“Mr. Reinfeld? My name is Detective Jean Shipman. I’m with the St. Paul Police Department.”
“Goddammit.”
“Excuse me?”
The phone went silent. At first Shipman thought Reinfeld had hung up on her. A few moments later, however, a female voice repeated the question “Who is this?”
“Like I said, I’m Detective Jean Shipman of the St. Paul Police Department.”
“How dare you call Mr. Reinfeld’s private number?”
“If I might be allowed to speak with Mr. Reinfeld…”
“Concerning what matter?”
“I could explain that his private number was on the cell phone of a man who was shot Tuesday evening just minutes after Mr. Reinfeld called him.”
“What does this have to do with Mr. Reinfeld?”
“Good question,” Shipman said. “If we could arrange a time for me to speak with—”
“Absolutely not.”
“It would save a lot of time and trouble.”
“Mr. Reinfeld is under no legal obligation to answer your questions. However, if you wish to submit your questions in writing I will ask him if he cares to respond. Under no circumstances, however, will you be allowed to subject him to a police interrogation.”
“You are?”
The voice identified herself as an attorney in the employ of AUI—that’s how she identified the company.
“One of many,” she said.
“We are not accusing Mr. Reinfeld of anything…” Shipman said.
“I should hope not.”
“We merely wish to learn if he can help us investigate—”
“As I said, you may forward your questions via email.”
“I understand your desire to protect Mr. Reinfeld’s reputation…” Shipman said.
“What does that mean?”
“According to my research, he’s scheduled to receive a plaque at the Ordway Center Saturday evening commemorating his many philanthropic endeavors.”
“How dare you?”
“You keep asking that,” Shipman said. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“By making scurrilous accusations?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything.”
“You’d be happy to drag Justus Reinfeld into a police station in front of every TV camera crew and newspaper vulture that you can find, though, wouldn’t you? You’d love that? Get your face on television.”
“I’d be happy to speak to him under the most private conditions he’d care to arrange with you and your whole army of attorneys holding his hand.”
“Outrageous.”
“What I find outrageous is that neither you nor Mr. Reinfeld has bothered to ask who was shot or what condition he’s in. It makes me think that you already know.”
This time Shipman was sure—they hung up on her.
“Dammit,” she said.
“What?”
Shipman looked up to find Bobby Dunston hovering above her desk.
“Hey, boss,” she said.
“What?”
“I hit a snag. One of the people who had spoken to McKenzie on his cell just before he was shot refuses to talk to us.”
“Who?”
“Justus Reinfeld.”
“Where have I heard that name before?”
Shipman explained.
“He refuses to submit to an interview?” Bobby said.
“That’s what his lawyers say.”
“Which is his right.”
“Also what his lawyers say.”
Bobby thought about it for a moment.
“Perhaps we can get him to change his mind,” he said. “Why don’t you come into my office? You can give me a full briefing on what you have so far and then we’ll make a few calls.”
* * *
Nina’s long, therapeutic cry and the midnight coffee she had with Dr. Linder afterward seemed to have done her good. At least, she slept comfortably all the way through what was left of the night, rousing only when her cell rang. Unfortunately, the ringtone jolted her wide awake as if it heralded the worst possible news. Her heart was beating wildly as she fumbled for the phone; the caller ID said Shelby. That didn’t make her feel any better.
“What is it?” she said.
“Nina? It’s Shelby. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, no, I was—I was startled. Sorry if I was rude…”
“You weren’t rude.”
“What is it?”
“I’m calling—do you want company? At the hospital, I mean? I know that they’re planning to bring McKenzie out of his coma this morning.”
“No.”
“If you would rather be alone…”
“No, I wouldn’t rather be alone. Shel, that’s not what I meant. I meant—I’m still half asleep, honey…”
“I did wake you up. I’m so sorry.”
“Hang on a sec.”
Nina tossed the covers back and swung her legs off the bed. The mere act of standing seemed to bring her completely back into the real world. She left the bedroom and moved into the kitchen area, her final destination being the coffeemaker. Nina spoke as she walked.
“I spent some time with Lilly last night,” she said. “She gave me a kind of tutorial on how all of this works. She said if your critically ill loved one is a straightforward admission to intensive care following elective or planned surgery or a soft admission because of some minor emergency, then your critically ill loved one should come off the respirator and out of the induced coma within twelve to seventy-two hours.”
“Your critically ill loved one?” Shelby repeated.
“Sometimes Lilly speaks as if we’re all sixth graders who have been held back a year.”
“I’ve noticed that about doctors.”
“I like her though.”
“What else did she say?” Shelby asked.
“She said if your critically ill loved one…”
“Stop saying that.”
“McKenzie was a more complicated admission, more unstable partly because of the damage caused by the bullet and partly because he suffered cardiac arrest during surgery. In his case, Lilly said they might keep him in a coma upwards from seventy-two hours. Possibly even a week.”
