The Devil May Care (4 page)

When I was police, I was briefly partnered with a fabulous female homicide investigator named Anita Pollack. Nine out of ten times she could ID the killer immediately when we arrived at the crime scene—most of the time it was that obvious to her—and then it would be just a matter of connecting the dots. On the rare occasion when we would actually have to do some detecting, she would stroke her chin and speak the way you might expect Sherlock Holmes to. Her words came to me as I watched the Caddy receding in the mirror.

“There's fuckery afoot.”

THREE

Club Versailles took up a large chunk of a peninsula more or less in the center of Lake Minnetonka, not far from the town of Navarre, with Crystal Bay to the north and Lafayette Bay to the south. Signs warned that I was traveling a private road and that trespassers would not be tolerated. Yet I wasn't stopped on the road, nor when I pulled into the large parking lot. There were no guards at the door, either. Just a sign that declared nonmembers must report to the front desk. The lack of security surprised me. Given that the place looked like it had been built by someone who wanted to reproduce King Louis XIV's Sun Palace—only nicer—I half expected to see a troop of musketeers patrolling the grounds.

The carefully groomed woman at the desk was about thirty, although the pleated black skirt and white knit shirt with
CLUB VERSAILLES
printed in gold over her left breast made her seem younger. There was a name tag over her right breast.
SARAH NEAMY
, it read. I'm embarrassed to admit I would have noticed her breasts even if there hadn't been names hanging on them.

“May I help you?” she asked. Her entire body smiled at me.

“Good morning, Sarah,” I said. “I'd like to see Mrs. Rogers if she's available.”

She pondered my request for a moment and pointed vaguely at a wall to her left. “Her condo is over there,” she said.

When I arrived I noticed two buildings, a main building with more wings than a shopping mall and a smaller building that looked like it was competing for a spot in Guinness World Records for most balconies. So I knew what she meant.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This is my first time here. I don't know the rules.”

“They're pretty simple,” Sarah said. “If you're a member you walk around like you own the place, because technically you do. If you're not a member, you walk around like you own the place until someone notices and says, ‘Hey.' Mrs. Rogers, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“It's nearly noon on a Wednesday, so she's probably on the patio playing poker with whoever she's fleecing this week.”

“Poker?”

“Mrs. Rogers told me once that she was a dealer in Reno when she was young. I've seen her play. I believe her.”

I had no idea where the patio was or how to get to it. I pointed more or less toward the interior of the club. “May I…?”

“Does Mrs. Rogers know you're coming?” Sarah asked.

“We've never met.”

Sarah smiled some more, this time only with her face. “I'll tell her that you're here,” she said. “You are?”

“McKenzie. Tell her it's regarding her estate.”

“Wait.”

While I waited, I examined the furnishings. Very plush. Very rich. I eventually ended up in a horseshoe-shaped Queen Anne chair with a view of the parking lot. Yet, as comfortable as the chair was, I felt uncomfortable sitting in it. I stood. I'm not easily intimidated by money. After all, I'm worth nearly five million bucks. Something about Club Versailles, though, conjured up memories of my blue-collar roots. I felt a little like a Visigoth just before he sacked Rome. Gazing out at the parking lot, I was glad I drove the Audi. I would have been embarrassed if anyone there had seen me in my old Jeep Cherokee, which was a new experience for me—being self-conscious about what other people thought.

What the hell is wrong with you?
my inner voice asked.

Damn if I know, I told it.

You could whip out your checkbook and buy a membership right now!

Still …

“Mr. McKenzie?”

I turned toward Sarah's voice. A woman stood next to her. She was handsome in the way a well-cared-for antique was handsome. I guessed that she had probably been carded well into her forties.

“Mr. McKenzie,” Sarah repeated. “Mrs. Rogers.”

I offered the older woman my hand. She refused to take it.

“Are you my birthday present?” she asked.

“Your what?”

Mrs. Rogers looked me up and down as if she wanted to redress me in something closer to her taste.

“My birthday is tomorrow,” she said. “My friends always chip in to give me a gift.” She circled me as she spoke. “Nice ass.”

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, and she turned her head as she tried to suppress a laugh. “I need to get back to the desk,” she said behind her hand and rushed away.

“I like that you're thin,” Mrs. Rogers said.

“I didn't know that I was.”

“Look around. We've become a nation of fat people. I, on the other hand, am not fat.”

“No, ma'am, you are not.”

“I have the same figure that I had my senior year in high school.”

“I can see that.”

Mrs. Rogers stopped in front of me. “Yes, you'll do fine. Although…” She consulted a wristwatch that sparkled with diamonds. “It'd be better if you came back later when I have more time.”

“I'd be happy to,” I said. “Except I'm not your birthday gift.”

“You're not?”

“No, ma'am.”

“What that silly girl said about wanting to talk about my property, that's true?”

“'Fraid so.”

She swung her fist up over her head and down again like a desperate gambler who just lost his last dollar by a nose.

“Dammit,” she said.

“You're putting me on, aren't you, Mrs. Rogers?”

“I can't imagine what gave you that idea. Do you drink, McKenzie?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Come with me.”

Mrs. Rogers walked briskly into the interior of the club, down a corridor, through a well-appointed card room, and into the bar. I followed like a small child afraid of being left behind.

“Steven,” she called to the bartender.

“Mrs. R,” he called back.

She replied by holding up two fingers and then slipped through a glass door onto a sprawling terrace with a stunning view of Lake Minnetonka. She moved to the railing and turned, competing with the view.

“I have a slip of a girl taking care of my properties for me,” Mrs. Rogers said.

“Anne Rehmann,” I said. “Hardly a slip of a girl.”

“Anyone half my age is a slip of a girl. She should exercise more, though, Annie should. Keep those perky breasts of hers from sagging.” I didn't have anything to say to that. “Do I shock you, McKenzie?”

