by Matt Goldman
Mel Rosenthal was the opposite of her sister, Anne: understated with no cry for attention. Not with dyed, chopped hair nor vintage store clothing nor little fucking dog. My lips found soft, pale skin. She gasped with each of my discoveries. A narrow waist and hips that were both round and slim at the same time. Thighs that felt preserved by time. She came hard with a violent seizure-like wave through her entire body. It lasted a long time. A downpour of tears followed.
I let her cry. She’d hoarded so much pain and desire. It was nested inside her and would take years to clear it out. A few minutes later I lay on my back, and she took me into her. She came again, almost immediately, even more violently. Her head fell to my good shoulder and she shook and cried herself dry.
She said, “Oh God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“If I hadn’t had sex in two years, I would have come when you introduced yourself at the Xcel Center.”
She laughed and said, “I’m spent. Your turn.”
“Let’s go in the bedroom.”
We did. I apologized for never learning how to do one-handed push-ups and, if she didn’t mind, I’d have to roll onto my back again. She said “Just like Jack Kennedy” and, despite saying she was done, came a third time, and I joined her. I would have liked to take credit for her three-hit night, but celibacy had pumped her primer for two years. The only thing I did was give her a warm body and safe place. She rolled onto her back and stared at the factory ceiling high above the bedroom walls.
I hated to do what I was about to do, but it was the only way to get an honest reaction. She hadn’t caught her breath yet. She was as vulnerable as she could be. I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the digital recorder. “I have something I want you to hear. I recorded it today.”
I pressed play. The voices talked about a GPS device and weather forecasts. Mel Rosenthal lit up. “That’s Linnea! She’s okay! You recorded this today?!”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Oh, thank God. Do you know where she is?”
“I don’t. But someone tipped off Linnea after she disappeared.”
“What do you mean tipped off?”
“Someone is or has been in contact with her. They told her I was on the case, and she told the kid who told me to stop looking for her.”
Mel pulled the sheet up to her shoulders then rolled onto her side. “Do you think I’ve been in contact with her? I told you last night—”
“No. I don’t think it’s you.” I kissed her. She looked confused. “I just had to make sure. Because it was either you or Anne or Roger.”
“Anne wouldn’t—”
“Anne couldn’t. It was Roger. He hired me to find Linnea, but I think the biggest reason he hired me was to find a hundred thousand dollars that went missing with Linnea.”
“What are you talking about?”
I told Mel about the paper bag in Winnie Haas’s laundry chute.
“And you think Linnea stole Roger’s hundred thousand dollars?”
“I think Linnea knew Roger was up to something illegal. I don’t know how, but that hundred grand was part of something that helped fund NorthTech. Linnea found out about it and took the money. Maybe for herself or just to spite Roger or in some Robin Hood kind of way.”
“Then how did it end up at Winnie Haas’s house?”
“It’s just a hunch, but I think Winnie Haas replaced you.”
“But Ben Haas—”
“He’s either a good liar or he doesn’t know.”
“But how could Linnea and Winnie Haas become so close?”
“If you’d seen Ben with his mother you’d get it. They talked like parents and kids don’t usually talk. About sex. About boundaries. About love. Any kid who had a crap relationship with her parents would fantasize about having Winnie for a mom. You could tell her anything. She listened, didn’t judge, but was in charge. Still the mom. It’s got to be comforting to have a parent who is your friend but also your guide, someone who sets the rules based on an intimate knowledge of you, not some arbitrary bullshit she got from Dr. Phil or a mommy blog.”
“I try to be that kind of mom for Ivy.”
“And I bet you succeed. Do you know who the boy with the Spanish accent is?”
“No.”
“Did you know Linnea came to the Cities with Haley Housh some weekends?”
“Yes. Anne told me she visited a couple times.”
