“Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “I’d like to speak to the supervisor.”
One of the two guards stood and offered his hand.
“Travis Toft,” he said. “I’m the watch commander.”
Harry liked hearing that, watch commander. It was a police term. It meant Toft was an ex-cop; a professional.
“Two days ago, a man named Rushmore McKenzie was escorted from a shareholders’ meeting held in the auditorium of this building,” Harry repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He violated the golden rule,” Toft said.
“He who has the gold makes the rules?”
“That’s the one.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“It was a private meeting, held only for shareholders and invited guests. Our employer believed that Mr. McKenzie was there under false pretenses. We were asked to remove him and hold him until his identity and intentions could be verified.”
“Hold him?”
“We have a—a private reception area in back.”
Toft threw a thumb over his shoulder in case Harry wanted to know where “in back” was located.
“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?” Harry said. “Some might even consider your actions akin to false imprisonment.”
“Mr. McKenzie had called our marketing department earlier that morning claiming to be a journalist employed by the Minneapolis / St. Paul Business Journal. That was a lie. We have the call on tape, by the way.”
“How long did you hold him?”
“A half hour. After the shareholders’ meeting, Mr. King came down and spoke to him.”
“Charles King?”
“Porter King,” Toft said. “Charles was not on the premises Tuesday afternoon.”
“What did they speak about?”
“I don’t know. We were asked to leave the room while Mr. King and McKenzie spoke privately.”
“Afterward?”
“They emerged from the room, shook hands, and went their separate ways.”
“They shook hands?”
“Whatever their differences, they seemed to have been resolved.”
“I would like to speak to Mr. King,” Harry said.
“He is not on the premises.”
“Since you guys seem to enjoy quoting regulations”—Harry thrust his jaw at the first guard—“Section 1001 of Title Eighteen of the United States Code, prohibits you from knowingly and willfully making false or fraudulent statements, or concealing information, in any matter within the jurisdiction of the federal government of the United States. It’s the reason why Martha Stewart went to jail.”
Toft folded his arms across the front of his suit jacket and grinned.
“Really, Special Agent Wilson,” he said. “You felt the need to pull that card out of the deck? Up until now I thought we were friends.”
Harry grinned back.
“That was cheap, I apologize,” he said. “However, it’s important that I speak with Mr. King.”
“You could try his home.”
FIFTEEN
Bobby didn’t want to have lunch with Shelby, much less with Nina, much less with the two of them together for the simple reason that he knew they were going to ask a lot of questions that he didn’t have the answers to. Still, he explained as much as he could, including why he wasn’t actually working the investigation himself.
“I’m afraid I might become so angry or frustrated that I’ll screw it up,” he said. “Take Justus Reinfeld. There’s a certain subtlety involved in questioning a suspect…”
“Reinfeld is a suspect?” Nina asked.
“Of course he is. A lot of suspects love to talk to the police, too, because they think they can convince us that they’re not suspects. Thank the Lord for that because, seriously, it makes our job so much easier. Apparently Reinfeld is a smart man, though. If he saw me coming he’d lawyer up in a heartbeat and I would never get to question him. Ever. I don’t know how I’d react to that, all things considered. Probably badly. As it is, the only reason Reinfeld agreed to speak to Greg Schroeder in the first place is because he was afraid of Riley Muehlenhaus. Now that he’s had time to think about it … I don’t know.”
Normally, Bobby never spoke of his work outside the office. Not to anyone, much less family and friends, except from time to time to tell a few “fucktard” stories. Partly it was because he didn’t want to inadvertently compromise an investigation. Mostly, though, it was because he felt it wasn’t something he should do; one of the reasons he didn’t have many friends in the news media.
As it was, he felt uncomfortable as he nibbled at his shaved ham and poached pear sandwich, something new to Rickie’s lunch menu. He had even argued with Nina over paying for it. Finally, she told him that if he felt that guilty about being comped, Bobby should do what I always did—leave a tip for the waitstaff big enough to pay for the meal, because he wasn’t going to ever see a bill.
It was because he felt uncomfortable, Bobby told me later, that he didn’t notice the man-and-woman surveillance team studying their table until he was nearly half-finished with his sandwich.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial drawl.
“Man and woman sitting at a table off your left shoulder,” he said.
“Oh, my bodyguards.” Nina spun in her chair and spoke to them across the restaurant. “How are you guys doing?”
The woman raised her wineglass in a salute. The man smiled and said, “Best job I’ve ever had.”
“If you need anything just let me know.”
“Thank you,” the woman said.
“Tell us when you’re ready to go back to the hospital,” the man said.
“Not for a while yet,” Nina said.
Nina turned to face Bobby again.
“Ron and Celeste,” she said. “They’re very nice. I think they’re sweet on each other. Greg Schroeder sent them.”
Bobby nodded as if he knew all along.
“There’s another sitting at the bar,” Nina said. “Steve.”
“I missed him.”
“I did, too, at first.”
“I’m glad they’re here.”
“Me, too.”
“Especially after what happened at the hospital,” Bobby said.
