The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Hello to you, too,” I said.

  “How long you know we be here?”

  “Since I took a right off the street where Mrs. Nunez lives.”

  Arnaldo stared at the driver, who continued to stare straight ahead.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” I said. “A one-car tail is damn near impossible to pull off if you don’t know what you’re doing. If you want, I could give you lessons.”

  “Fuck,” Arnaldo said.

  “Why exactly are you following me, anyway?”

  “Cesar says you’re after Jax. He says you’re gonna give him up once you find him. We’re supposed to watch you, make sure you keep your promise.”

  “Fair enough. So, Arnaldo, have you learned anything interesting so far?”

  “Only that you really like your coffee, man. And you meet lots of good-looking women.”

  “You’re going to love the next place we go. Can’t promise any babes, though. Try to keep up.”

  * * *

  I hung a right onto Snelling Avenue and went north until I caught the I-94 entrance ramp. From there I headed east until I found I-35E and went north again. I signaled my turn well in advance so that the red Sentra was on my bumper when I exited onto Pennsylvania Avenue, hung a right onto Phalen Boulevard, hung another on Mississippi Street, and went east again on Grove Street. I turned left into the large parking lot. The Sentra kept going straight. I don’t know if it was all the cop cars that spooked them or the sign on the red brick wall—ST. PAUL POLICE DEPARTMENT. The idea that Arnaldo and his driver would keep heading east until they reached the Wisconsin border made me chuckle.

  * * *

  Sergeant Billy Turner was one of the few friends I still had in the St. Paul Police Department; one of the few cops who didn’t think I sold my badge when I resigned to collect the reward on the embezzler. He was an African American living in Minnesota who played hockey, which made him a true minority in my book. I met him in his office on the first floor of the Griffin Building. The Missing Persons Unit shared space with the Juvenile Unit because—Professor Castlerock’s math notwithstanding—approximately seven hundred thousand persons go missing each year and all but fifty thousand are kids. Well over half are runaways who eventually return home, and another two hundred thousand are family abductions related to domestic and custody disputes, leaving approximately sixty thousand boys and girls seventeen years or younger that the police consider “endangered.” Billy was a busy man.

  “I can give you ten minutes, McKenzie,” he said. “You’re lucky to get that, because it’s Saturday and I want to go home. Me and the missus are going to my sister-in-law’s for dinner.”

  “Your sister-in-law a good cook, is she?”

  The question slowed him down.

  “Okay, make it fifteen minutes,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “What do you remember about a missing persons involving two young adult males named David Maurell and Collin Baird?”

  “Help me out.”

  “Macalester College about eight years ago?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. College kids coming back from some bumfuck town in Indiana. They never made it. Hang on a sec.”

  Billy sat in a swivel chair, spun until he faced his computer, and typed in a few commands.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Baird is from Galena, Illinois, not Indiana. My mistake. This wasn’t our case, McKenzie. Jo Daviess County in Illinois had jurisdiction since the kids were last seen in Galena. What I have, kid never called his family and his family couldn’t get a hold of him. Family became worried and checked with the school. Macalester had no record of the kid returning to campus after spring break. Jo Daviess asked for an assist. We made inquiries. All we discovered was that this Maurell kid didn’t seem to exist. He wasn’t enrolled at the school. Didn’t have a permanent address. No driver’s license. No Social Security number. Spoke to a woman who knew him, what’s her name, ahhhh … Professor Patricia Castlerock. All she had was a cell phone number. Forwarded what little intel we generated to Jo Daviess. They sent out bulletins—you know the drill. If anything came of it, they didn’t bother to tell us.” Billy spun in his chair to face me. “This is getting to be a long time ago, McKenzie. What’s your interest?”

  “Maurell has apparently resurfaced using a different name.”

  “Should I care?”

  “I don’t think so. Hennepin County might, though.”

  “Now the important question—is this going to get me in trouble with Bobby D upstairs? You know the bosses don’t like us doing favors for civvies like you.”

  I was pleased to hear how he referred to Bobby. If Billy had called him by the proper title, Commander Robert Dunston of the Major Crimes Division, it would have been a sign of disrespect or at least disagreement.

  “Bobby should be cool with this one,” I said. “Although, if you’d rather keep it to yourself…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you have the name of someone I could reach out to in Galena?”

  “Hang on.”

  Billy swiveled back in front of the computer screen, found a name and phone number, scribbled them down on a sheet of paper, and gave it to me.

  “Time’s up, my man,” he said.

  * * *

  I called the Galena Police Department from the parking lot and asked for Officer Lori Hasselback. Chief Hasselback took the call and said she remembered the Baird case vividly. She was intrigued by what I had to tell her and agreed to meet me. She said she would review her notes before I arrived. I asked if Baird’s family would also consent to an interview.

  “You can ask,” she said.

  * * *

  My next call was to Nina Truhler.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Road trip,” I said.

  “When?”

  “Right now. I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  “Fun. Where are we going this time?”

