him, if that's what you mean. My father especially hates him. He claims Juan Carlos is nothing but a con man who's only after my money. Why else would he be interested in me, my father says. I'm not pretty, he says, so why else would a man care about me except for my money. I'm smart, though. McKenzie, I might not be pretty, but I know things.”

Not pretty?
my inner voice asked. I raised my hand like a cop trying to stop traffic. “Wait,” I said. Nina caught my eye. She shook her head in a way that Riley couldn't see. “Never mind. What about the rest of your family?”

“My grandmother, grandfather, they keep asking what do I know about the boy, the imm-i-grant. My mother—I don't want to talk about my mother.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Saturday. No, I saw him Friday night. But I spoke to him on Saturday at eleven thirty. Eleven thirty
A.M.
We were supposed to meet for lunch.”

“At Club Versailles?”

“No, at Casa del Lago. It's a Mexican restaurant in Excelsior. Which is another thing. Juan Carlos owns the place. He bought it after he first came to Minnesota, after he moved to his house on Lake Minnetonka. It was run-down and I heard it was going bankrupt and he took it over and turned it into a real hot spot in just a few months. Would a con man do that?”

“Tell me about the lunch.”

“He didn't show,” Riley said. “He called and said something came up and he couldn't make it. He was very apologetic. He said he would call me and we would do something later. He said something else. He said, ‘I'll never give you up.' He didn't say it in a creepy way, though. He said it…”

“Like someone was trying to keep him from seeing you,” Nina said. “And he wasn't going to let them.”

“Yes.”

“You said Navarre has a house on Lake Minnetonka,” I reminded her.

“He does.” Riley dove into her bag, produced a key, and slid it across the bar. I did the math quickly in my head and thought, They've known each other for just a breath over three months, yet she has Navarre's key.

When did you give Nina your key?
my inner voice asked, but I didn't answer.

“Have you been there?” I asked. “To his house?”

“I went this morning,” Riley answered. “I knocked, rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I didn't go inside.”

“Why not?”

For a moment her eyes lost their color.

“I understand,” I said.

I took the key and slipped it into my pocket.

“Thank you,” Riley said.

I hesitated for a moment before I had her send all the information she'd gathered on Navarre to my smartphone. In the beginning I had zealously guarded my cell number from all but a few close friends, yet slowly it escaped my grasp. Now it seemed as if everyone knew how to reach me, including a few nonprofits and political organizations seeking financial support.

I also had her send me a photo of Navarre.

“This is the best one I have,” Riley told me. “He gets upset when people take his photo. I don't know why.”

Some people might have found that suspicious. Not me. I don't like to have my photo taken, either. I have pretty much bought into the belief held by some primitive civilizations that a camera has the ability to steal your soul.

The photo Riley sent displayed a handsome young man wearing a pink polo shirt and standing in front of a cabin cruiser emblazoned with the name
Soñadora
. His dark hair was tousled by the wind, his dark eyes half closed against the bright sun, and he was grinning sheepishly as if he were caught doing something that embarrassed him. He didn't look like an immigrant, Hispanic or otherwise. He looked like a kid who worked for Goldman Sachs. Maybe that's why he was embarrassed.

“If I find Navarre, what do you want me to tell him?” I asked.

“That I love him,” Riley said. “That I want to see him. That he should call me.”

“What if he says no?”

“Then I'll be wrong about him. And my family will be right.”

The way she said it, I got the impression that she was more fearful of the latter than the former.

A few moments later she left Rickie's. Nina and I watched as she crossed the floor and passed through the doorway. Riley was an accident of family and wealth, and I wondered briefly if she would be able to survive it.

“Do you think she's pretty?” I asked.

“She's an interesting-looking girl,” Nina said.

“Is she pretty, though? She doesn't seem to think so.”

“If you're told something long enough, you start to believe it. I've been told, for example, that I'm the lovely Ms. Truhler.”

“That's what I heard, too.”

“Do you think Riley was telling the truth?”

“About you being lovely?”

“About Juan Carlos. About her family.”

“No. Not all of it, anyway. But then people seldom tell you
all
the truth.”

“She loves him. I think that's true.”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me—was it love at first sight when you met me?”

“No.”

Nina's downcast eyes told me she was disappointed in my answer.

“No, it was a few days later when I saw you at the Minnesota Club,” I added. “You were wearing a long, sleek, searing-red evening gown. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“You pushed that thug down a flight of stairs.”

