The Devil May Care (28 page)

“About nine years ago,
El Mundo
printed a story that accused members of the Guardia Civil of acting as mercenaries in the employ of Felipe Navarre, who, it claimed, had paid them a reward for hunting down and killing the ETA guys that supposedly kidnapped his son—Juan Carlos Navarre.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, no, no—now listen. According to
El Mundo,
it was all one big giant hoax. The ETA had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Instead, the paper claimed that Juan Carlos had staged the kidnapping to rip off the old man, and the old man used the Guardia Civil to kill the co-conspirators.”

“You're kidding,” I repeated.

“I'm really not.”

“What happened to Juan Carlos?”

Nina was listening so intently that she moved across the seat, straining against her shoulder harness.

“He disappeared,” Victoria said. “The paper said that Felipe disowned Juan Carlos when he learned the truth about the kidnapping. Cut him off, cut him out—never spoke about him after that; wouldn't even acknowledge that he had a son. There was speculation—at least a columnist at
El Mundo
speculated—that Felipe might have had his son killed, too. I don't believe it, though.”

“Why not?”

“The ransom money was never recovered. I think Juan Carlos took the cash and ran like hell and Felipe let him. Just let him go.”

“How much was the ransom?”

“Ten million euros.”

“How much is that in real money?”

“I looked it up—just over thirteen million dollars. McKenzie, what if he came to America?”

“Victoria—please tell me that you have a photograph.”

“I'm sorry, I don't.”

“Find one.”

“You already owe me one hundred dollars.”

“Find a photograph and I'll pay your college tuition.”

“Whoa, Harvard, here I come.”

Nina leaned back in her seat after Victoria hung up. She smiled brightly.

“There might be a happy ending after all,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“For Riley and Juan Carlos.”

“No.”

“Why not? If he really is Juan Carlos…”

“He's not.”

“If he really is…”

“Not a chance. Nina, the man who's stalking Riley—”

“Stalking?”

“He rented the house across the bay so he could stare at the purple flag at the end of her dock through a telescope, for God's sake. He's not Juan Carlos Navarre, the real Juan Carlos Navarre. He can't be. He has to be Jax Abana. I showed his photograph to his mother, to his sister, to Collin Baird's mother, to two of his former lovers, to Cesar Nunez, to the police detective who worked the case—they all identified him. Jax Abana.”

“They identified a man they hadn't seen in seven, eight years from an image on a cell phone.” Nina pointed her finger at me. “You told them what to expect before they actually saw the picture.”

“That's not entirely true.”

“Confirmation bias, I think they call it—you see what you expect to see, what you want to see. You also told me that what'sisname, the detective, Ihns—he said that Abana looked different back then. He had a mustache.”

“So what?”

“He doesn't now. McKenzie, you're the one who's told me many times that eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable.”

“His mother would know who he is, his sister would know, don't you think?”

“Maybe Navarre looks just like Abana. Maybe they're doppelgängers.”

“Impossible.”

Nina cleared her throat and gave her voice a professorial tone. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” she said.

“You're quoting Sherlock Holmes now? Nina, there is no doubt in my mind that Jax Abana alias David Maurell is pretending to be Juan Carlos Navarre. I believed it when I was sure there was no such person. Now that I know there is, I believe it even more. The only question is—what happened to the real Juan Carlos?”

“Confirmation bias.”

“Stop it.”

“There's only one way to settle the argument.”

“Find the sonuvabitch, I get it.”

*   *   *

We were on Highway 52 in Inver Grove Heights and fast approaching St. Paul when my cell phone started playing “Summertime” again.

“Don't you think it's time you found a new ringtone?” Nina asked.

I pulled the phone from my pocket and handed it to her. “Answer that for me.”

She did.

“Bebe's Peanut Shop, Bebe speaking,” she said.

Serves you right,
my inner voice told me.

I'm guessing the caller must have apologized for dialing the wrong number, because Nina quickly said, “Not necessarily,” and added, “Who's calling, please?” When she had an answer, she told me, “Lieutenant Pelzer?”

“Put it on speakerphone,” I said. After she did, I raised my voice again. “LT?”

“Bebe's Peanut Shop?”

“Little something I have on the side. What can I do for you?”

“There are a couple of things I want to talk about. Meet me at the Casa del Lago.”

“Any particular reason you want me at the restaurant?”

“That's where we found the
Soñadora
this morning.”

“It might take me ninety minutes to get there from where I am.”

“Sooner would be better.”

“I'm on my way.”

Nina deactivated my smartphone.

“The entrance ramp to Interstate 494 is just up a ways,” she told me. “This time of day, traffic will be light. We can be in Lake Minnetonka in forty-five minutes.”

“I'm taking you home first.”

“Oh, c'mon, McKenzie.”

“How's your temple? A little sore? A little puffy? I must say, that's a becoming shade of purple. Really sets off the stitches.”

“Don't be like that.”

“Besides, I like Pelzer. He's been very good to me so far. I don't want you beating him up.”

Nina folded her arms across her chest, and for a moment she looked just like her daughter when Erica was young—and she was pouting.

“I promise to call and tell you everything that happens,” I said.

“It'll be quicker if you take me to the club. You can borrow my car if you want.”

“Thank you.”

“You break it, you buy it.”

*   *   *

The hull of the
Soñadora
was white with a thin flaming-red racing stripe running from the bow to the stern. Its cockpit upholstery and carpet were white, and so was the sundeck pad. Inside a white 32-inch LED TV, two-burner stove, microwave oven, refrigerator, and stereo system were surrounded by white handcrafted cabinetry, white leather upholstery, and birch floors. Even the innerspring mattress inside the private stateroom was hidden beneath crisp white covers. It was so clean it looked as if it had just come from the showroom.