“Why didn’t she tell us that in the first place?”
“Because she didn’t know. She still doesn’t. At least not for sure.”
“What does she know?”
“She was very positive, Shel. Very encouraging. She said she’d make a decision sometime this afternoon. She said she’d call this afternoon.”
“All right.”
“Something else.”
“What?”
“She said waking up a coma patient isn’t like turning on a bedroom light in the morning and telling your kid it’s time to get ready for school. She said it’s more like a process.”
“Believe me, getting the girls ready for school is a process.”
“She said McKenzie will wake up gradually once they start eliminating the drugs from his system and even when he does he’ll probably be disoriented and confused.”
“Why should he be different from the rest of us? What are you going to do, Nina?”
“Go to Rickie’s and wait for Lilly to call. What else can I do?”
“Let me buy you lunch.”
“Why don’t you come to the club and I’ll buy you lunch. That way I can introduce you to my bodyguards.”
“You have bodyguards? Why?”
“Some guy came into Rickie’s yesterday and threatened me.”
“Wait. What? Does Bobby know this?”
“I told him and I assume he told Greg Schroeder because not long after that his guys started following me around.”
“Who’s Greg Schroeder?”
“A private investigator that owes McKenzie a favor.”
* * *
Unlike KTech, All Uppercase Investments didn’t have its own building. Instead, it occupied three of the forty-two floors of the Campb
ell Mithun Tower in downtown Minneapolis, named after an advertising and marketing firm that doesn’t even exist anymore. Greg Schroeder took the elevator to the first of the three floors; it wouldn’t stop on the next two. The doors opened to reveal an opulent reception area with comfortable furnishings and huge windows that looked out on buildings nearly as tall as the tower. In the center of the reception area was a high mahogany desk with the letters AUI artfully carved into it. Behind the desk stood two women, one brunette and one blonde, who looked as if they both could be runway models. Schroeder made his way to the desk. He noticed that there were no chairs behind it and Schroeder imagined the models strutting about all day on three-inch heels like the girls you see caressing cars at the auto show.
The women spoke first.
“Good morning,” they said in unison.
“Good morning.”
“How can we help you?” asked the blonde.
“I’d like to see Mr. Reinfeld,” Schroeder said.
“Mr. Reinfeld doesn’t accept visitors without an appointment,” said the brunette. “Is there someone else who might be able to help you?”
“How do you know that I don’t have an appointment?”
“He would have told us who to expect and when.”
“He coordinates that closely with you?”
“We are given that privilege,” the blonde said.
“During business hours,” the brunette added.
“I haven’t even told you my name,” Schroeder said.
“Mr. Reinfeld would have told us your name…” the brunette said.
“If you had an appointment,” the blonde said.
“Nonetheless, I’m sure he would agree to see me if you would be kind enough to inform him that I’m here.”
“So many people say that who are soon briskly escorted by security out of the building. Some kicking and screaming.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The brunette smiled almost gleefully as if she was looking forward to watching the scenario unfold.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Riley Muehlenhaus.”
* * *
Schroeder had been standing near the windows and gazing more or less at U.S. Bank Stadium. He had attempted to locate his own office but failed because it was too close to the ground. The ding of a bell caused him to spin around. Turned out there was a second elevator that Schroeder hadn’t realized was there until a wall slid open. A fiftyish-year-old man wearing Nikes, blue jeans, a white shirt with button-down collar, and a goatee that made him look like a villain in a superhero comic book stepped out. He looked around, saw nothing that interested him, and moved quickly toward the reception desk.
“Mr. Reinfeld,” the brunette said.
“Where is she?” he asked.
The two models glanced at each other.
“She?” the blonde asked.
“Riley Muehlenhaus.”
They both gestured at Schroeder who was making his way toward the desk.
“He’s not Riley goddamn Muehlenhaus,” the man said. “Didn’t you at least check his ID?”
The brunette grabbed a phone, hit a button, and spoke loudly.
“Security,” she said.
“Mr. Reinfeld,” Schroeder said.
Reinfeld averted his gaze as if Schroeder was a particularly gruesome accident he didn’t want to witness and headed back toward the hidden elevator.
Schroeder pulled his cell from his pocket, tapped a couple of links, and held it up for everyone to see and hear. The screen was filled with the image of a young woman with brown hair and a face liberally sprinkled with freckles. She was smiling when she spoke.
“Justus, I just want you to know how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to help my friends…”
Reinfeld stopped and stared.
“I am aware, of course, of the unfortunate dealings you’ve had with my family in the past. My grandfather was not kind to you…”
Two well-dressed security guards stepped off the public elevator. Another two appeared from around the corner. They both looked to the brunette for instructions. She pointed at Schroeder.
