The Devil May Care (6 page)

Mary Pat must have heard the outrage I purposely put in my voice, because she smiled slightly.

“Not Mr. Muehlenhaus?” she said.

“No, not Mr. Muehlenhaus. Why do you ask?”

“I think he's looking for Juan Carlos, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“A private investigator came by the other day. He flashed his ID at me like it was a badge and started asking all kinds of questions that were none of his business. I'm from the north side of Minneapolis, McKenzie. Real cops don't bother me any; I'm sure not going to be intimidated by a PI. When I refused to answer, he said his employer could make life on Lake Minnetonka impossible for me. I threw him out. I've been waiting for someone to knock on my door with bad news ever since. I thought that someone might be you.”

“No.”

Mary Pat shrugged her shoulders as if she were willing to take my word for it—for now.

“Then you have nothing to do with the Chevy Impala in the back row of the parking lot,” she said.

“What Impala?”

She tilted her head at the window, and I took a look.

“See it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Inside is a man who has been watching my restaurant all day. Yesterday there was a different man in a Sentra.”

“A red Sentra?”

“How did you know?”

“For what it's worth, Mary Pat, I don't think they're interested in you or your restaurant. I think they're waiting for Navarre.”

“Why?”

“The PI. Did he tell you why he was looking for him?”

“No.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. That's one reason why I threw him out. He was acting all big and emphatic, but he wouldn't tell me who he was or whom he was working for.”

“You're only guessing that Mr. Muehlenhaus sent him.”

“Do you think I'm wrong?”

“No, I think it's a pretty good guess. Although … I've had dealings with Mr. Muehlenhaus in the past. He's usually more subtle than this.”

“If you say so.”

“What is your relationship with Navarre?”

“Juan Carlos is an investor. He lent the restaurant a sizable amount of money, for which he now receives a percentage of the profits until principal and interest are paid.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's simple. I was undercapitalized. The business was failing. The infusion of money allowed me to enlarge the patio, expand the pier, improve my menu, and provide my clientele with the kind of service it demanded. Truth be told, I was fortunate that Juan Carlos came along when he did. It's like I said, though—he is not an owner. Nor is he involved in the day-to-day operation of the restaurant.”

“What I meant was, why did he invest in Casa del Lago? Did you advertise for investors?”

Mary Pat spoke carefully, weighing each word on her tongue like a politician—or someone else with plenty of secrets.

“What I was told,” she said, “Juan Carlos began looking for business opportunities immediately after he settled on Lake Minnetonka. A banker suggested that I might be interested in a silent partner. Juan Carlos turned out to be less silent than I would have preferred. Other than that, I have no complaints.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Thursday during the dinner rush. Dinner and lunch is when he usually comes by. Juan Carlos will walk through the restaurant, hang out on the patio, meet and greet customers. He's very good at making friends. Sometimes he'll pick up a tab. It's never on the house, though. He always pays it out of his own pocket. He likes to be seen here. He likes to play the
patrón.
I don't mind too much because the customers seem to love the guy. Seatings are higher than ever. So are check averages. I was surprised when he didn't show up Friday and Saturday.”

That started me thinking devious thoughts about the criminal behavior of unscrupulous characters. I zoned out for a few moments, forgetting completely that Mary Pat was sitting in the booth with me. She called me back.

“Hey,” she said.

“Sorry. I was just … How much did Navarre invest in your restaurant?”

“I don't see how that's any of your business, McKenzie.”

“You're right, you're right … I was just wondering, did he give you cash?”

“Of course not. Who makes loans like that in cash? Drug dealers, maybe. Gangsters. Do you think I'd be involved with someone like that?”

“No, no, I was just—”

“The transaction was handled through my bank. Lake Minnetonka Community.”

“I was just wondering—”

“The paperwork was all properly signed, notarized and filed.”

“Did anything seem out of whack to you?”