“More than a couple. My guess is Linnea befriended the boy with the accent. His name is Miguel Maeda. Linnea took him in like another stray. Then he got deported for tagging. I know. Don’t ask. Now she’s run off to help sneak him back into the country. Does she have any friends or relatives who live in the Southwest?”
“None that I know of.”
I cupped my right hand under Mel’s head. She pressed its full weight into my palm. I said, “I’m sorry I had to play you that tape when I did. I really am. I just…” I didn’t want to say what I intended to say.
“What?”
Mel’s gray eyes glowed soft and kind. “I like you a whole lot so I had to eliminate any possibility you’re in contact with Linnea. Just the possibility of it would ruin things. It’s like standing in a picturesque trout stream with fish rising but you forgot your fishing license. The slight chance of the game warden showing up wrecks the experience.”
“Really?” She smiled. “You’re comparing me to a day of fishing?”
“A great day of fishing on a pristine stream. The best day ever.”
She kissed my bandaged shoulder then lay her head on my chest and said, “Want to have an uncomfortable conversation?”
“I thought we just did.”
“I need to be up front about something.”
“Please.”
“I don’t mean to put any pressure on this. I have no expectations. I promise. I don’t have an empty space in my heart that needs to be filled. I’m not looking for you to solve anything.”
“Okay…”
“But if this would turn into anything more than tonight. Or more than a few nights. You have to understand I may never get over Howard. I may always be in love with him.”
I let that sit a moment, stroked Mel’s soft, straight hair, then said, “Perfect.”
“I’m sorry, Nils, it’s just that—”
“No. I’m not being sarcastic. If this turns into a relationship, I’m okay with you still being in love with Howard.”
“Really?”
“It’s the best possible situation.”
“Okay, you’re weird.”
“I was dating someone for a year until yesterday.”
“What?”
“She broke up with me just before I went to the hockey game. And you know why? Because she’d realized I’m not over my ex-wife. I don’t want to be in love with my ex-wife. I don’t want to see her or even talk to her. I can’t get her out of me though. She’s like a piece of shrapnel that’s lodged in my heart. Can’t cut it out. Got to live with it.”
“That’s sad. But you don’t sound sad when you say it.”
“I’m not.”
“Do you think there’s a chance you’ll get back together?”
“Nope. Almost none. Which is okay. She’s just there. Probably like Howard’s lodged in your heart. What can we do?”
Mel said nothing. A car drove by the loading dock. The headlights swept through the coat factory and lit up the ceiling above the bedroom walls. Mel found my hand and said, “Well, one thing we can do is have sex.”
“Yes. That we can do.”
24
We fell asleep before midnight. Mel woke a couple hours later and wanted to leave. I walked her to her car while she explained she wasn’t ready for a sleepover. That was all right with me. I needed actual sleep, and new bed partners aren’t conducive for that. Sometimes I wonder if the sleep deprivation that accompanies new relationships fertilizes romance. Sleep deprivation makes people more responsive to cults. Why not love?
I woke at 7:1
0 and texted Jameson White for a bandage change. I left another message for Guy Storstrand at the Canadiens’ office in Montreal. I checked the Canadiens’ schedule. The team from Montreal was on a road trip. Monday, they played here in St. Paul against the Minnesota Wild. Last night they played the Blackhawks in Chicago.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Guy Storstrand was in the Twin Cities the night before Linnea disappeared. Then her cell phone logged into a Starbucks Wi-Fi signal on Wednesday night in Madison, Wisconsin, which is en route to Chicago, where Guy Storstrand played the next night. I checked the schedule again. In twelve hours, the Montreal Canadiens would be in Winnipeg to play the Jets. Winnipeg, Manitoba, a seven-hour drive from the Twin Cities. Less than three hours from Warroad.
I had figured Linnea angled southwest after Chicago to meet Miguel. Those border crossings aren’t easy. Not as easy as they used to be anyway. But Miguel was free to travel to Canada. He had no criminal record in the United States. He’d just been caught tagging with known gang members. It wouldn’t show up on Canadian records. And crossing from Canada into the Unites States, especially into Minnesota, during winter, isn’t nearly as difficult as crossing the Mexican border.