“I remember.”

“That's when I knew you were the woman for me.”

“You're such a romantic. That's why you're going to help Riley, isn't it? Because you're a romantic.”

“That and to annoy Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

That fucking McKenzie,
my inner voice said.

“You think that's a good idea? Before when you messed up his plans it was kind of an accident. It wasn't personal. They just got in the way of what you had set out to do. This time, though, it's his family.”

“I know.”

“It's something to think about.”

TWO

The glacier that carved out the 11,842 lakes located in Minnesota was particularly kind to Lake Minnetonka—or “big water” if you speak Dakota. Actually, it's less a lake than it is a sprawling maze of interconnected bays, inlets, channels, peninsulas, and islands. The water surface covers about 23 square miles, yet its shoreline stretches for 125 to 150 miles depending on whom you talk to. It takes two hours to drive all the way around it by car—assuming you push the traffic laws—and when you do, you'll be passing through some of the most affluent zip codes in Minnesota. Half a million bucks might buy you a shack with a view of the water. Not that I saw any for sale the next morning while I was searching for Navarre's house.

Navarre lived on the northeastern shore of Crystal Bay. To reach it, I had to drive west a third of the way around the lake and then follow North Shore Drive east through the village of Saga Hill, down along West Arm Bay, and past a cobweb of narrow and poorly marked roads. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say I got lost. Twice. The first time was my fault. I turned left when I should have gone right. The second time I was thrown off by the sign planted at the mouth of the cobblestone driveway—
FOR SALE REHMANN LAKE PLACE REAL ESTATE.
I drove past it, realized my mistake, and worked my way back. I parked illegally on the main road across from the driveway while I checked the GPS app on the instrument panel of my Audi S5 against the directions Riley had sent to my smartphone. Yep, this was the place.

A young man watched intently from a ten-year-old red Nissan Sentra that he had parked—quite legally—on the other side of the road. I couldn't make out the details of his face. He seemed to be scowling, though. I gave him a smile. He took a long last pull on a cigarette and flicked the butt out the window toward me. You drive a $65,000 car, you get that sometimes.

I crossed the main road and followed the long driveway to a huge two-story house with white cedar shakes and blue wood shingles. It sat in the middle of an equally immense emerald lawn that sloped gently to the lake. I remained in the Audi for a few beats, just staring at the structure. I had seen high schools smaller than this. I went to the door and rang the bell. When that failed to rouse anyone, I knocked. There was no answer. I circled the house, moving clockwise around the attached three-car garage. A porch ran along the entire length of the rear of the house. I mounted the stairs and followed it from one end to the other, dodging white wicker chairs with brilliant blue cushions and white wicker tables with glass tops as I peered through the windows. Nothing moved inside the house or out.

A gazebo painted white with chairs and tables that matched those on the porch stood between the house and the shoreline, and I crossed the neatly trimmed lawn to reach it. Four speakers were mounted in the rafters, and for a moment I pictured myself and Nina sitting there with a bottle of wine, listening to some tunes, and watching the sun dip across the lake.

“Nice,” I said aloud.

I walked the rest of the way to the lake; the morning sun made the waves on Crystal Bay sparkle like diamonds. The shoreline was braced with a wall of enormous boulders that stretched for a hundred feet. It was divided in half by a wide wooden dock; its planks were covered with water-resistant polyurethane. I stepped out onto the dock. It was equipped with both electricity and fresh-water hookups, although no boat was moored there.

There were plenty of boats dotting the huge bay, though, yet not nearly as many as during the summer, and I was reminded that it was the first day of October. It seems half of the people in Minnesota launch their boats—and ready their golf clubs, for that matter—on Memorial Day and then begin storing them away again right after Labor Day as if they can't wait for winter to begin. Meanwhile, given the length of our notoriously merciless winters, the rest of us strive tirelessly to stretch summer out until the very first snowfall, and sometimes longer. The folks still out on the lake were my kind of people.

I didn't see any bodies floating facedown in the lake, so I went back to the house. I made my way to the front door and used Riley's key to open it. I called Navarre's name when I stepped inside. A house gives off a certain vibe when it's unoccupied. I felt it as I closed the door behind me and stepped deeper into the foyer. “Navarre,” I called again, but I was thinking “Wow.” It's not often you see your face reflected in white marble when you enter a house. I called out yet again. When Navarre didn't answer, I stepped past the foyer into a living room. This time I actually spoke the word aloud. “Wow.”