The Devil May Care (9 page)

“He was being the good cop.”

“Oh, and that makes me the bad cop?”

Shelby's lips became a thin line etched across a granite face. She brought her hand up and pointed at me, didn't say another word. Just pointed.

“I'm ahh, I'm going downstairs, now.”

Shelby didn't answer. Just kept pointing. She was still pointing when I opened the door in the kitchen that led to the basement stairs. A moment later I was standing next to Bobby's sofa in the rec room that I helped him build. He was watching two National League teams trying to take an early lead in their best-of-five playoff series on his HDTV. I knew for a fact that he didn't care for either baseball team, didn't care who won or lost. We didn't speak until the batter hit a lazy fly ball to left.

“I don't know who I'm more concerned about,” he said. “Victoria or Shelby.”

“Think Shelby is overreacting?”

“I don't know. I only know that Victoria, and Katherine, too, for that matter, have never done anything wrong that you and I haven't done ten times worse when we were kids. Shelby, too, if the stories her friends and family tell are true. We turned out all right. Sorta. So, how upset do you allow yourself to get? How tough should the punishment be? It's hard being a good parent these days.”

“I met your children. Someone is doing a pretty decent job.”

Bobby gestured with his head toward the basement steps. “I think so, too, but Shelby isn't in the mood to hear it.”

A few minutes later I had a Leinenkugel and a seat on the sofa.

“Are you just visiting or do you have something in mind?” Bobby asked.

I explained my involvement with Riley Brodin and the Muehlenhauses. That made him laugh. “You never learn, do you?” he said. Then I told him about the kid in the parking lot of Casa del Lago.

“Are you sure?” Bobby asked.

“Black handprint and in the palm the numbers nine-thirty-seven resting on top of
eMe.
” To confirm my claim, I showed him the photograph I had taken, along with a shot of the Chevy Impala's license plate.

“Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia,” Bobby said. “They've been gone for what? Seven years, now? Eight? They were located in West St. Paul; got their name from the address of a car wash on South Robert Street where the founders used to work. It's not even there anymore, the car wash. The DEA, the BCA, and the Westies—they hit them hard—you should remember that. You were still a cop, I think, when that happened. Apparently they had a CI, an inside man that set up the gang. Half of them went to prison; some were absorbed by other Hispanic street gangs—Norteños Fourteen, Latin Kings, BFL. The others got out of the life.”

“Could the gang have been reformed?”

“Not that I heard. Even so, who wears gang sign on a T-shirt? Ink, sure, everyone does tats. Colors. I know of a gang that always wears tan slacks and white shirts with button-down collars. Motorcycle clubs like putting patches on their jackets, their vests. A T-shirt? That's new.”

Bobby paused to drink some beer and watch a few more at-bats. All the while I could see the wheels spinning in his head, and I knew enough not to interrupt the process. Bobby was the best cop I knew—even better than I was. Certainly he was smarter at playing the game than me, not fighting the regs that seemed to be written to keep us from doing our jobs so much as caressing them, massaging them until they yielded exactly what he needed. We started together at the St. Paul Police Department nearly twenty years ago. He was now a commander in the Major Crimes Division.

“Why would anyone wear a T-shirt with the name of a defunct Mexican street gang?” he asked at last.

“Nostalgia?”

Bobby ignored the remark.

“'Course, anyone can wear a T-shirt,” he said. “I've seen you wearing a shirt that claimed you were property of the Minnesota Twins, and we both know that you sucked at baseball.”

“I was a great baseball player.”

Bobby stared straight ahead without answering until the half inning ended. He said, “No, you really weren't,” so softly I barely heard him and then added, “Let me make a few calls,” in a louder voice.

Which was exactly what I wanted to hear.

A short time later I left him and went upstairs. Shelby was sitting in her living room and reading a historical romance novel written by someone named Julie Klassen. The light from the floor lamp made her wheat-colored hair glow and her green eyes sparkle. I watched her for a couple of beats and not for the first time asked myself, What if I had been the one who spilled the drink on her dress way back in college instead of Bobby?