  “Galena, Illinois.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “River town. Lots of antique stores. General Grant used to live there. You’ll like it.”

  “I will?”

  “We’ll spend the night in Winona and arrive early tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No, no, no, wait a sec, McKenzie. I’ve gone on these impromptu road trips with you before, and they’ve always been a great time. In the past, though, it was let’s go catch the Cash Box Kings at Buddy Guy’s place in Chicago and since we’re there, we might as well take the Red Line to Cellular Field to see the White Sox. Or the time you said we just had to fly down to Kansas City and decide once and for all who served the best barbecue in town…”

  “It’s Oklahoma Joe’s.”

  “No, it’s Arthur Bryant’s. Anyway, we ended up at Kauffman Stadium watching the Royals play Detroit. San Francisco…”

  “San Francisco was your idea.”

  “Yes, but it was your idea to get tickets to watch the Giants at AT&T Park. My point being, there is no professional baseball in Galena, Illinois. Is there?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are we going?”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Involving Riley Brodin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can tell me on the way.”

  FIFTEEN

  Nina must have been watching for me, because she came out the front door of her house just as I pulled into her driveway. She was carrying one bag and pulling another, both of which were bigger than my single suitcase. When I exited the Jeep Cherokee she asked, “Where’s the Audi?”

  “It’s in the shop.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Catalytic converter,” I said.

  “We’re not driving all that way in this thing, are we?”

  It sounded like a question, yet it really wasn’t. I was about to protest—what’s wrong with my SUV?—only she said, “We’ll take my car,” and tossed me the keys before I could. “You dri
ve.”

  Truth be told, I liked driving her Lexus even though it was an automatic, so I said nothing while she punched a code into the keypad next to the garage door. The door opened, we swapped vehicles, and a short time later we were on Wisconsin Highway 35, also known as the Great River Road, heading south. The plan was to drive the east side of the Mississippi down to Galena and then take Highway 61 on the west side back home.

  I suppose it was possible to fly, but if you didn’t have to, why would you? Flying used to be fun, at least for me. Now it was one long exercise in personal humiliation and tedium, starting with the officious and mostly ceremonial TSA and including flight attendants that oh-so-prettily forbade you from using your cell phone yet were happy to rent you one of theirs.

  The thing about Nina’s Lexus, though, was that it was old—built without a voice-activated navigation system, Bluetooth mobile phone, backup camera, remote ignition starter, seat warmers, or even an MP3 port. At least she didn’t pay extra for those options. I complained. Nina said that some people buy cars simply to get from Point A to Point B in relative comfort.

  “We don’t need gadgets that rival the starship Enterprise,” she said.

  I complained some more.

  “If my rich boyfriend decides to buy me a new car, I’ll get all the thingamajigs he wants,” she said.

  “Actually, I’m not as rich as I thought I was. I’ve been telling people I’m worth five million dollars, but it’s closer to four million.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  The truth was, I didn’t care all that much. I had everything that money could buy, or rather I had everything I wanted that money could buy, which, I suppose, isn’t the same thing. My needs were small and easily fulfilled by the $140,000 or so in income that my admittedly medium- to low-risk investments realized each year. The folks who lived on Lake Minnetonka, on the other hand, to them money was a magic lamp. They rubbed it to make their wishes come true.

  The Lexus had a six-CD player, and Nina fed it from a cache that she kept in a shoebox on the floor. The first CD belonged to an artist I had not heard before, Sophia Shorai, channeling Oscar Brown Jr. with a startling clear and vibrant voice—“Sample and savor all of life’s flavor.” She was backed only by Tommy Barbarella’s solo piano.

  “Why don’t you play the piano anymore?” I asked.

  Nina’s eyes seemed fixed on something in the sideview mirror.

  “I never seem to have the time,” she said. “Switch lanes, will you?”

  I signaled and moved from the left lane to the right.

  “I remember when you played the blues at the governor’s charity thing a couple of years ago,” I said. “That was beautiful.”

  “It was only fair. Truth is, I’m not very good. Switch lanes again.”

  I did.

  “I thought you were sensational,” I said.

  “You’re prejudiced. You do know that we’re being followed, right? A black car behind the pickup?”

  “Cadillac DTS.”

  “What’s the DTS stand for?”

  “Deluxe Touring Sedan. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Nina, we need to talk.”

  She revolved in her seat so she could get a good look at me.

  “The Caddy must have picked me up at my place when I went home to pack, only I missed it,” I said. “Which means he followed me to your house. They know where you live.”

  “Who’re they?”

  I explained about the Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia.

  “So?” Nina said.

  “Not only that—I wasn’t going to tell you this, but the man who raped and murdered Irene Rogers probably broke into my house Thursday night. He had waited for me, but I didn’t show. I was at your place. If we had been living together, though…”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “The Audi isn’t in the shop because of car trouble. It’s in the shop because he shot it full of holes.”

  “I knew it. I just knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “The moment I said we should live together I knew you would try to find a way to get out of it. Shelby is right. You do have commitment issues.”