Again I considered forcing information out of Joaquin Maeda. He had to know the time and place Miguel planned to meet Linnea near the border. But something told me not to and did so loudly. Gabriella Núñez was right. Any conversation with Joaquin would drive Linnea and Miguel underground forever.
I drank a third cup of coffee under the breathy roar of the gas heater. I stepped outside. The pavement was dry. No water. No ice. Another warm March day. Too warm. March feigned with its left. The big roundhouse right had to be coming.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Guy Storstrand in Winnipeg, Manitoba. Mel Rosenthal’s tales of Linnea had knit me a tapestry. I had hung it on the wall and couldn’t take my eyes off it. She had knit the same one for the St. Paul PD. They’d probably put it in storage. If they didn’t loathe my existence I would have shared my thoughts with them. But they did so I didn’t.
Jameson White arrived before 8:00. He removed his Windex-blue jacket to reveal faded denim overalls over a white thermal Henley. I offered him coffee and he accepted. He cleaned and redressed my shoulder, counted my antibiotics to make sure I hadn’t missed any, and took my temperature.
“Lookin’ good, Mr. Shapiro. Lookin’ good.”
Jameson helped me on with my shirt, and I said, “How long did Micaela hire you for? I can’t remember.”
“Eleven more days and then I’m back to the grind.”
“You still up for that trip?”
He put the unused gauze pads into his bag and said, “San Diego sounds perfect. Tucson not bad. But I don’t know about El Paso. That spicy food does a number on me.”
“How about a place where there’s no spicy food?”
“Where’s that?”
“Winnipeg.”
“Canada?” He said it like I just asked him if he wanted a root canal.
“You don’t like Canada?”
“Not in March, I don’t. What happened to the warm places?”
“Plans changed. Plus, it’s not a vacation.”
“No shit it’s not. Winnipeg. You never take me anywhere nice.”
“I will someday. I promise.”
“So would I just be your nurse practitioner or do you need help doing detective work?”
“I’ll probably need a little help.”
“Well, you’re the patient. Whatever’s best for you. Micaela said to go wherever you go. She’ll cover the expenses. Gotta keep the boss happy.”
“Good. Pack a bag and meet me back here in an hour. And just out of curiosity, what the hell’s with the overalls?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Fair enough.”
“Canada,” said Jameson. “In March. Won’t see no robins up there. Spring isn’t even knockin’ on the door.”
“You spend much time north of the border?”
“Fifteen years in the CFL.”
“As a player or trainer?”
“I’m six foot seven, three hundred and ten pounds. What kind of detective are you?”
“The kind that doesn’t assume a giant black man played football before going to nursing school.”
“That’s political correct bullshit is what that is. Of course I played football.”
“Where’d you play your college ball?”
“U-C-L-A. In sunny Southern California. How I ended up in these frigid places, Lord only knows. Maybe He’s keeping me cold so I stay fresh past my expiration date.” He laughed his infectious laugh.
Jameson put on his Windex-blue jacket and left. I’d missed a call from Char Northagen so I returned it. She had heard nothing about Gary Kozjek’s arrest. But last night, her boss called to tell her she’s been suspended with pay. She looked for a flight to Hawaii, but it was crazy expensive at the last minute during spring break. I said it was a crazy coincidence this happened now because I knew a hidden gem of a place to visit that was a whole lot more affordable.
I went into the bedroom to pack. Jeans and T-shirts and underwear and socks. Two fleece quarter zips. Mittens and gloves, a cashmere scarf, a wool hat lined with fleece. A down sweater, a down jacket, and a Gore-Tex shell that could go over some or all of it. A heavy pair of Sorels and a light pair and a pair of running shoes I had no intention of running in.
I received a text from Micaela. She was standing outside the service door.
