by Matt Goldman
“Who’s Somali.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s a look, and you got it.”
“I suppose I do,” she said.
“So what about your father?”
“My father’s name is Omar Bihi. He grew up in a prominent Somali clan that opposed the then-government, which was run by the Supreme Revolutionary Council. In the mid-1980s, its president almost died in a car accident. While he was in the hospital, there was a power struggle. The Red Berets tortured a lot of dissenters, and my father’s family fled to the United States. The Catholic and Lutheran social services invited them to visit Minnesota, anticipating civil war would break out in Somalia, which it did a few years later. They hoped refugees would come to the Twin Cities.”
“How did Maggie and your father meet?”
“Catholic youth organizations reached out to immigrant families.”
“Competing against the Lutherans.”
“Probably,” she smiled, “it is Minnesota.” The fire whipped and hissed. Ansley removed the throw from her shoulders and said, “Maggie became my father’s good-will ambassador, helped him with homework, meeting American kids and all that. My father’s family lived in north Minneapolis. It was a black neighborhood and hip-hop was taking off. But when the Africans wanted to participate in the African-American culture, the African-Americans wanted nothing to do with them.”
“Like, ‘Go back to where you came from’?”
“Basically, yes.”
“So my father was a total outcast. Except with my mother. They spent a lot of time together and fell in love. It was under the guise of Catholic charity, so no one paid much attention. That’s how I got conceived.
“But then my mother’s parents shipped her off to California, and Omar and his family returned to Somalia to participate in the president’s overthrow and the civil war that followed. Maggie said Omar was one of the sweetest boys she had ever known, and that I was conceived out of a gentle and innocent love. She told me several times to make sure I understood it, especially since Omar rose to power as a warlord and became one of the most ruthless tribal leaders in the region.
“By the time I’d met Maggie in 2008, she was afraid that maybe Omar had reestablished ties with Minnesota and would somehow find out he had a daughter and would have me kidnapped. I don’t know how real a possibility that is, but it’s scary enough to keep me far from the Somali community. I have zero interaction with them. And I do everything I can to scream I’m not one of them, whether it’s wearing a Dave’s Bar-B-Que T-shirt or short shorts or a Jack Daniel’s hat.”
“So you and Maggie kept your relationship a secret.”
She nodded and told me a little more, and then Ansley Bell talked herself to sleep. Sometime after midnight, I grabbed a couple of pillows and a duvet from her bedroom and tucked her in on the leather sectional.
When I got in my car, the temperature on the dash read -17. But synthetic oil and a six-month-old battery makes an old Volvo new again, and it started right up.
My phone had died in the pocket of my parka so I plugged it in while waiting for the engine to warm up. When it came back to life, I saw three texts from Ellegaard.
9:17 Where are you? Lyle’s, remember?
9:34 I missed tucking my kids in tonight so I could sit in Lyle’s exchanging information with myself. Shap, this is a problem.
9:49 Leaving. Perkins on 50th tomorrow at 8:00 A.M. No excuses.
11
Perkins Restaurant & Bakery is a business that lacks such confidence it just comes straight out and says what it is, for fear that you’ll mix it up with Perkins Tool & Die or Perkins Tropical Fish. It’s distinguished by Formica tables in a woodgrain finish, vinyl booths, and loud carpet designed more to hide stains than please the eye. The servers’ uniforms don’t have a natural fiber in them. Insurance agents and telecommuters conduct meetings at its tables, drawing charts and graphs on paper place mats bejeweled with coffee-mug rings. The whole place is a testament to the innovation of Man.
I arrived early, but Ellegaard sat waiting in a booth, drinking tea. I slid in opposite him, turned over my coffee cup, and waited for something hot and brown to wake me up.
“Thanks for showing up,” said Ellegaard.
“You still mad about last night? Because you know me. If I wasn’t there, I had a good reason.”
“Let’s hear it.”
I hadn’t seen Ellegaard get pissy before. I didn’t care for it and decided to knock him back on his heels. “I saw Andrew Fine and your boss talking in McGinnis’s unmarked Edina SUV yesterday. I don’t know what they talked about, but it looked pretty fucking chummy.”
