The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  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…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he left in a helluva hurry. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “His car is still there, too. A BMW 328i convertible.”

  Riley nodded her head as if she knew it all along.

  “Does he own another car?” I asked.

  “No, just the Beamer. Does that mean—do you think Juan Carlos was kidnapped?”

  “I might have thought so if there weren’t so many other people looking for him, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone is watching his house, watching the restaurant. That’s one.” I hesitated, then decided there was no need to bring the Mexican Mafia into the conversation just yet. “There’s another. Navarre’s partner, his partner at Casa del Lago, Mary Pat Mulally, said that a private investigator came around asking questions and threatening her when she refused to answer them.”

  “Who? Who threatened Mary Pat? Who would dare?”

  “Ms. Mulally thinks it’s your grandfather.”

  Now it was Riley’s turn to take a few moments.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she said at last.

  “Not to us, maybe. The thing is, Riles, I don’t think Navarre is missing. I think he’s hiding.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Navarre went poof for a reason. Finding him might not be to his advantage. More to the point, it might not be to your advantage.”

  Riley came out of the chair and moved to her window. From the window the city below looked like an intricate maze put together by an imaginative child, streets and lights and buildings and bridges all thrown together to create something both wonderful and bizarre. She stood there for what seemed like a long time yet was only a few moments. She turned abruptly, her back to the view as if it meant nothing to her.

  “Find him for me,” she said. “I can pay. I have plenty of money.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “You don’t need money, do you, McKenzie?”

  “No.”

  “You’re probably the only person I know who can make that claim.”

  “Your grandfather.”

  She chuckled at the suggestion. “He needs it most of all,” she said. “He needs it like the rest of us need oxygen. It’s what keeps him alive, the source of all his power. Please, McKenzie, what can I do to convince you?”

  It was against my better judgment, but I answered her just the same. “All you need to do is ask.”

  “Will you find Juan Carlos for me?”

  “I can try.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Riles. I’m not promising you a happy ending.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell me about his friends. Someone who might have helped him.”

  “I don’t know … he doesn’t have—Juan Carlos is new to America. He’s only been here … he hasn’t had time to make any real friends except for … well, there’s Mrs. R.”

  “And you.”

  “If he’s in trouble, why doesn’t he call?”

  “Maybe to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Do you think?”

  It seemed like a good time to change the subject, so I told Riley about coming across the yearbook from Macalester College at Navarre’s house and suggested that he kept it because it contained a photograph of her.

  “Really? Why would he…?” She paused while she pondered the question and then shook her head as if she didn’t like the answer. “I went to Macalester to please my mother. After my freshman year I transferred to the University of Minnesota and entered the Carlson School of Management to please my grandfather. No one wanted me to go to Harvard or Yale. It was like they didn’t want me out of their sight.”

  “It must have been hard, must still be hard growing up Muehlenhaus.”

  “You have no idea. Although…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Juan Carlos seems to understand.”

  I decided that Riley was looking for a prince to rescue her and at that point in her life any prince would do, even an enigma like Juan Carlos Navarre. I also decided there was nothing to gain by discussing it.

  “For what it’s worth, Irene Rogers is on your side,” I said.

  That made the young woman smile for the first time since I entered her condominium. She was still smiling when I left.

  * * *

  Greg Schroeder was smiling, too. I found him sitting on the hood of the Audi when I exited Riley’s building. His arms were folded across his chest. He unfolded them when I approached to let me see that his hands were empty, a show of professional courtesy I appreciated very much.

  “That’s a sixty-five-thousand-dollar, high-precision driving machine you’re using for a park bench there, pal,” I said.

  “This piece of shit? I heard that the driver might be wanted for questioning concerning a pile-up on Highway 7.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Schroeder continued to smile as he explained it to me. “That kid you were racing, he clipped the back bumper of a car while trying to keep up with you. Spun it out. Caused a five-car melee. I nearly got caught in it myself.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Couldn’t say, although an ambulance was summoned to the scene.”

  “Dammit.”

  “If I were the county cops, I’d be tempted to take a look at the footage from the state’s highway cameras, see if I could find someone to blame.” He slid off the Audi and patted the quarter panel. “What comes from fast cars and loose women. Speaking of which—how’s Nina these days?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Schroeder meant no disrespect to Nina. He was just trying to give me the business. I had known him for nearly four years. H
e was a trench-coat detective, one of those guys who wore white shirts and shoulder holsters under rumpled suit coats, a cigarette dangling from his lips while he asked for just the facts, ma’am. He drank his coffee black and his whisky neat and for all I knew he carried a photograph of Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade in his wallet. He had saved my life twice. The second time it cost me $10,000—in cash. The first time he had been working for Mr. Muehlenhaus.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You just happened to be in the neighborhood…”

  “I was following the kid who was following you,” Schroeder said.

  “Why?”

  Schroeder shrugged and smiled some more. You had to give it to him—few people enjoyed their work as much as he enjoyed his.

  “You didn’t pay Mary Pat Mulally a visit earlier, did you?” I asked. “You or one of your operatives?”

  He shrugged again as if he were deliberately keeping secrets from me and didn’t care if I knew it, although … When I first started out with the cops I actually believed that I could look into the eyes of a suspect—any suspect—while he answered my questions and tell if he was lying; that my gut instinct would take over and I would know the truth beyond a doubt. I soon learned different. Some people I can read, of course. Anyone can. Others are such gifted and experienced liars that even a polygraph can’t find them out—which is why the test results are still inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I kept doing it; kept looking for the truth in their faces. Staring at Schroeder, I was able to detect a flinch, a tiny one, at the corners of his smile—if I hadn’t been watching so intently, I would have missed it. Yet it told me that he had no idea what I was talking about and not knowing alarmed him as much as it did me.

  “Why are you here, Greg?” I asked.

  “Boss wants to chat with you,” he said.

  “Mr. Muehlenhaus?”

  “Not this time.”

  * * *

  Margaret Muehlenhaus floated on long dancer’s legs and dancer’s feet down the steps of the portico of her splendid house and across the front lawn. Sunlight reflected off the threads of her burgundy sundress and the lenses of the reading glasses that she wore on a silver chain around her neck. Her eyes were brown and flashed without help from the sun. The few streaks of gray in her otherwise chocolate hair were artfully arranged.