The question slowed her down. Mary Pat's mouth twisted into a kind of confused smile when she answered. “The interest rate on the loan. Juan Carlos could have done better with a government-backed CD.”

I flashed on something Sarah Neamy told me earlier.

“Except then he wouldn't be able to walk around like he owned the place,” I said.

“I suppose. Look, McKenzie. Whatever Juan Carlos is into has nothing to do with me. All I want is to be left alone. I have a good month or so left before the weather starts to turn nasty and I lose my lake traffic. When you find him, you might want to tell him that. This is a business.”

I thanked Mary Pat for her time. I hadn't paid for the Summit Ale, but when I reached into my pocket, she told me it was on the house. I thanked her again and said I would be in touch. She didn't seem to care one way or the other.

*   *   *

I left the restaurant and walked toward the Audi, decided what the hell, it's such a pleasant autumn day in Minnesota, seventy-three degrees and sunny with the wind not blowing, why not risk my life frivolously? I passed the Audi and kept going until I reached the back row of the parking lot. I stopped in front of the Impala, took the smartphone from my pocket, and made a big production of taking a photo of the car's license plate.

A young man—he couldn't have been more than eighteen—poked his head out the window.

“What the fuck you doing?” he asked. “You don't fuckin' take no pictures.”

I ignored him and took a few more.

“Asshole, I'll fuck you up.”

He opened the car door and slid out. He wore his jeans low on his hips so that the top three inches of his boxer shorts were visible. Yet it was the image on the front of his tight T-shirt that caused me to rethink my actions—a large blackhand print. In the palm of the hand were the numbers 937 resting on top of the letters
eMe.
The Black Hand of Death, an image usually associated with Sicilian gangsters, had long ago been appropriated by the Mexican Mafia—
eMe
spelled out the Spanish pronunciation of the letter
M.

“Say cheese,” I said and took his photograph just the same.

“Give that back,” he demanded, as if my camera had stolen something precious from him.

He took a step toward me. When he did, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and took a step toward him, clenching my fists like I was ready to rumble. While he was sitting in the car, he was a machine yelling at a man. When he got out the situation changed. Now he was a man shouting at another man—a man who was bigger than he was. Doubt crept into his voice.

“Who d' fuck you think y'are?” he asked.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I asked in return.

He didn't answer. I gave it a beat and began edging away slowly. After a few steps, I turned my back to him and returned to the Audi. I gave him another look before sliding behind the steering wheel. He was talking on his own cell phone. It didn't look like the conversation was going well.

*   *   *

I drove out of the restaurant's parking lot and worked my way along a couple of narrow streets to County Road 19. The Impala caught up to me at the intersection. A thrill of fear rippled through my body as I watched the driver in my rearview while waiting for the light. I guessed that he was following someone's orders—he didn't look smart enough to be giving them himself. Whose, though? To do what?

Three possibilities came to mind. The first was to shoot me, but c'mon, I told myself, that's a little melodramatic, don't you think? Even the Mexican Mafia doesn't kill without a reason, and I hadn't done anything to anyone yet. The second was to find out who I was, except the driver could have accomplished that task the same way I intended to learn who he was—by running the license plate number of his car. There was a handful of Web sites more than willing to help for a fee. If they couldn't, you could always hustle down to the Minnesota Department of Public Safety building in St. Paul and fill out a DVS Records Request Form. It cost all of $9.50.

The third possibility seemed more likely—the driver was told to follow me with the expectation that I might lead him to Navarre.

The light changed and I took a left, heading east along the section of the county highway that was called Smithtown Road into the City of Excelsior. Excelsior was approximately one square mile in size with a population of about 2,400. It was founded in 1853 to serve wealthy visitors from New York and Europe, and its numerous antique shops, specialty stores, restaurants, theaters, and B&Bs suggested that it hadn't strayed far from its roots.

