The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  “You seem to know a lot about my finances, yet you won’t tell me about Navarre’s,” I said aloud.

  Brodin ate the rest of the chicken tender.

  “Can you at least tell me if he’s tried to access his accounts in the past week?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Following the money might be the only way to find him.”

  “That can’t be my concern.”

  “The police—”

  “If the police come to me with a warrant, I’ll give them whatever information the court orders me to give them. Beyond that—I will not breach client confidentiality. Stop asking. If I won’t break the rules for that old man on the lake, I sure as hell won’t do it for you.”

  “Mr. Muehlenhaus asked you to violate confidentiality?”

  “Many times. That’s why I’m not welcome at the Pointe, why he works so hard to turn my daughter against me. One reason, anyway. If you don’t jump when Muehlenhaus says, he jumps on you. You of all people should know that. Fucking McKenzie.”

  “When I first learned Mr. Muehlenhaus called me that, I was kinda honored. Now it just pisses me off.”

  “Try living with ‘deadbeat son-in-law’ for twenty-eight years.”

  Brodin raised his cup of soda as if toasting me and drank from it. He was a man of halves, I decided. Half handsome, half smart, half ambitious, half brave, half spoiled. The toes of his expensive Italian shoes were brightly polished, yet the heels were scuffed.

  “You told Riley that Navarre was a con man who was only after her money,” I said. “That makes sense if he doesn’t have any. If he does…”

  “He can’t be trusted.”

  “Why not?

  Brodin waved his hand as if that explained everything.

  “Besides,” he said, “there’s no comparison between his wealth and hers, none. Wait, you want a comparison? He can afford to buy a luxury suite at Target Field to watch the Twins play baseball. She can buy the goddamn team.”

  “Is Riley really worth that much?”

  “The old man has been slowly transferring his assets into her name, been doing it for years, so when he dies she won’t have to pay taxes on his estate. The death tax, they call it. The old man can’t cheat death. He sure as hell can cheat the tax man.”

  “Does Navarre know this?”

  “I have no idea what he knows, what Riley might have told him. I should never have introduced the two of them at the club’s Fourth of July party.”

  “You introduced them?”

  That’s not the way Riley told you it happened, my inner voice reminded me. Or at least that’s not the way she remembers it.

  “I was chatting with Navarre,” Brodin said. “He saw Riley and asked, who is that girl with the white hair? What else could I do?”

  Another french fry. Another sip of soda.

  “Riley was always a wild girl,” Brodin said. “She takes after her mother.”

  “I didn’t get that impression.”

  “Wild might be a bit harsh. Willful? Tell her to do one thing and she’ll do the opposite out of spite. That’s why Sheila married me, because her family told her not to. It’s also the reason why she won’t divorce me. Because that’s what her family wants.”

  He chuckled.

  “Sheila can be as mean as she is pretty,” he said. “Damn if she isn’t very, very pretty.”

  “I met your wife. You’re right. She’s very pretty.”

  “I won’t give you a dissertation on our marriage, McKenzie. It wasn’t a happy one. People say—old man Muehlenhaus says—I married her for money and position. They’re wrong. I loved her. Truly, I did. Sheila was oh, so beautiful and exciting, and I loved her. She didn’t love me, though. She was getting older and she thought she should marry and have children because that’s what we teach women they should do. That’s what the Muehlenhauses expected her to do. I just happened to be standing there at the time. Some people shouldn’t get married, though. They don’t have the disposition for it. Sheila is one of them. Doesn’t mean they’re selfish or self-centered. Doesn’t mean they’re bad people. Sheila isn’t a bad person no matter how hard she works at it. Just a lousy wife. I only regret … I just wish we could have done better for Riley’s sake.”

  * * *

  I left Brodin to his fast food and returned to the Jeep Cherokee feeling no further ahead than when I started. I wondered if Lieutenant Pelzer was doing any better and gave him a call. He informed me that his deputies had painstakingly searched Lake Minnetonka yet were still unable to find the Soñadora.