Ellegaard set down his tea. “Shut up, Shap.”
“They had a clandestine meeting in a parking lot when they thought no one was paying attention. But someone was.” I showed Ellegaard a photo on my phone. “What the fuck, Ellie. What’s going on here?”
Ellegaard looked like I’d sucker-punched him in the stomach. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Do you know McGinnis has been raising money for Eleanor Nordahl’s gubernatorial campaign?” Ellie’s dumbfounded expression answered the question for me. “He’s been talking to Edina money, including Robert Somerville. Word is that Eleanor promised to appoint him as the Commissioner of Minnesota Department of Public Safety if she wins. Don’t you think that’s something he should have told us, Ellie? That he’s met with Robert Somerville? That he’s making out with Andrew Fine in parking lots?”
Ellegaard’s six-foot-three frame shrunk a few inches. “What are you implying, Shap? That McGinnis is coaching Andrew Fine and Robert Somerville on how to respond to our investigation in exchange for political contributions?”
“There he is.” I looked up and saw McGinnis approaching our booth. He wore khakis, a navy crewneck sweater over a white oxford, and that damn red scarf. Red, white, and blue. I guessed those would be his colors from now on, a subliminal or not-so-subliminal branding for his political ambitions. He caught the eye of a passing waitress. “I’ll take some coffee, Carly, when you have a chance.”
“Be right there, Chief,” said Carly with a smile.
“So Nils,” said McGinnis, sliding into the booth on Ellegaard’s side. “What have you found out so far?”
“More questions than answers.”
“That’s what happens when you dig. That’s good.”
“Is it?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d met with Robert Somerville at his office?”
“It’s separate business,” said McGinnis, “it has nothing to do with our investigation.”
“Maybe, but that’s an odd omission.”
Ellegaard fidgeted. The Boy Scout didn’t like seeing his troop leader addressed with such disrespect. “Hey, come on,” he said. “We’re all on the same team here.”
I locked eyes with McGinnis. “Did you warn Andrew Fine about me working on the investigation?”
“Shap,” said Ellegaard. “Enough.”
The waitress came over, filled McGinnis’s cup with coffee and topped off mine. She threw another smile McGinnis’s way—he managed to return it. She winked and left.
“No,” said McGinnis. “I haven’t told Andrew Fine anything.”
“But you’ve spoken with him since the murder.”
I set my phone on the table and unlocked the screen. Ellegaard looked like he’d run from the booth if McGinnis didn’t have him pinned in.
McGinnis hesitated for a moment—he sensed he was trapped. “I met with Andrew Fine yesterday. I told him I had to return the donations he’s made to Eleanor Nordahl’s PAC. She’s running for governor—I’m fund-raising for her. When Fine asked why, I explained that he’s a person of interest in our investigation of Maggie Somerville’s murder. He was incredulous, to say the least. But I explained that past allegations against him, his romantic relationship with Maggie, and his lack of an alibi put us in a difficult spot. We have no choice but to consider him as
a possible suspect.”
“Where did you have that meeting?”
McGinnis looked annoyed but answered, “In a car outside the Global Midtown Market. I chose the location out of courtesy to Fine. If word gets out that we’re looking hard at him, it will hurt his reputation in the community. I’m all for that if he’s guilty, but if he’s not, I don’t see the value in damaging a man’s reputation.”
McGinnis had come clean. Ellegaard looked relieved.
But I wasn’t finished. “I hear you’re helping Eleanor Nordahl in exchange for an appointment as Minnesota’s top cop.”
“Yes. That’s how these things work. You don’t have to turn over a rock to figure that out.”
“And now with Maggie’s murder, your name’s in the paper, your press conferences are on the ten o’clock news. It’s awfully convenient when you needed a little press.”
McGinnis darkened. His chin tilted downward and he glared at me through the tops of his eyes. “You think I killed her?”
“Did you?”