“Not particularly.”

Mrs. Rogers swung her hand up and down again. “Dammit, I was trying so hard.”

I decided then and there that I liked her. She possessed a natural aggressiveness that I found engaging, although I didn't tell her that.

Steven arrived carrying a tray with two martinis on top. He set the drinks on a small table near the railing. I held a chair for Mrs. Rogers. She nodded her head at me and sat.

“Old World manners,” she said. “Don't see that anymore.”

I took the chair across from her. She drank half of her martini in one gulp. I took just a sip. The alcohol sent a charge of electricity through me that curled my toes.

“Ho, ho, ho,” I chanted.

“Gin martini,” Mrs. Rogers said. “Picked up the recipe in London. I used to fly the New York to London to Paris route for Pan Am. That was when we were called stewardesses instead of flight attendants.”

“Sarah at the desk told me you were a dealer in Reno.”

“Did that, too. And some acting, mostly bit parts. I lied about my age and got a job working for MGM when I was a kid. Danced in a Gene Kelly movie once, although you can hardly see me I'm so far in the back. Worked for an advertising agency. Have you ever seen the TV series
Mad Men
? It was very much like that. I was what Frank Sinatra used to call a broad, which might have been less respectable than a lady but a whole helluva lot better than a bitch. Do you gamble, McKenzie?”

“Occasionally. Not often.”

“Why not?”

“I don't like to lose.”

“Most people love to lose. Rich, poor, it makes no difference. Even when they win, people keep playing until they go bust. Look around. More people are gambling today than in the entire history of the world, and sooner or later they always lose.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I never lose.”

“How is that possible?”

“I cheat. Just this morning I made eleven twenty-eight.”

“Eleven hundred and twenty-eight dollars?”

“Eleven dollars and twenty-eight cents. What do you take me for?”

A woman, I thought, who somehow managed the most wonderful trick of growing old without ever growing up. But again, I didn't say it.

Mrs. Rogers took another pull of her martini.

“So, McKenzie,” she said. “If you came here to dicker, don't bother. My price is firm. Five-point-four million. I'm not what you would call a motivated seller, so don't try to wait me out, either.”

“I'm not interested in buying your home, although I have to admit it's ungodly beautiful.”

“What, then?”

“I'm looking for your tenant.”

“Juan Carlos? I didn't know he was lost.”

“Disappeared Saturday morning.”

“Who says?”

“His girlfriend.”

“Riley Brodin?”

“Yes.”

“You're a detective, then.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I can see why Riley would hire one. She'd be anxious if Juan Carlos up and left her.”

“Did he up and leave her?”

“How should I know?”

“Mrs. Rogers, when was the last time—”

“If we're going to continue this conversation, McKenzie, two things need to happen. First, you have to call me Irene. Better yet. My close friends call me Reney. Call me Reney.”

“Reney,” I said.

“Second…” Reney held the empty martini glass straight above her head, not unlike the way Lady Liberty held her torch. A passing waitress took it from her and a few minutes later returned with two fresh drinks. I hadn't finished my first martini yet, and Reney watched with intense curiosity until I downed it. Damn thing nearly killed me, and I told her so.

“Lightweight,” she said. “Where were we? Riley Brodin. I've been a member of this club since before Riley was born, and gossip is such that I pretty much know everything about her. She's spoiled.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

“Spoiled children aren't always malicious. Sometimes they can be very sweet. But she wants what she wants when she wants it. At the same time she's—what shall I say? When it comes to dealing with people of the opposite sex, she's an innocent. I think Riley's had a grand total of three boyfriends in her entire life, and her grandparents arranged all of them. Partly it's the fault of her screwed-up family.”

“Her family is screwed up?” I said.

An expression crossed Reney's face suggesting that the number of fools she'd met in her lifetime had just increased by one.

“Are you really that uninformed?” she asked.

Yes,
my inner voice said.

“I like to get a different perspective,” I spoke aloud.

“You have Walter, who's the Prince of frickin' Darkness. That would be Walter Muehlenhaus.”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Although his wife, Maggie, is a sweetheart. She's an old broad, like me.”

“Heady praise, indeed.”

“You have her mother, who's the Whore of Babylon, and then you have Riley's father, who is, to be generous, a dumb ass. A girl like Riley, she must feel isolated both because of her family and because of her looks. Don't get me wrong, McKenzie. I think she's adorable. She reminds me of a tabby cat. Other people—the people on Lake Minnetonka, they all try so hard to fit in with everyone else, so naturally they reject those that don't fit in with them.”

“That's probably true of most people no matter where they live,” I said.

“Then along comes Juan Carlos, who can play Prince Charming with the best of them. He batted those baby browns at her … McKenzie, the girl didn't stand a chance.”

“Are you sure that's what happened? Could be she chased him with the idea of breaking away from her screwed-up family and making a life of her own. I only say that because I met the girl and she doesn't strike me as a pushover.”

Reney wagged her finger at me.

“You might be onto something there,” she said.

“What can you tell me about Navarre?” I asked.

“I like him. Most people do. I invited him to the club; kinda gave him the run of the place as my guest, and he's settled in quite nicely. There's no question that's he's a cultivated young man of independent means. The question, of course, is how cultivated and how independent.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He dances superbly.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm always suspicious of men who dance well. It requires a great deal of practice. Tell me, McKenzie—why would a man practice his dancing?”

“To impress his partner.”

“Exactly. He wants so much to impress—with his manners, with his wealth. Of course, that's true of just about every member of the club.”

“Do you think Navarre is after Riley's money?”

“I wouldn't say that. God knows the girl has more to offer than a healthy bank account. On the other hand, you know what they said about Lord Tennyson, the poet.”