The year I’d neither seen nor communicated with Micaela wasn’t enough time to shake her. Lauren wasn’t enough to shake her. And I knew Mel Rosenthal wouldn’t be enough either. I loved Micaela in my bones. Fighting it had worn me down to what an optimist calls acceptance, a fair-minded person calls resignation, and I call surrender.
She climbed the loading dock stairs in olive-green corduroys tucked into knee-high brown suede boots, a cream cashmere V-neck under a baby-blue Marmot shell, and her strawberry blond hair pulled back tight. A few strands had escaped the clamping device and floated free, anchored only by their roots. They danced in the currents of forced air heat like tentacles of a sea anemone. Her face had remained pale and soft like the underside of a forearm.
This was her first visit since I’d moved. She looked around then said, “I love this place. What kind of factory was it?”
“Coats. They just made coats.”
“And your kitchen works great. And the light … Really nice, Nils.”
“Thank you. And thanks for Jameson. I don’t know what I would have done without him.” My face must have given something away.
She said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at me knowing it was something, but let it go then said, “I know we’re not supposed to see or talk to each other,” her voice grew tired and on edge, “but Jameson said you asked him to go on a trip with you.”
“Jameson is telling the truth.”
“Yesterday it was the Southwest, but he just phoned to say you switched it to Winnipeg. Is there something important in Winnipeg?”
“It’s Winnipeg. In March. That’s like Minneapolis in February. You only visit if it’s important.”
She drifted away and looked around. She turned on the tap over the kitchen sink, as if she thought it might not be operational and I’d just installed it for looks. “I don’t think you should go,” she said.
“All right. Why not?”
“I don’t have a good feeling about it. I’ve had some bad dreams lately, and I’m worried about you.”
“That makes sense. I got shot by an arrow. I almost bled to death.”
“The dreams started before that happened.”
“You’ve had bad dreams as long as I’ve known you. Plane crashes and tornadoes and car accidents. Remember that time you didn’t want me to go fly-fishing because you dreamed I drowned in the Yellowstone River? I went. Nothing happened. And that one where your mom died on your birthday? Sh
e’s alive and well. None of those dreams have come true. Ever. I’ll be fine.”
“It doesn’t feel right to me, Nils, that’s all I’m saying. I had to tell you that.” Her fear was real. I felt her love. It was her goddamn love that tethered me.
I said, “Did you dream I’d get shot by an arrow?”
She hesitated then said, “No, I didn’t. Just forget it. I said what I had to say.” She walked over to the bookshelf and browsed the titles. “So do you own this place or rent?”
“You know what all those dreams mean, right?”
“I don’t need to know what they mean.” She placed a finger on the spine of The Given Day. “Or at least I don’t need to hear what you think they mean.”
“Well, if you ever change your mind let me know. I could save you thousands in therapy bills. Pay you back for sending me Jameson White.”
“You never have to pay me back for that. It’s my pleasure.”
“Did you give him permission to go to Winnipeg?”
“Of course. That’s the whole point of hiring Jameson. So treatment goes where you go.”
She looked at me but said nothing more. I wanted to tell her I was still in love with her, but her response would do more damage than the arrow. So instead I said, “Did you have any bad dreams about Lauren and me breaking up?”
Her face fell. “Oh, Nils. I’m sorry. I like her. I really do.”
“That’s what Ellegaard said.”
“What happened?”
“I rent.”
“What?”
“You asked me if I own or rent this place. I rent. With the option to buy when the building permits come through.”
The button on the Nespresso machine glowed like it was breathing, in-out, in-out. I pushed it, and it blinked to warm up.
“Okay. You don’t want to tell me what happened with Lauren.” I said nothing. “It’s okay, Nils. It’s none of my business. Really.”
We asked how each other’s families were and how work was going, obligatory discourse that neither of us cared for. She said she had to get going, and I walked her down the loading dock stairs. Then she said, “So are we going back to no communication again?”