I stayed on Smithtown until it became Oak Street and hung a left at the Excelsior Elementary School to see if the Impala would follow. It did.
So you're not just being paranoid after all,
my inner voice told me. Still, by the time I passed the Bird House Inn I had reached a conclusion. Either the kid was told not to lose me at any cost, which meant he didn't care that I knew he was following, or he honestly didn't realize I was onto him, which made him a pitiful amateur.

Either way, you cannot encourage or condone such sinister behavior,
my inner voice said.

I turned right and worked my way back to the county road. I eased the Audi out of Excelsior, caught Highway 7, and drove east between St. Albans Bay and Christmas Lake. I found KBEM-FM on the radio, only they were playing a jazz version of Paul McCartney's “Blackbird.” That would not do at all, I decided, so I fiddled with the MP3 player until I found Billy Idol's cover of “Mony Mony.”

Now that's traveling music.

I checked the rearview. The Chevy Impala had fallen back, allowing two other vehicles to come between us. I downshifted and stepped hard on the gas. “Shoot 'em down turn around come on Mony,” I sang aloud. The Audi accelerated so effortlessly that I didn't know I was topping 90 mph until I glanced down at the speedometer. I checked the rearview again. The Impala had disappeared, yet I kept accelerating anyway, weaving in and around traffic just the way the skills instructor had taught me at the police academy.

I could have slowed down, but why would you own a $65,000 sports car if you can't wring it out every once in a while? Besides, I was carrying my St. Paul Police Department ID; the word
RETIRED
was stamped across the face. In case I was stopped, I had it positioned in my wallet so an officer would easily see it if he demanded to look at my driver's license. That way I wouldn't be embarrassed by asking for a break—see, Officer, I was on the job for eleven and a half years—and he wouldn't be embarrassed by giving me one.

I didn't slow down until I hit I-494, heading north to I-394 and then east again toward Minneapolis. I sang, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

FIVE

I-394 splits at the edge of downtown Minneapolis. Go right and you'll merge with east I-94, which eventually leads to St. Paul. Go left and you'll end up on the doorstep of Target Field, where the Twins play baseball. I went left, worked my way around the ballpark, and drove north until I reached the city's North Loop, also known as the Warehouse District because of the number of old warehouses that had been converted into condos, apartments, boutiques, art galleries, and restaurants. As well as being listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the district was also ranked twelfth on
Forbes
magazine's list of America's Best Hipster Neighborhoods. Which meant that somewhere in the country there were eleven 'hoods where you were even more likely to see people wearing skinny jeans and Clark Kent glasses and saying things like “super sweet,” “stylin',” and “let's bounce.”

I found an open meter in front of Riley Brodin's building. Her address had been included in the packet of information she had sent me. Probably I should have called ahead. It's been my experience, though, that when asking questions sneak attacks nearly always work best.

I climbed the steps and rang her bell. She called down, I identified myself, and Riley buzzed me in. Her condo was on the top floor. She met me at the door. Her makeup had been removed, her ivory hair was plastered to her skull, and she had a lemon-soap smell as if she had just stepped from the shower. It made her seem younger, but not more innocent.

“Did you find him?” she asked. “Did you find Juan Carlos?”

“Not yet.”

Riley's shoulders sagged with the news.

“Then why are you here?” she wanted to know. “Why aren't you out looking for him?”

“We need to talk, Riles. I'm calling you Riles because you said it was the name your close friends use, and I think you're going to need a friend.”

She found a chair and sat down, tucking her bare feet beneath her. I sat across from her.

“What is it?” Riley asked.

“I've been to Navarre's house. It's immaculate to the point that it looks more like a museum than a home.”

“I know. He likes it that way. He said it's because he wants it to look perfect all the time.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

It took a few seconds for me to digest that bit of news. After I did, I said, “One thing about being neat, it makes it easier to notice the things that are missing, and the only thing that's missing from Navarre's house is his computer. His clothes are still there, his toothbrush…”