  “How is that possible?” I asked.

  He didn’t know.

  That’s when I suggested that he get a warrant to access Navarre’s accounts at Lake Minnetonka Community Bank since it was clear Brodin wasn’t going to give them up willingly.

  “That might give us an idea where he is,” I said.

  “What will I tell the judge?” Pelzer said.

  “That you’re acting on the personal observations of a credible confidential informant who has provided reliable information in the past.”

  “What observations are those?”

  “Whatever observations you need, LT.”

  “Did you play fast and loose with the law when you were in harness, too, McKenzie?”

  “On occasion.”

  “I’ll think about it. In the meantime, this should make you happy. We found blood at the crime scene this morning. Apparently you hit your target.”

  “How much blood?” I asked.

  “Enough that we’re checking every hospital and health-care clinic in the Cities.”

  “You’re right, that does make me happy.”

  We promised each other to keep in touch, and I ended the call.

  Now what? It was my inner voice speaking, yet I heard Anita Pollack.

  When I slipped the cell back into my jacket pocket, my fingers found the card Mary Pat Mulally had given me. Looking at it made me smile. The woman was a true optimist, and of all the people I had met in the past week, I liked her best.

  Think it through.

  Think what through? I asked my former partner as I stared at the photograph of the burnt-out restaurant.

  The fire.

  What about the fire?

  When was it set?

  According to the South Lake Minnetonka PD, at approximately 4:30 A.M. Thursday. Dammit!

  You see it now, don’t you?

  Mrs. R’s killer had her for twelve hours—9:00 P.M. to 9:00 A.M. He couldn’t have set the fire. It certainly wasn’t Navarre. He had been with Anne Rehmann at the time. Besides, he had no motive.

  So who did it?

  * * *

  Two Twelve Medical Center in Chaska was new. From the intersection of Highways 212 and 41 just south of Lake Minnetonka, it resembled one of those business motels that promised travelers a clean room, continental breakfast, and free Wi-Fi. The wide-open lobby, complete with a Subway sandwich shop, gave off the same vibe. It wasn’t until you noticed the sick and injured waiting God knows how long for assistance from people who seemed too busy to help them that you knew it for what it was.

  A nurse gave me the room number for Arnaldo Nunez without asking why I wanted it, and I took the elevator to the fourth floor. I didn’t trouble the medical personnel at the nurse’s station. I simply hung a left and followed the carpeted corridor until I found the room. The door was open, so I didn’t bother to knock. Nunez was lying fully clothed on top of the bed, his hands behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. His left pant leg had been scissored off six inches above the knee to accommodate the cast he was wearing. A pair of crutches was leaning against the bed.

  He turned his head and looked expectant when I entered, and it occurred to me that he was waiting to be discharged. When he saw I wasn’t a doctor, his face clouded and his eyes became fierce.

  “What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.

  “Just checking up on you. How’s the leg?”

  “Bro
ken in four places. They had to put in a steel rod.”

  I whistled low as if I were impressed, but I really wasn’t. I stepped closer to the bed and gave his head the once-over.

  “I was told you had a concussion, too. Doesn’t look like there’s any permanent damage, though,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” Nunez said. “I got headaches. I’ve been nauseous for two days.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Yours.”

  “How is it my fault?”

  “You wrecked my car.”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “You did. You must have.”

  “Why would you say … you don’t remember what happened, do you?”

  He didn’t answer, yet for a moment his eyes seemed to reach for a memory that was just beyond his grasp.

  “Amnesia about the events that cause a head injury is pretty common,” I said. “I’ve had a couple of concussions myself, so I know.”

  “You don’t know nuthin’.”

  “I know you tried to burn down the Casa del Lago the other night.”

  “I already told the cops. I ain’t had nothing to do with that.”