  “I don’t have … Nina. That’s not it at all.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’m worried about you. I can’t ask you to move in with me. I can’t put you at risk. I just can’t.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The word stung like a slap. Nina almost never cursed, and when she did, you had better pay attention.

  “First of all, you’re not asking me. I’m asking you. And since you brought it up, I’ve been at risk since the day I met you. How ’bout the time a man broke into my house and put a gun to my head, for God’s sake, and then kept me there, prisoner, until you came over so he could shoot you?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “How ’bout the time those guys rammed the back of my car, my Lexus—this Lexus—and threw a couple of shots at us for good measure?”

  “That’s my nightmare. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you. Especially if it happened to you because of me.”

  “McKenzie, I told those stories for months afterward; told them to anyone who would care to listen. It gave me great pleasure to do so. Hasn’t it occurred to you even once after all these years, after all the nuttiness we’ve been through together, that I might actually like living the devil-may-care life?”

  No, my inner voice said. It hadn’t.

  We drove in silence for a few more miles. By then we were near Lake Pepin, about sixty miles downstream from St. Paul. Villa Bellezza Winery and Vineyards came up on our left and Nina told me to pull in. She said she wanted to get a bottle of Cinque Figilie and Sangua Della Pantera—she recited the names the way the rest of us might order a Dr. Pepper. I suspected, though, that she just wanted to get out of the car and away from me for a few minutes.

  I parked in the lot near the door and she went inside the villa. A few minutes later, I said, “screw it” and followed her.

  “Just in time,” she said when I approached the counter. She handed me the bottles without another word and went back outside while I stayed to pay for them. A couple of minutes later, I stepped into the bright sunshine. I couldn’t find Nina at first, and then I did. The black Cadillac DTS was parked at the far end of the lot. Nina was using the roof to balance herself as she leaned toward the driver’s window and spoke to whoever was inside.

  “Sonuvabitch,” I said.

  I set the wine bottles on the asphalt and reached for the Beretta holstered behind my right hip and moved toward the car. At the same time, Nina beat a quick rhythm on the roof of the Caddie, threw a wave to those inside, and started walking back toward where the Lexus was parked. She was smiling.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked her.

  “Chatting with the boys,” she answered in a cheerful voice. “Did you know, Arnaldo’s leg was broken in four places, poor thing. I told them that we weren’t actually looking for Juan Carlos just now, but if they wanted to keep following us to Illinois that was fine, too. I told them we would be staying at the AmericInn in Winona tonight, the one overlooking the river, if they should get lost. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I did mind and told her so in no uncertain terms.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I said.

  She shrugged as if she would think about it, but not too hard.

  A few minutes later we were in the Lexus heading south and not talking. Apparently the Cadillac DTS had turned around and gone home.

  Prudence Johnson, one of my favorites, was on the CD player. She and a handful of composers had collaborated to turn fourteen poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay into a stunning jazz album called A Girl Named Vincent. One of the composers, Laura Caviani, played piano on most of the tracks.

  “I’m going to buy you a piano,” I said. “A baby grand. A good one. Wherever we live, you and I, there has to be
room for a piano.”

  “Well,” Nina said. “It’s not a new car. Still…”

  * * *

  There was nothing particularly special about the AmericInn in Winona except for the view. It was on the Minnesota side of the Mississippi, and from our balcony we could see the sun dapple the river as it curved slowly around the bend and glisten off the steel girders of Main Channel Bridge—a cantilever bridge so old that it qualified for the National Register of Historic Places.

  The parking lot stretched out between the hotel and the river, and I also had a good view of the comings and goings of the guests. There were no red Sentras or black Cadillac DTSs in the lot and no one sitting in a different make or model of vehicle that I could see.

  Nina, what were you trying to prove? I asked myself silently.

  I sat on the balcony and sipped some of her Cinque Figlie from one of the plastic cups the hotel provided. After a while Nina joined me. She was wearing a silk nightgown beneath a silk robe cinched at the waist, her hair still damp from the shower. Her eyes—those riveting silver-blue eyes that captured my heart so long ago—caught the fading sunlight and held it.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “Again?”

  “We need to have rules, you and I.”

  “What rules?”

  “Rule Number One—never try to prove how brave you are. Never. Fear is God’s way of telling us to think before we do something stupid.”

  “Like walk up to a car filled with gangbangers?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “The rest we’ll make up as we go along.”

  We remained on the balcony not speaking until the sun was down and ribbons of light outlined the bridge. From the darkness I heard Nina’s voice.

  “Come to bed.”

  * * *

  Galena was a sparkling gem of a town located along the Mississippi River at the bottom of a steep hill. At one time it had been bigger than Chicago. However, the collapse of the lead-mining industry and the advent of a nationwide railroad system rendered the river port irrelevant until it reinvented itself as a tourist town mostly around the exploits of General Ulysses Simpson Grant, who actually lived there for only a couple of years.