“Okay,” said Ellegaard, “this is getting ridiculous. Let’s just stop—”
“I get it, Shapiro. You’re just doing your job. And I respect that. But I had nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, to do with Maggie’s murder. I’m sorry I didn’t disclose my existing relationships with Fine and Somerville, but that’s where it ends.”
Ellegaard exhaled something between frustration and sadness. He liked his procedure and chain of command neat and tidy. This was not that.
“I believe you, Chief. And not just because you’re such a nice guy, but yesterday I had a friend in the Minneapolis PD run a search and your DNA is not in the system.”
“Shap,” said Ellegaard.
“And right now, I still believe our killer’s DNA is in the system.”
McGinnis took a sip of coffee then set it back down. “I had asked both Robert Somerville and Andrew Fine for contributions. But after Maggie Somerville’s murder, I un-asked them. Not because I was worried it would hurt Eleanor Nordahl or myself, but because it’s a conflict of interest for the investigation.”
I knew it didn’t take forty-five minutes to ask Andrew Fine to keep his money to himself, but that didn’t make him guilty of murder. McGinnis was just a man trying to wring the last out of his career, to climb a little higher for a better view before sitting down for the rest of his life.
“Anything else you want to get off your chest, Shapiro?” said McGinnis.
“No, Chief. I’m good.”
“All right. Then let’s get back to business,” he said. “I got some new information early this morning. Our mysterious Ansley Bell is turning out to be more important than we might have guessed.”
“I know,” I said. “Ansley Bell is Maggie Somerville’s biological daughter.”
“What?” said Ellegaard. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I was about to when the chief walked in.”
“You should have called or texted.”
“All right, Mom. Next time I will.”
“Gentlemen,” said Chief McGinnis, “not now. Shapiro, I assume you made contact with Ms. Bell.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s your impression?”
“My impression is that she’s devastated. She met her mother after she turned eighteen. The two became best friends but had to keep their relationship a secret.” Ellegaard asked why. I told them how Maggie and Omar Bihi fell in love when they were fifteen and how Maggie went to California to have a baby, while Omar returned to Somalia and traded in his kind demeanor for a Kalashnikov.
“And you believe her?” said McGinnis.
“She’s half Somali. You wouldn’t doubt that if you saw her.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of half Somalis in this world. From what you say, Ansley Bell did all right for herself claiming she was Maggie’s daughter. Four years at Carleton. Four years at the university med school. A furnished apartment. If she somehow learned about Maggie’s baby, there’s quite an incentive there for her to say she’s someone she’s not.”
I nodded then said, “There is a resemblance, but you’re right. So here.” I reached into my pocket and removed a sealed bag containing a wadded up piece of tissue paper. “Inside this tissue are a few eyebrow hairs I took from a tweezer in Ansley’s bathroom. The roots should be intact so you can run the DNA and see if you get a match.”
“Nice work,” said Ellegaard.
“Very,” said McGinnis. “And assuming for a moment it’s really her, do you believe Omar Bihi doesn’t know she exists? That they’re not in contact in any way?”
“Yeah, I do believe that.”
“Because if she believes in the cause—”
“What cause?” said Ellegaard.
“Al-Shabaab,” said McGinnis. “Or Daesh. If she’s on their side, or least sympathetic to their mission, eliminating Maggie Somerville is a quick way to help.”
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“Maggie Somerville named Ansley Bell as a beneficiary on her life insurance policy, along with her other two children. Ansley, alone, is about to receive one million dollars.”
I knew Ansley’s grief was real. I believed what she’d told me. But I also knew I was not immune to her charms. “I highly doubt Ansley Bell is in contact with her father, but what you’re suggesting is a possibility we can’t ignore. I’ll dig deeper into it.”
McGinnis’s smile was smack-worthy. “Good.”
Ellegaard said, “At least Ansley being one of Maggie’s beneficiaries explains the private detective outside her house.”
“What private detective?” said McGinnis.
“The one Shap was harassing yesterday. He obviously works for the life insurance company, doing their due diligence.”