  “No, not you personally. I meant your playmates in the New! Improved! Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia. The guy in the red Sentra or the one who was driving the black Cadillac DTS, probably. Nice T-shirts, by the way. Does your mother know you’re wearing those T-shirts? How ’bout your brother?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m sure the boys and girls in West St. Paul are very impressed.”

  “You just an asshole. You don’t know nuthin’ about it.”

  “I know this much, Arnaldo—what do your friends call you? Arnie? I know this much, Arnie. I know you’re looking for someone. You set fire to the restaurant to draw him out.”

  “You police? If you police you have to say.”

  No, you don’t have to say, my inner voice told me. Where do criminals get that idea from, anyway?

  “No, I’m not police,” I said aloud. “Arnie…”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Arnaldo. I’m not a policeman, and the ones who questioned you yesterday, they’re nothing to worry about, either. If you don’t help me, though, I can arrange for you to meet some real cops, like the ones who put Cesar away.”

  He told me to get out, and he kept telling me in a loud, screeching voice until a couple of nurses and an orderly appeared. So I left.

  * * *

  I returned to the elevator, stepped inside the car, hit the button for the first floor, and stood facing out. I saw her just as the doors closed—an attractive young woman with long black hair. I hit the OPEN DOOR button, but it was too late, so I pressed the button for the third floor and the elevator stopped. I got out of the car, found the staircase, and climbed it to the fourth floor. No one noticed me as I walked quickly back down the corridor to Nunez’s room. I stopped outside the door and listened.

  “That fucking McKenzie,” Nunez said.

  God, that’s getting old, my inner voice said.

  “What does he know?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “He don’t know nuthin’.”

  “He must know something or he wouldn’t have come here.”

  “Look, you going to give me a ride home? I’ve been waiting all day. You gonna give me a ride?”

  “McKenzie could ruin everything.”

  “Fuck ’im.”

  “This is your fault, Arnaldo.”

  “My fault? I didn’t do nothing.”

  “You and your little friends. You’re so stupid.”

  “I am your brother. You do not talk to me that way.”

  “Estúpido. Mary Pat is good to me. She is a friend. She gave me a job; said she’d make me an assistant manager as soon as I finish a college course that she’s paying for. There was no reason for what you did. I would have told you if he showed up again. It was just a matter of time.”

  “Got tired of waiting.”

  “What if Mary Pat finds out?”

  I walked into the hospital room.

  “Good question,” I said. “What if Mary Pat does find out?”

  Maria spun to face me. Her mouth hung open, and her beautiful eyes exploded with a fearful light.

  “Buenas noches, Maria,” I said.

  I had knocked her off balance by my abrupt appearance, yet her equilibrium quickly returned.

  “It is too early for noches,” she said. “It is still afternoon.”

  “Buenas tardes,” I said.

  “Buenas tardes.”

  “At the risk of sounding racist, you got a lot of ’splainin’ t’ do.”

  Maria turned toward her brother. He was standing now, a crutch under each arm.

  “Tell him nothing,” he said.

  “In a minute your brother is going to start screaming for me to get out of here,” I said. “This time I won’t leave until the police arrive.”

  “Say nothing.”

  “Maria?”

  She was standing between her brother and me, turning her head back and forth as if she were at a tennis match.

  “I’m not here to jam you up,” I told her. “You or your brother. I like Mary Pat, and I don’t want her to be upset any more than she already is.”

  “Maria,” Nunez said. She turned her head to look at him. “We do not talk about our business.”

  “I don’t care about your business.” Maria’s head turned again. “I don’t care about the fire. I care only about Navarre.”

  “This is a family matter, Maria.” Her head turned once more. “La familia.”

  “No, it’s not. Someone else is after Navarre, too. Someone who hurt friends of mine in an attempt to find him. Who killed friends of mine. Who might hurt or kill Mary Pat. Or even you.” Maria pivoted so that she was facing me. “Help me. Please.”

  “You do not say anything. Maria.” She spun to face her brother. “You know the rules.”

  “Please,” I said again. “I just need to know why you’re looking for Navarre.”

