The Devil May Care

by David Housewright

  “Whoever. I think he saw Riley in college, fell hopelessly in love, and spent the past seven years changing his life so he could come back here and win her hand. Don’t you think that’s romantic?”

  “I would if he had actually changed his life, but he didn’t. Navarre didn’t go to school. He didn’t become a doctor or engineer or someone of consequence so he could impress the lady. He used the money he stole from the Nine-Thirty-Seven to steal even more money from the U.S. government. Change his life—all he did was change his name.”

  “Boo.”

  “Nina, you can’t possibly be on this guy’s side. Listen, he didn’t even know Riley when he masterminded the destruction of the Nine-Thirty-Seven. He didn’t know her when he tried to seduce his way into Macalester College. None of that was for her. Nothing he ever did was for her. It was for himself. Think of the women he’s used along the way. Navarre is a very selfish man.”

  “Yet he came back for Riley,” Nina said. “He could have gone anywhere, done anything with the money he stole. Yet when all was said and done he came back for her. He risked everything to come back for her.”

  “Yes, he did. Now what?”

  “I suppose living happily ever after is out of the question.”

  “Navarre knows about Collin Baird. That’s why he’s in hiding. Baird must have remembered his obsession with Riley—for lack of a better word—and cornered him here. Navarre must also assume, because of the heat generated by Baird, that the feds are hot on his trail by now, too. Not to mention the Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia, or what’s left of it. So he’ll run again. Which might have been his intention from the very beginning—get in, get the girl, get out. He rented Mrs. R’s house instead of buying, after all, and he never did put the cash down for a membership at Club Versailles.”

  “Will Riley run with him, do you think?”

  “You’re the hopeless romantic, sweetie. You tell me.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I believe Riley is such a contentious young lady because she hasn’t quite figured out who she is yet.”

  “And?”

  “Now we’re all going to find out. Dammit. Where can they be? I don’t know where to look. It’ll be easier after a period of time, after they’ve had a chance to settle in somewhere. Then there are all kinds of tricks you can use—everything from chasing Social Security numbers to reviewing the mailing lists of the magazines they read. Right now, though…”

  “Have you spoken to Riley’s mother? After Collin Baird was shot, he drove two hundred and eighty miles to see his mom. If I were in trouble, I’d probably do the same thing. Mothers—even after everything Abana and Baird did, their mothers still love them, still want to protect them.”

  I wagged my finger at Nina.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Sheila would protect Riley, too. And Navarre. There’s no way she would rat them out to Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

  When I said, “Let’s go,” Nina thought I was bringing her along with me. She was annoyed when I drove back to her place in Mahtomedi so I could swap her Lexus for my Jeep Cherokee. Call me cheap, but if it came to it, I’d much rather buy myself a new SUV than buy Nina a new luxury car.

  “Leaving me behind,” she told me. “This isn’t going to happen when we move in together.”

  That’s an argument for another time, my inner voice said.

  * * *

  Sheila Muehlenhaus Brodin lived on a cul-de-sac in Lake Elmo, an outer-ring suburb of St. Paul, which put her about as far away from Lake Minnetonka as physically possible while still being considered a resident of the Twin Cities. There were two cars parked in the driveway. I thought I recognized one, yet couldn’t place it. The mystery was cleared up, though, when I ranged the doorbell and Alex Brodin answered.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice bellowed from deep inside the house.

  “That fucking McKenzie,” Brodin replied.

  “Stop calling me that,” I said.

  Brodin stepped away from the door without saying if he would or wouldn’t.

  “You might as well come in,” he said.

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Sheila and I visit frequently. Misery loves company.”

  I crossed the threshold. Brodin led me into a spacious living room. The thing I noticed first—couldn’t help but notice—was an enormous painting of an alluring woman with lustrous eyes and deep red hair that matched her gown. There was nothing else on the walls and nothing nearby to compete with the painting. It was as if the entire room had been built solely to accommodate it.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Brodin said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Sheila Brodin said as she entered the room. Of course, the painting was of her. “I was eighteen when I sat for it.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “’Course, that was before childbirth.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Brodin said.

  Sheila bowed her head at the compliment and then turned it my way as if she were expecting me to repeat it. When she got bored waiting, she drifted to a bar complete with stools located in the corner. A full wine rack was on display, as well as assorted liquor bottles, ice bucket, and glasses. I had seen temporary bars set up in the homes of friends and acquaintances during parties, yet none that were permanent. Sheila’s bar was as much a fixture of her house as the painting.

  “I’m drinking bourbon,” she said. “Alex?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “McKenzie?”

  “I came because—”

  “I know why you came here,” Sheila said. “Riley and her Prince Charming have escaped the clutches of the evil Grand Vizier and he’s dispatched his minions to bring them back.”

  She held up a bottle of Maker’s Mark for me to see.

  “Over ice,” I said.

  I was partly raised by a man who insisted that good Kentucky bourbon was meant to be taken straight—“the way God intended.” He would have rolled over in his grave if he knew I was diluting it with ice. On the other hand, I had already consumed several alcoholic beverages, and I thought it best to keep my wits about me—whatever of those I still had left, anyway.