“I got an e-mail this morning from the life insurance company,” said McGinnis. “They said they’d hold off on their investigation until they read our report.”
“Are you serious?” I said.
“Read it for yourself.”
McGinnis searched his BlackBerry. “Where is it? Oh, crap. They gave us new phones. Everything’s different now. You’ll figure it out faster than I will.” McGinnis handed me his phone.
I read the e-mail from the insurance company. I saw another interesting e-mail, as well. “All right—I got it. Mind if I forward this to myself?”
“Go ahead,” said McGinnis.
I did. Then handed the BlackBerry back to McGinnis.
Ellegaard said, “If that guy hanging outside Ansley’s house doesn’t work for the insurance company, then who is he?”
I had a bad feeling about that creep. “Maybe we should go ask him.”
12
Ellegaard and I jumped into his unmarked Ford and drove north on Highway 100. The sun glared off the highway, which was wet with the antifreeze. MnDOT sprays it when subzero temps invite black ice. Rush hour was over. Traffic was light. A few minutes later, we exited onto 394 and headed toward downtown, the skyline sharp against the clear blue sky except for a white, billowy steam cloud that rose from the power company.
I texted Ansley. It’s Nils. If you’re home don’t answer the door. Be there in ten.
We pulled in front of Ansley’s duplex at 9:02. The dick stood on the front stoop, pushing the doorbell labeled BELL. Ellegaard stopped the car. I got out and approached the front door.
I saw skinny-ass out of the car and in daylight for the first time. He stood about six feet tall and weighed a buck fifty. His face had turned pink from the cold. His tiny brown eyes seemed too close together and he had a soft, fleshy mouth like a trout. He wore a navy blue, full-length, quilted down coat. That’s what they’d sell you at REI by the airport if you just got off a plane and insisted on buying the absolute warmest jacket they had. I looked back at his Camry and inspected the fuel door. It was the non-locking kind. Only rental cars have those because their drivers can never find the release
. This guy wasn’t local and couldn’t have advertised it better with neon.
“Welcome to our humble land. How are you liking Minneapolis?”
“What makes you think I’m from out of town?”
“Because either you are, or you’re wearing your wife’s coat.”
“Fuck you and who’s that fuck?” he pointed to Ellegaard, who had parked and was walking toward me.
“He’s police, and he wants to see your ID.”
“I just showed my ID to police yesterday. This town is bullshit. Everyone’s harassing me.”
“Yeah? Most people like Minneapolis. It’s cultured. It’s friendly. Ever hear of Minnesota Nice?”
“Ah, Christ. It’s a fucking Frigidaire here. What’s wrong with you people? Why don’t you move someplace warm?”
“Sir,” said Ellegaard, “can I see some identification?”
The guy patted his long coat. “Ah, goddammit, there’s two hundred pockets in this thing.”
“Is a gun in one of them?”
“No. Too much trouble to travel with.” He found his wallet in an inside pocket. “Here you go.”
Ellegaard took the wallet and opened it up. “You’re a long way from Los Angeles, Mr. Kelly.”
“No, shit. It was a ninety-degree difference when I stepped off the plane.”
My phone dinged with a text from Ansley. Working at the university hospital. Is everything okay?
I looked up at the pink face with chattering teeth. “You want to grab a cup of coffee with us?”
“Yeah, I do. But I’m on the job.”
“She’s not home. I just got a text from her.”
“Show it to me.”
“I can’t. It says where she is.”
“Ah, fuck. I should’ve stayed in California.”
“Come on,” said Ellegaard. “We’re buying.”
I returned Ansley’s text. Yes. Are you up for talking again?
Working a twelve today. Off at 8:00, does 9:00 work?
Yes. See you then. If you haven’t eaten, we’ll grab dinner.
In the Spyhouse coffee shop on Broadway, while drinking a soy latte with four pumps of hazelnut syrup, Brian Kelly told us he was a private detective out of Van Nuys, California. He mostly tracked down missing persons and suspected adulterers. Undocumented aliens and the porn industry were his biggest customers.