“What happened at the hospital?”
Bobby related the contents of a phone conversation he shared with Dr. Lillian Linder just a few minutes before he went to meet Nina and Shelby.
“They’re still after McKenzie,” Nina said. “Whoever they are.”
“Yes,” Bobby said.
“Why?”
“He’s vulnerable,” Shelby said.
They were the first words she had spoken in some time and they nearly startled her companions.
“What did you say?” Nina asked.
“Reinfeld. He’s vulnerable.”
“What does that mean?” Bobby asked.
“You said Reinfeld only spoke to Schroeder because he was afraid of Riley Muehlenhaus. That has to be nagging at him right now. He lost his nerve because of a freckle-faced young woman…”
“I like Riley’s freckles,” Nina said.
“That has to be driving an alpha male like him up the wall. He’ll want to do something about it. He’ll want to do something”—Shelby quoted the air above her head—“manly. Something to prove that he’s still a real man, a man’s man; a man that women want.”
“Like sending someone to threaten Nina?” Bobby asked. “Sending someone to threaten McKenzie some more?”
“If Reinfeld met the right woman right now, at this minute. A catch. A prize.” Shelby quoted the air again. “A trophy that other men would covet, he’d spill his guts.”
Bobby had to give it a few moments’ thought before he realized what Shelby was suggesting.
“Hell no,” he said.
“I know the perfect girl, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
* * *
Lake Minnetonka was a “lake” in the same way that van Gogh’s The Starry Night was a “painting.” The word didn’t quite do it justice. For one thing, Lake Minnetonka—or “Big Water” if you speak Dakota—was less a lake than a sprawling maze of interconnected bays, inlets, channels, peninsulas, and islands with a water surface that covered twenty-three square miles and a shoreline that stretched for one hundred and fifty miles. It would take a couple of hours to drive around it and when you did, you’d be passing through some of the most prosperous zip codes in Minnesota. To own a home on the actual lake—what’s the old joke? If you have to ask you can’t afford it? I know I personally couldn’t afford it and there are people like Jean Shipman who insist I’m a member of the one percent.
The address in Orono that Harry had been given was located on the north shore of a bay called West Arm. An enormous house surrounded by an immense emerald lawn that sloped gently to the lake. Given the size of the house, the unattached four-car garage, the elaborate gazebo, the two-hundred-foot-long shoreline braced with a wall of enormous stones, the wide, wooden dock, its planks covered with water-resistant polyurethane, and the huge boat that was moored to the dock, Harry expected to be greeted by a maid or butler when he knocked on the front door. Instead, it was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a Minnesota Twins sweatshirt.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. King?”
“I’m Porter King.”
Harry flashed his credentials.
“Special Agent Brian Wilson, FBI,” he said.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Porter said.
Harry nodded at the admission.
“Your security people are very good at their jobs,” he said. “Very professional.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Porter looked over Harry’s shoulder toward the person standing directly behind him. “You are?”
“My name is Greg Schroeder. I’m a private investigator.”
“Yes, of course. Riley’s man. Come in, both of you.”
They stepped past Porter into the foyer of the house. From there Harry could gaze into other rooms and admire the exquisite furnishings and artworks they contained. His first thought was to wipe his feet. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Porter.
“I know,” he said. “The place is like a museum. Sometimes I find myself walking around throw rugs and hesitating to sit on chairs for fear a guard will toss me out.”
Porter started moving through the house. Harry and Schroeder followed behind.
“You don’t live here?” Harry said.
“I live in Linden Hills in Minneapolis. I live in the house we all grew up in, which is a pretty nice house in a pretty nice neighborhood, but this…” He spread his arms wide as if he was having a hard time taking it all in. “This is spectacular, don’t you think? Charles lives here. Charles loves spectacular. Gentlemen, can I get you anything?”
Porter had led them into a room with plenty of shelves that held plenty of books; Harry didn’t know if it was a library or a study or if there was a difference.
“Nothing for me,” he said.
“I’m good,” Schroeder said.
“Gentlemen, you’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?” Porter drifted to one of the shelves and nudged the spine of a book. “Watch this.”
A large section of the bookcase slid one foot forward and silently glided off to the side. The small bar that it revealed rolled slowly out into the room. Porter chuckled as he watched.
“It never gets old,” he said.
There was a small refrigerator built into the base of the bar. Porter bent down, opened it, and retrieved a dark brown longneck bottle with simple gold lettering. He held it up for Harry and Schroeder to see.
“Westvleteren Twelve, I hope I’m pronouncing that correctly,” Porter said. “Brewed in Belgium. Some say it’s the best beer in the world.”
“Since you’ve already gone to so much trouble,” Schroeder said.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Harry said. “I’m supposed to be on duty.”
Porter popped the tops off two bottles and handed them out. He kept a third for himself. The three men sat in comfortable chairs that had already been arranged so that they faced each other as if the space was often used for informal gatherings. After Harry and Schroeder had a chance to sample the beer, Porter asked them what they thought. Both said they thought it was terrific.