  Sheila fixed the drinks, gave one to Brodin and one to me. She raised her own glass and said, “To true love.”

  “Hear, hear,” Brodin said.

  “Why not?” I said.

  After we finished drinking, Sheila said, “I thought we had an understanding, McKenzie—you were going to look out for Riley.”

  “I’m trying, God knows.”

  “Then what are you doing here? Let the girl have her chance.”

  “Things have happened since we last spoke. Do you want to hear about them?”

  “Does it involve the Department of Justice freezing Navarre’s assets?” Brodin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want to hear.”

  Sheila found a chair and sat, folding her legs beneath her. She waved her drink at me.

  “You have the floor,” she said.

  I explained as succinctly as I could. I was surprised that neither of them interrupted to ask questions.

  When I finished, Sheila said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “If you’re working for the old man, yes I do.”

  “I’m not. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “What McKenzie said about the DOJ freezing Navarre’s money this morning—that’s true,” Brodin said. “I told you how I’m screwed because of it. Brodin Plaza. If something isn’t done by the end of the month, if I don’t get additional funding, I’m going to have to halt construction. I went to the old man. He blew me off. I told him I wasn’t interested in his money, just in help talking to the government. He said a real man solves his own problems.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Sheila said. “It’s all just another elaborate ploy so he can get his way. Be a big man on the lake.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “I’ve been dealing with his crap all my life, McKenzie. You have no idea, you really don’t.”

  “I’ve been getting it, too,” said Brodin. “Ever since I married Sheila. The man’s a monster.”

  “You people,” I said. “Brodin, did it ever occur to you that Mr. Muehlenhaus said no to your request because he was unable to say yes, that he didn’t have any juice with the Department of Justice, that he didn’t have contacts who did, and he was afraid for you to find out? The first time I met her, Riley told me Mr. Muehlenhaus’s strength came from the perception people have that whatever it is, he can fix it, break it, build it, or make it go away. The perception. She understands it, how come you don’t? In the right light and at the right angle, even the tiniest object can throw an immense shadow onto the wall. But it’s an optical illusion. The shadow only makes the object appear bigger than it really is. Which raises the question—have you two been spending your lives doing exactly what that old man told you to do, living under his thumb, because you’re afraid of his shadow?”

  Neither of them seemed to have anything to say, so I kept going.

  “Listen, I don’t care,” I said. “This is none of my business. All I care about is Riley. I’m not trying to bring her back to Mr. Muehlenhaus. I’m not trying to keep her away from Navarre, whoever he turns out to be. I’m trying to protect her from a man who’s already murdered two people and assaulted another to get at Navarre. Now, dammit, where the hell is she?”

  Sheila unfolded her legs and rose slowly from her chair. She crossed the carpet and stood in front of me. For a moment, I had the feeling she was going to spit in my face. Instead, she sighed deeply like someone giving in to unpleasant news.

  “Promise you won’t tell the old man,” she said. “Promise that you’re just going to make sure she’s safe.”

  “I promise.”

  “The family has a place on the lake up north. Beautiful place. It was once featured in Minnesota Monthly magazine. They’re going to spend the night there before driving to Canada.”

  NINETEEN

  In the language of Minnesota, “a place on the lake up north” could be damn near anywhere. Start with “a place.” That suggested anything from a clearing where you pitched your tent or parked your trailer to a rustic cabin or palatial lake home. “The lake” was whichever one of our eleven-thousand-plus bodies of water where you owned or had access to “a place.” And the phrase “up north” referred more or less to the entire region a half-hour’s drive beyond the Cities—roughly two-thirds of the state. To the Muehlenhaus clan, it was a family compound consisting of a large main house surrounded by six small cabins located on the north shore of the lake—Lake Superior—near Lutsen, about four hours away by car assuming you obeyed the speed limit, which I seldom did.

  8:34 P.M. and I was already on my way when I called to tell Nina about it.

  “You’re not going to swing by and pick me up, are you?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Is it because you’re afraid I’ll get hurt or because you think I’ll be in the way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here I thought you’d be happy I was showing an interest in your work.”

  “Next time I need to drive two hundred and forty miles in search of a crazed killer, I’ll save you a seat.”

  “You say that, but you don’t really mean it. Can you at least do me a favor? Stop at Betty’s Pies and get me a blackberry peach crunch.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You might as well. Driving along the north shore, it’s on your way.”

  “Nina, I’m not stopping to buy a pie.”

  “Ohhhh,” she moaned.

  “What?”

  “Where Baird hit me with the gun—it’s really starting to ache. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ll just take an aspirin.”

  “Fine. Blackberry crunch.”

  “Blackberry peach crunch. Oh, while you’re at it, get a five-layer chocolate pie, too.”

  “This is why I didn’t take you with me. You don’t have the right mindset for this sort of thing.”

  * * *

  10:17 P.M. and I was fast approaching the bright lights of Duluth when it occurred to me that instead of worrying, I should reach out to the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. I thumbed 9-1-1 into my cell phone keypad and asked the operator to transfer my call to the county’s nonemergency line. From there I was connected to dispatch. I gave the woman my name and requested a “welfare check” on Ms. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin.