  Maria looked me directly in the eye.

  “He is not Navarre,” she said.

  “Maria,” her brother said. “Do not say anything more.”

  “Who is he?” I asked. “Maria, who is he?”

  She put her hands over her ears and shouted.

  “Stop it. Stop it, both of you.”

  “Maria,” I said.

  “McKenzie, it is not for me to say. You must speak to my brother.” I glanced at Nunez. She shook her head. “My brother Cesar. It is for him to say.”

  FOURTEEN

  The face of Cesar Nunez bore all the marks of a trouble-prone life. Despite that—and the tattoos that peeked out from around the collar of his white T-shirt and up and down his arms—he had the forlorn expression of a businessman who fought all the way to the top only to discover it hadn’t been worth the effort. He yawned at me, and I wondered what kind of hours he kept and whether he had any choice in the matter. Probably not.

  Since both Maria and Arnaldo refused to provide any more information to me, I decided to go to the top.

  After all, my inner voice told me, if you want someone to break the rules, go see the people who actually make the rules, because they do it all the time.

  Unfortunately, visiting hours for the Minnesota Correctional Facility in Stillwater had already expired by the time I left Chaska late Friday afternoon. My first chance to see Cesar was at eight fifteen Saturday morning in the prison’s noncontact visiting room. So that’s where I was, sitting on a stool attached to the wall that resembled a toilet seat. Cesar was sitting on a molded chair inside a tiled room the size of a closet. A brick wall, iron bars, and reinforced glass separated the two of us.

  I picked up the black telephone receiver so I could speak to him, yet he did not pick up his. Instead, he merely gazed at me through half-closed eyes, his expression as vague as the dark side of the moon.

  I returned the receiver to the cradle and
found my cell phone. I called up the photograph of Navarre that Riley had sent me and pressed the phone to the glass. Cesar glanced at it and yawned some more. I called up the photo of an angry-looking Arnaldo, the one where he was wearing a 937 Mexican Mafia T-shirt, and pressed that against the glass. Cesar took one look at it and snatched his telephone receiver off the wall. I quickly grabbed mine.

  “Where did that come from?” he asked.

  “I took it in the parking lot of a restaurant that your brother and his Mexican Mafia friends set on fire Wednesday night.”

  “Nine-Thirty-Seven don’t exist no more. It’s gone.”

  “Arnaldo seems to be reviving it. Both he and Maria.”

  I used the names of Cesar’s brother and sister on purpose to see what kind of reaction it would provoke. Yet Cesar gave me nothing but a blank stare. I recalled the photograph of Navarre and pressed it against the glass again.

  “He calls himself Juan Carlos Navarre,” I said. “Who is he really?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Who are you then?”

  “My name is McKenzie. Look, you’re not the only one searching for Navarre. There are a couple of others, too. One of them raped and murdered a friend of mine to get information. That’s who I want.”

  “I don’t care about you or your friend.”

  “You do care about Navarre. Help me find him.”

  Cesar leaned back and prepared to hang up his phone. I rapped on the glass with my receiver.

  “You dumb jerk,” I shouted.

  Cesar brought the receiver up to his mouth as if he wanted to give me a few choice words before hanging up. I beat him to it.

  “Hey, asshole. Do you want Arnaldo to join you in here? He’s looking at an arson rap. Maybe you can share a cell with him. And Maria? Pretty girl. Why don’t you just punch her ticket to the women’s prison in Shakopee as an accomplice? We’ll see how long she stays pretty. You fucked up your life; you want them to fuck up theirs?” I found Arnaldo’s pic again and showed it to Cesar. “He’s wearing a fucking gang sign on a T-shirt. How long do you think he’s going to last before the cops grab him up?”

  Cesar stared at the photograph of his little brother.

  “Arnaldo is trying hard to find Navarre—for you. Only he and his crew haven’t got the smarts for it. I do. Give me something to work with. Once I find Navarre your people can do whatever you want with him. I don’t care. He means nothing to me.”