“So for you to make an effort to help the authorities—and me—discover who shot my dear friend McKenzie, that is an act of kindness and generosity that I simply cannot help but acknowledge…”
Reinfeld held up his hand like a traffic cop; stalling the four guards in their tracks.
“You must know how important McKenzie is to me. He literally saved my life and I would do anything for him in return…”
Reinfeld waved at the guards; dismissing them. They vacated the reception area without a word even as Reinfeld moved slowly forward until he was standing directly in front of Schroeder and staring at the image on the phone.
“I will be in attendance at the Ordway Saturday evening in St. Paul when you accept your award. I hope to express my gratitude to you in person. Again, Justus, thank you.”
Schroeder tapped a few more icons and slipped the cell back into his pocket.
“McKenzie really did save Riley’s life,” he said. “Her grandfather tried to keep the story out of the papers, away from the media, because of his disdain for publicity. But then you know Mr. Muehlenhaus personally, don’t you? You know the power he wields. Still, the story got out anyway, how Riley was kidnapped and what McKenzie did to save her. You should know that Riley has been searching for ways to reward him ever since. Only McKenzie keeps blowing her off, saying that her smile and her thank-you are more than sufficient. Riley is determined, though. Were you invited to her wedding?”
“No one was invited to her wedding,” Reinfeld said. “It was a very private affair.”
“McKenzie was there. You’ve met McKenzie, if I’m not mistaken.”
Reinfeld glanced over his shoulder at the models manning the reception desk. Both were pretending to be interested in something else.
“Dammit,” he said.
* * *
Emma King had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. Now she was having difficulty concentrating in class, something that rarely happened to her. She had been a terrific student her entire academic life, better than her mother even and her mother, Emma’s uncles had often assured her, was the smartest person either of them had ever met. ’Course, that was then. Now …
Now, Emma wasn’t sure where to turn. It was clear that her family could no longer be trusted. At least not about this. And Elliot, sweet, caring Elliot, the kindest person she knew, had been paralyzed by her kindness, unable to make a decision.
“We should just wait and see what happens,” Elliot had said over breakfast.
Which wasn’t necessarily bad advice, Emma decided. “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time,” she remembered Leo Tolstoy writing in War and Peace.
On the other hand, Benjamin Franklin said, “You may delay, but time will not,” and for the past few weeks Emma had felt as if she had been living in the top half of an hourglass; the sand slowly disappearing beneath her feet. There couldn’t be more than a couple weeks of it left.
Instead of listening to the lecture, she fingered the business card that Detective Jean Shipman had given to her the evening before. Only she didn’t trust the police officer, either. Shipman, Emma decided, was only interested in finding someone to lock up and that wouldn’t solve her problem.
It was only after the lecture had concluded and her fellow students were filing out of the classroom that Emma decided to visit her uncle.
* * *
Schroeder was shocked at how dark Reinfeld’s office was. There was an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with what must have been a spectacular view of the city, except the drapes had been tightly drawn. The only lights in the large room came from a small lamp with a green shade sitting on a table near the door and three flat-screen computer monitors arranged in a semicircle on a mahogany desk shaped like a half-moon. One of the screens was devoted to the constantly updated stock p
rices listed on the Dow, S&P 500, Russell 2000, NASDAQ, and Euronext.
Reinfeld stood in the middle of the office and glanced around as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. He glared at Schroeder.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Schroeder recited his name and occupation. He produced his credentials as if to prove he was telling the truth, only Reinfeld ignored them. He made his way to the large windows and opened the drapes just far enough to allow a narrow shaft of bright sunlight to divide the room in half. Reinfeld stood on one side; Schroeder on the other.
“Are you working for the police?” Reinfeld asked.
“I’m working for Ms. Muehlenhaus.”
“I heard that Riley doesn’t like that name; that she insists on being called Brodin-Mulally, her married name,” Reinfeld said.
“She’s trying to project a kinder, more caring image than her grandfather had. I wouldn’t trust it, though.”
“Did she tell you what her grandfather did to me?”
“No.”
Reinfeld stepped into the shaft of sunshine and gazed out the window. For a moment, Schroeder thought he was going to tell him the story, only he didn’t. Instead, he backed out of the light and spun to face Schroeder.
“What I tell you can’t go any farther than this office,” he said.
“I can’t promise that.”
“What can you promise?”
“Very little.”
“I get that you’ll report to Riley…”
“Yes.”
“Tell her everything I say.”
“Word for word.”
“What about the police?” Reinfeld asked.
Schroeder lifted his hand the way he does and let it fall.
“I don’t work for the police,” he said.
Reinfeld nodded as if he was satisfied with the answer.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
“No one says that you did.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“McKenzie,” Schroeder said.
“McKenzie is a…”
“Yes?”
“McKenzie is a friend of Riley Muehlenhaus. I didn’t know that at the time.”
“What do you know?”
Reinfeld told him:
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 19