Her eyes lifted from the book and fell on me. She started to smile but fought it back down.

“Permission to speak to the prisoner?” I asked.

“Are you going to give Victoria a hug and tell her everything is going to be fine and dandy, too?”

“No. If it comes up in conversation, though, I might tell her she has the best mother in the world and should listen to her.”

“I behaved like such a bitch, McKenzie.”

“Isn't that part of the job description?”

“She really is a good kid. Isn't she?”

“I always thought so, but then I'm prejudiced.”

“Did I ever thank you for making her and Katie your heirs?”

“Many times. You've also accused me of spoiling them rotten.”

“Yes, and I wish you would stop.”

“I was reminded today that I'm an orphan. That I have no family. I was surprised at how angry it made me after all this time.”

Shelby stared at me for a beat. “At least you have us.” She gave me a dismissive wave and returned to her book. “Go,” she said. “Talk to Victoria. Don't let her think for a second that I'm not still angry.”

I walked upstairs, found Victoria's bedroom door, and knocked. The fifteen-year-old was sitting at her desk, a laptop opened on top of it. She seemed happy to see me.

“Welcome to the gulag,” Victoria said.

I glanced around the bedroom. It seemed to have been decorated by a young woman with plenty of interests and not too many worries. There was an abundance of books, posters of celebrities, and handwritten signs with slogans like “There's no sense arguing over every mistake, you just keep trying till you run out of cake” and “Do something brave every day and then run as fast as you can.” The walls were painted blue. Her closet doors were open, and I could see her clothes suspended on light blue hangers alternating with dark blue hangers and arranged according to color—white, gray, pink, red, green, blue, purple, and black.

Victoria caught me examining her closet and said, “You have to admit, that looks cool.”

“I'm guessing you've been grounded before,” I said.

“Have you heard what I'm in for this time?”

“Yep.”

“God, that was stupid. I was so stupid doing that for a guy. I don't even like him that much. Stupid. God. This could knock me off the honor roll. Do you know I haven't received a grade below an A since the third grade? Then I do this. Mom was right. She said no one who cares about me would ever ask me to do something that put me at risk.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“We're not speaking. She needs me to suffer in silence for a while. Besides, I'm not entirely sure how letting a guy cheat off my chemistry test will lead to sexual abuse, prostitution, or unwanted pregnancy. Still … Have you ever done anything that stupid, McKenzie?”

“Frequently.”

My answer didn't seem to give her much comfort.

“What do you want, anyway?” Victoria asked.

“¿Cómo es tu Español?”

“Mejor que la tuya.”

“Everybody's Spanish is better than mine,” I told her. “I need you to do some research for me.”

“Why not? I'm not going anywhere.”

“There's a hundred bucks in it.”

“Even better.”

I gave her the names Felipe Navarre and Susan Kowitz, as well as Juan Carlos Navarre, and told her that most of the information I wanted would probably be found on Spanish-language Web sites and that it would be at least seven years old.

“Didn't Juan Carlos Navarre play basketball in the Olympics for Spain?” Victoria asked.

“That was Navarro.”

“Oh yeah. Anything specific that you're looking for?”

“Something that proves Juan Carlos is actually Felipe and Susan's son. I'll pay double for a photograph.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later I excused myself from the Dunston household and started driving toward Rickie's. My cell phone played the Ella Fitzgerald–Louis Armstrong cover of “Summertime.” As a rule, I would not have answered it—I don't like to talk on my cell and drive at the same time. The caller ID flashed the name Irene Rogers, though, so I made an exception.

“Reney,” I said.

“McKenzie, thank you so much for the wine. That was very kind of you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“It isn't my birthday, you know.”

“I know.”

She thought that was funny.

“I didn't open the bottle yet, but I will if you join me for dinner tomorrow night. Say, seven o'clock?”