  “Is there an issue we should be aware of?” she asked.

  I explained that Riley had been linked to a murder that took place in Hennepin County and I was concerned for her safety. I gave the woman the names of Lieutenant Pelzer and Collin Baird, as well as Riley’s address and the license plate number of her Infiniti sports car.

  Dispatch told me Cook County had a deputy patrolling near the area and would request that he knock on Riley’s door. I thanked her and hung up the smartphone.

  I didn’t stop worrying, though.

  * * *

  10:52 P.M. and I was driving at speeds that invited arrest. I-35 was all torn up in downtown Duluth, and I had a helluva time working my way through the construction area before connecting with Highway 61 and following it north along the shore of the big lake. I nearly cracked up while dialing Riley’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up then anymore than she had the first three times I called.

  * * *

  11:25 P.M. and I was a few miles north of Two Harbors and rolling past Betty’s Pies, the iconic tourist stop located midway between Duluth and my destination. It was closed.

  “Gee, sorry about that, Nina,” I said.

  I still had an hour’s drive in front of me.

  * * *

  Lutsen was a small tourist town built on a high bluff overlooking Lake Superior and flanked by four mountains and a dozen ski resorts. Some people liked it better than Aspen. Since I had never spent time in either place, I was happy to go along with their assessment.

  I slowed before I reached the edge of town and began scanning the shoulder of the highway for the unmarked road Sheila told me about. I found it at 12:17 A.M. and followed it downward toward the lake. I stopped near the bottom when my headlamps illuminated the rear bumper of a Cook County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. It was parked directly behind a Honda Civic. I put the Jeep Cherokee in park and engaged the emergency brake, yet I did not turn off the engine or the lights. I slowly walked to the cruiser and looked inside. It was empty. I rested a hand on the hood. It was still warm.

  Next I proceeded to the Civic. Its engine was cold. I looked inside. There was a copy of Minnesota Monthly on the front seat.

  “Dammit,” I said,

  From where I stood, I could look down the rest of the driveway. It led to the main house and the six cabins. The buildings were huddled together beneath the slanting bluff as if for protection from the enormous, temperamental lake, although it was calm enough when I arrived, the tide out. There were no other vehicles that I could see. All the cabins were dark, but there were lights shining through the windows on the ground floor of the main house.

  I watched them for a moment from a distance. A bright moon shone overhead, and the sky was filled with a billion stars. I quickly returned to the Cherokee, extinguished the headlamps, and shut off the engine. I was alarmed by how quiet the world became. I could hear no noise at all, not even the sound of surf rolling up on the shore of the lake.

  I pulled the SIG Sauer and moved toward the lights, a moth to a flame.

  It was just a few degrees above freezing and I could see my breath as I negotiated the driveway and crossed the lawn; I could feel the cold air nipping at my bare hands as I gripped the gun.

  There was movement in the back of the house. I squatted in the shadows and watched. It was Collin Baird—I recognized him immediately. He was standing in a well-appointed kitchen and eating ice crea
m directly from the carton, not a care in the world.

  I edged closer.

  The lights inside were bright enough that I knew they were reflecting off the glass in the kitchen windows like a mirror. Baird would be unable to see me, I was sure, yet I zealously avoided the shafts of light pouring from the windows onto the grounds anyway as I closed on the house and began moving along its walls.

  The windows were high up, so I was forced to stand on my toes. Through one I could see a handsome living room with arched doorways and beamed ceiling. I grabbed hold of the windowsill and hoisted myself up. The furniture was elegant; a baby grand piano like the one I had vowed to buy Nina stood in the corner.

  I went to another window and pulled myself up again. This time I saw a body on the floor, a man dressed in what I assumed was the uniform of the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. He was lying on his stomach, his head turned away from me. I figured he must still be alive because Baird had cuffed his hands behind his back. If he were dead, why would he have bothered?

  I didn’t see Riley until I moved to a different window. The sight of her was like a sucker punch to the stomach. She was naked. Her hands were fastened to a chain. The chain was wrapped around a ceiling beam above her. She was suspended from the beam, her feet well off the floor, like a side of beef in a slaughterhouse. Her mouth was gagged.

  I dashed to the front door. It was locked. My right brain told me to kick it open. The cooler left brain couldn’t believe that Mr. Muehlenhaus would have invested in cheap locks and argued that nothing good would come from letting Baird hear me failing to get inside.

  I circled the large house again, searching for an entry point. While I did, I saw Baird in the kitchen. He set his ice cream down and picked up something else—I couldn’t see what. He passed from one window to the next as he made his way into the living room where Riley was hanging.

  I didn’t like shooting through windows. Glass has a way of deflecting bullets. I would have tried it anyway except for the angle. The windows were so high I could only see Baird’s head and shoulders. If I missed …

  I kept moving around the house, wondering how Baird got inside. Then I saw it—the back door was slightly ajar. I moved toward it. Baird had smashed the window and simply reached in to turn the lock.