“It’s a little a bit fruity for me,” Porter said. “Charles loves it, though. So, guys, our people say you want to talk about McKenzie.”
“Excuse me, Mr. King—” Schroeder began.
“Porter, please. You say Mr. King and I automatically turn around to see if my brother is standing there.”
“Porter, you’re aware that I’m employed by Riley Brodin-Mulally?” Schroeder asked.
“Riley called us earlier this morning. Darling girl. Smart as hell. Fierce. She reminds me of my niece, Emma.”
“Why would she do that? Call you, I mean?”
“Apparently, you had informed her this morning that our mutual friend Justus Reinfeld was engaged in less than scrupulous stock manipulation. She felt compelled to pass the information on to us.”
“You and Riley are friends?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to claim that. More like acquaintances with a common interest—we both dislike Reinfeld intensely. We were grateful for the call, of course. However, we were already aware of his machinations.”
“McKenzie,” Harry said.
“Interesting man.”
“He does have his moments.”
“We believe that McKenzie revealed to us what little intelligence he possessed in an effort to prove that he was a friend and not a foe, but again, we knew about Reinfeld’s somewhat nefarious activities long before our little get-together.”
“Get-together?” Harry asked. “You make it sound friendly. In actuality, you had McKenzie taken into custody, escorted from the shareholders’ meeting, and locked in a cell—isn’t that so?”
“Locked? Hardly. McKenzie was always free to leave at any time. He stayed because he wanted to talk to us. Truthfully, we wanted to talk to him. He had made quite a nuisance of himself in an attempt to ingratiate himself with our family; even met with my niece and her cousin near their school. Because of the lies he told—calling himself Dee Dee, claiming to be a reporter working for a local business magazine among others—we had assumed at first that he was in league with Reinfeld. That’s what my sister Jenna and our cousin Marshall claimed anyway. Seeing the two of them together at the shareholders’ meeting seemed to support that theory. Finally, we decided enough was enough. Let’s find out what the man wants. I must admit that McKenzie surprised us. Believe me when I tell you that we are not a family that is easily surprised.”
“How did he surprise you?” Harry asked.
“He claimed that DNA evidence gathered by an ancestry site suggested that he was our brother, half brother.”
“Is that possible?” Schroeder asked.
“Oh, yes. Our father … We won’t discuss him today. But yes, it is conceivable—do you like that word, conceivable? It’s conceivable that McKenzie is our brother.”
“That must have been upsetting news,” Harry said.
“Not at all.” Porter took a long sip of his ale. “When McKenzie first approached us, approached Marshall and his daughter Elliot, we viewed him with suspicion. Granted, our judgment was colored by both his lies and Reinfeld’s activities. Still, the reason that Charles submitted his own DNA to the ancestry site—actually, gentlemen, we are now drifting into an area that is, if you’ll excuse me, none of your business.”
“Oh, c’mon, Porter.”
The three spun in their chairs toward the doorway to the study. A man stood there, his arm supported by a woman. He was tall with blond hair—only about four percent of the male population in America had blond hair; something Harry had learned in the course of his employment. The man looked o
ld and tired.
“The news is going to get out sooner or later,” he said. “We can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Gentlemen,” Porter said. “This is my younger brother, Charles, and my even younger sister, Jenna.”
Both Harry and Schroeder stood; Porter did not. Jenna helped Charles to an empty chair facing all the other chairs. Charles didn’t offer to shake hands with the men and they didn’t offer to shake hands with him.
“Don’t worry,” Charles said. “I’m not contagious. I don’t have the virus or anything like it. I have a liver disease. Primary sclerosing cholangitis to be precise.”
Jenna helped Charles sit and stepped away from the chair. She looked as worn out as Charles did. Though much smaller than her brother, she also had blond hair—about four percent of American women are natural blonds, the remaining forty percent have blond hair because that’s the way they want it. Hers was cut short.
“I’m sorry to hear that you’re ill,” Schroeder said.
“Thank you,” Charles said. “I see you found the Westvleteren.”
Schroeder told me later that Charles King reminded him of a character in a Raymond Chandler novel, The Big Sleep, Schroeder’s favorite. Because of one ailment or another, General Sternwood couldn’t drink, so he took pleasure in watching Philip Marlowe drink. “Nice state of affairs when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy,” Sternwood said in the book. “It’s pretty pathetic when the only pleasure I get these days is watching other people drink my booze, but there you are,” Charles said in his library. “I have a case of scotch that I bought in Edinburgh over the winter. You guys should take a few bottles when you leave.”
“Then what will we use to toast your recovery?” Porter asked.
“Good point. Never mind.”
“Mr. King…” Schroeder said.
“Charles.”
“Charles, we’re told that you’re aware that Justus Reinfeld is making a move on KTech…”
“You might say we’ve encouraged it.”
“Encouraged it?”
“We understood that once Charles stopped coming into the office, once he stopped appearing in public, shareholders would become anxious and start unloading their stock,” Porter said. “The price would decline.”
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 22