“I don't suppose you found anything when you searched it,” I said.

Lieutenant Pelzer's brow knitted as if he were considering the many different ways he could respond to the question and finally said, “No signs of life, if that's what you mean.”

“The wastebaskets weren't just empty,” Special Agent Matthew Cooper said, “they were polished.”

We stood watching as the boat strained gently against the springlines that secured it to the pier that accommodated customers of the Casa del Lago. Three thoughts came to mind—first, this is a damn expensive toy, and second, I should get one. The thought I gave voice to, however, was “Who reported it?”

“Ms. Mulally,” Pelzer said. “She said it was here when she arrived this morning to let the workers in. She seems upset.”

“Why?”

“She won't tell me. Maybe she'll tell you.”

“I'll talk to her.”

Pelzer had been carrying a small package that he switched from one hand to the other. I didn't ask what was inside.

“While you're at it, old man Muehlenhaus won't answer my questions, either, with or without an attorney present,” he said.

“I'll try to talk to him, too.”

“Good, since that's the only reason you're not sitting in jail right now.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows Groucho Marx–style like he wanted to tell me something without actually speaking the words.

“I did thank you for that, right?” I asked.

“I don't remember.”

We left the dock and started moving toward the restaurant's patio. We could hear the noise of construction inside the restaurant yet couldn't see what was being built. Special Agent Zo' Marin intercepted us.

“You boys get it figured out yet?” she asked.

“We were hoping you would explain it to us,” Cooper said. “Feminine intuition and all that.”

She grinned as if she had heard it before.

“I just got off the phone.” To prove it, she slipped a smartphone into the pocket of her black jacket. I don't know if she and Cooper intended to dress like Men in Black, yet they did. “A federal judge has agreed to temporarily freeze all of Navarre's assets in the Lake Minnetonka Community Bank under Title Eighteen, Section Nineteen Fifty-seven.”

“Section Nineteen Fifty-seven?” I asked.

“It's illegal for anyone to move the proceeds of a specified unlawful activity through a financial institution—or a merchant such as a boat dealership, for that matter—in an amount greater than ten thousand dollars. Navarre could appeal. He would probably win, too. This is a blatant violation of his rights; the man has yet to be formally charged with a crime. To appeal, though, would require that he appear in a federal court of law, and that would give us the chance to prove he's actually David Maurell. In the meantime, FinCEN is backtracking the deposits. So far, we know they came from Banco Central de España in Madrid. Beyond that…”

“How much of Navarre's money is in Minnetonka Community?” I asked.

“Thirteen million.”

“That's ten million euros.”

“So it is.”

For a moment I felt a thrill of panic that started below my heart and spread outward.

“Jeezus,” I said. “What if we're wrong? What if he really is Juan Carlos Navarre?”

“Then the United States government will apologize profusely.”

“Yeah, well, that's your problem,” I said. “Right now my big concern is Riley Brodin. If she's with Navarre, then she's in danger.”

“What are you talking about?” Pelzer said.

“Didn't Greg Schroeder call you?”

“I don't know him.”

“Dammit. Schroeder's a PI who works for Mr. Muehlenhaus. He was supposed to tell you—I don't believe it.”

I explained what Schroeder was supposed to tell Pelzer.

“Now I know why Muehlenhaus won't answer my questions,” he said. “He thinks he's protecting his granddaughter.”

“His granddaughter or the Muehlenhaus legacy?”

“What's that mean?”

“It's complicated. Listen, we need to assume that Baird is still after Navarre and that Navarre is now traveling with Riley.”

“Legally,” Pelzer said. “They're traveling legally, so you know there's nothing we can do about it.”

“I know,” I said, and for a moment I felt the frustration of all those people who had asked for help when I was police, only to be told that “nothing could be done,” that we couldn't search for someone unless there was clear evidence that a crime had been committed

“We've sent out e-briefs on Baird,” Pelzer said. “But…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What?” Cooper asked.

“There's no system set in place that we can use to alert law enforcement statewide, let alone nationally,” Pelzer said. “We have a system called the e-brief to spread information, which is just that—e-mail briefings that target specific local and county police in the areas where we think the suspect might be. Any suggestions on where Baird might be?”

“What about the FBI?” I said. “They must have a better system.”

Marin chuckled at that.

“We've had an FBI Crime Alert on Baird for thirty-one months now,” she said. “We wouldn't even have known for sure he was in the country if not for McKenzie.”

There was some communal headshaking.

Pelzer said, “You'd think we could do better.”

Cooper said, “You'd think.”

Pelzer handed me the package.

“This is yours, by the way,” he said.

I peaked inside. It was my SIG Sauer. I left it in the bag.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You're welcome.”

“Listen, I want you all to know that I appreciate it very much that you guys have allowed me to stay involved in this.”

“Why not?” Marin said. “So far you've done most of the work.”

“Speaking of which…” Pelzer threw a thumb at the restaurant.

I locked the bag inside Nina's Lexus before I went inside.

*   *   *

Mary Pat Mulally was drinking. I found her sitting alone on a stool at her own bar, a glass and a half-filled bottle of Grey Goose vodka in front of her. I wondered if the bottle had been half full when she started, but the glassy look I saw in her eyes when I sat next to her told me that it hadn't.

“Hey,” I said.

Mary Pat's response was to stand on the rung of the stool, lean over the bar, grab a glass, place it in front of me, and slide the Grey Goose in my direction. I caught the bottle and poured a shot just to be polite.

“I promised the deputies I would call if Navarre showed up, and he must have because there's his goddamn boat,” she said. “The
Soña
-fucking-
dora.
”

“No sign of Riley?”

“Screw Riley. She's where she wants to be.”

“Where's that?”