“I'd like that.”

“We can talk some more about Juan Carlos.”

“Did you contact your friends?”

“I did. They said they met Juan Carlos in DC about two and a half months before he showed up at my condo, so the letter of introduction was legitimate. My friend, though, she told me that up until he knocked on their door, she had no idea that Felipe and Susan had a son.”

“He just showed up out of the blue?”

“He did. Speaking of which, there's someone knocking on my door now. I need to go. Tomorrow at seven here at the club?”

“I'll be there.”

*   *   *

Two blocks later, Ella sang to me again. This time the display read
SHEILA BRODIN
, and I wondered, Why do so many people have my cell number?

“This is McKenzie,” I said.

“This is Sheila Brodin,” the voice replied. “I wish to speak to you about my daughter.”

“Ma'am—”

“Don't call me ma'am. Do you know where Porterhouse is?”

“The steak house in Little Canada?”

“Meet me.”

I had questions, such as when and how would I recognize her. Sheila hung up before I could ask them.

*   *   *

I arrived ten minutes later. Porterhouse was crowded and noisy. All of the dining room tables and booths were occupied and the maître d' was surrounded by unseated customers clamoring for attention. The small bar was just as packed by men and women who drank expensive cocktails while waiting for their names to be called. I had no idea how I was going to locate Sheila Brodin in that busy throng, and then I did. She was the only person sitting alone—at a small table in the corner. I made my way to her side. She was wearing a sheer black blouse that revealed shadows of what lay beneath and a tan linen skirt with a high slit on the side. She glanced up at me as if she had expected a man to be looking down her shirt.

“McKenzie?” she asked.

“Mrs. Brodin.”

“Call me Sheila.”

She gestured at the chair opposite her. She squirmed in her seat and drew the fingers of both hands through her shoulder-length hair as I sat. Her hair was the dark red that you see in very old furniture, and her face combined the pleasant features of a Mrs. America contestant with the expression of an executioner. I figured she perfected the look by studying the models in
Vogue.
Even with the table between us I could feel the heat radiating from her body.

“Drink?” she asked.

“Later.”

The smile came and went so quickly that I almost didn't see it. She might have thought I was suggesting a relationship beyond the moment. I wasn't, though. She reminded me of a cat, and not one of those domestic breeds, either. Something big enough to bring down a full-grown man. I suspected she had many kills in her time. I wasn't going to be one of them.

“What do you think of me, McKenzie?” she asked.

It was an awkward question, especially considering what I
was
thinking of her, and I didn't answer it.

“You know of me, don't you?” she said. “You know what they say.”

“I really don't.”

“Whore. Slut. Adulterous. Depraved bitch.”

“I hadn't even heard your name until your mother mentioned it a couple of hours ago.”

“My mother? That paragon of chastity and goodness?”

“Mrs. Brodin, what do you want of me?”

“I'm a mother, too. Are you sure you don't want a drink?”

I shook my head. She finished hers in one gulp and stood.

“The service is iffy when it's this crowded,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

I watched her as she moved to the bar. Others watched her as well. She knew it, too—her walk was meant to catch the eye. When she returned with a fresh drink, she said, “How is Riley?”

“Confused,” I said. “Worried.”

“About Juan Carlos?”

“You're aware of him, then?”

“Of course. Riley brought him over to the house, which she's never done with any man. That's the reason I asked to speak to you. I want you to do something for me, McKenzie. I'll pay for it any way you like.”

Any way?
my inner voice said.

“What?” I asked.

“Let Riley have her chance.”

“Her chance for what?”

“Happiness. Don't ruin it for her the way they ruined it for me. Riley is a brilliant girl and beautiful, and she's been put through so much, not just by me, but by all of them. She deserves her chance. I don't want you fouling it up.”

“Why would I do that?”

“If you take Muehlenhaus money, you do as Muehlenhaus says.”