by Matt Goldman
According to Kelly, two weeks ago a couple wandered into his strip-mall storefront on Oxnard Street. They had adopted a baby twenty-six years ago. She left home when she was seventeen and hadn’t come back. She e-mailed to let them know she was okay, but wouldn’t tell them any more than that. They had no idea where she was.
The couple got knocked off their feet during the Great Recession, lost their jobs and home, and had to move in with one of their elderly parents in Long Beach. Now, almost a decade later, they’re solvent and can finally afford to hire a private investigator to look into their daughter’s whereabouts. They told Kelly the girl’s name was Bella Snyder.
Kelly explained he had an FBI connection and, after a few calls, the FBI agent traced Bella Snyder’s e-mails to an IP address at Ansley Bell’s duplex. Armed with that information, her DMV records, and her high school graduation photo, Brian Kelly got on a plane without first looking at the weather forecast in Minneapolis.
I told Kelly I could help him, but he’d have to give us another day, to which he replied, “What the hell am I going to do for a whole day when it’s this cold out?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “Maybe you’d enjoy the Mall of America. It’s a classy place for a classy guy like yourself.”
Ellegaard drove me back to the Perkins parking lot. We sat in his car a moment and then he said, “Do you think Brian Kelly is working for who he says he’s working for?”
“As opposed to?”
“Omar Bihi.” Ellegaard ran a hand across his smooth chin. “Maybe he found out about Maggie getting pregnant.”
“Omar Bihi and his friends must all be on FBI, CIA, and NSA watch lists. For any of them to sneak around lily white Edina without attracting attention is nearly impossible.”
“Well,” said Ellegaard, “let’s just talk it out. If Omar somehow learned about Maggie having his baby, maybe he’d be upset enough to kill her.”
“Like an honor killing?”
“Yeah. For the sake of argument. And let’s say Omar recruited a white kid here. Or even an African-American. Someone who wouldn’t draw much attention if they were making a delivery or cleaning windows or scooping leaves out of the gutters. Someone who gained Maggie’s trust and either got access to a key or knew where one was hidden. It’s a possibility.”
“I guess anything’s possible,” I said, and watched a pair of elderly women, wearing long wool coats in navy and butterscotch, step off the Perkins walk and into the parking lot. They locked elbows and began their journey with baby steps across the frozen asphalt. “That theory of Omar being involved in Maggie’s death, is that yours or McGinnis’s?”
“It’s mine,” said Ellegaard. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m getting at McGinnis using this situation to his political advantage. All he’d have to do is imply that Maggie’s death is linked to Al-Shabaab. Nothing would be more effective to galvanize voters than pointing a finger at real terrorists who’ve done real recruiting in our own backyard. Rural Minnesotans would drop their usual objections to electing a Minneapolitan for governor. But to do that he’d have to tell Ansley’s story, and that could put her in actual danger. Because who knows what nut job is out there—an Islamic extremist or wannabe Rambo dying to take out the daughter of one.”
“What McGinnis does is out of my control,” said Ellegaard. “But you and I have to investigate Omar as a possibility. Find out who’s been working at Maggie’s house. Talk to neighbors. Recheck phone records and financial statements—just to see if there’s any chance Omar learned he has a daughter.”
“Fair enough. But if McGinnis makes any noise about Ansley…” I finished the sentence with my eyes.
“Edina PD hasn’t even questioned her yet, Shap. Something happen last night? What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I just don’t want to be in the business of spoon-feeding twenty-six-year-old women to fuckheads who want to hurt them.”
Ellegaard said nothing. I got out of his car. The cold felt clean and honest. At least something did.
13
I stepped off the elevator and onto the eighth floor of the Midtown Global Market building. Andrew Fine waited for me with tousled hair and a crooked smile. He held his tobacco-vaporizing lightsaber in one hand and extended the other toward me.
“Little Shap, welcome. Thought I’d give you a tour on the way to my office.”
“I’d love to see it,” I said, and shook his hand.
“Ninety percent of the floor is what you see right now.” He presented the room with a flourish of his upturned hand. The entire space was covered in wall-to-wall carpeting impregnated with a shebang of color that seemed to be composed of available pigments rather than a coordinated palette. Cubicles filled most of the floor, each with their own phone and workstation and operator, most of whom were Somali.
“Business seems good.”
“Can’t complain,” said Andrew. “Can’t complain. Let’s go this way.”
He led me around the perimeter of the workstations. I overheard bits and pieces of sales pitches, all spoken in flawless English. “Was everyone here born in Minnesota?”
“Pretty much,” said Andrew. “A few came over when they were babies or toddlers, but the majority were born here and they’re all U.S. citizens.”
I didn’t see a face over twenty-five years old. Most of the women wore hijab, which covered their hair, but not their faces, a facet of Ansley Bell shining in each of them.
“They’re selling everything. Extended warranties, magazine subscriptions, cruises, you name it. There’s a full kitchen, which helps with dietary restrictions. The Islamic dietary traditions are very close to kosher laws. Do you keep kosher, Little Shap?”
“Never have. You don’t, do you?”
“I do. Absolutely.”
Bunny’s didn’t have a kosher kitchen. I saw Fine eating there twenty-four hours ago. And he knew I saw him there. He was just telling himself a story about keeping kosher, telling himself a story he believed with such passion he couldn’t see the glaring holes in it.
“Really?” I said. “You’re not reform anymore?”
“Conservative. Been going to Beth El for a while now. And I go to Israel once a year.”
“You didn’t seem all that interested when we were kids.”
“Everyone grows up. And after 9/11, we can’t sit back, you know? Militant Islam’s spreading everywhere—especially in Europe—and we all know what a dangerous combination hate and Europe is.
“That’s why I hire as many Muslims as I can. We can talk about democracy and capitalism until we’re blue in the face, but if we provide opportunity and let them share in the American dream, well, there’s no stronger olive branch than that. It’s pretty tough to hate when you can take care of your family and send your kids to good schools, which leads to even more opportunity. Sometimes I think we should have taken a tenth of the money we spent in Iraq and Afghanistan and dropped it in cash and merchandise. We probably would have had more success, and success that could sustain itself.”
We reached the corner of the big room and took a left. The floor opened up to our right. “Here’s the prayer room. Since we’re working three eight-hour shifts, it gets used five times a day. You’ll notice it’s on the east side of the building.”
“This is a good thing you’re doing here, Andrew.”
“I hope so. Don’t kid yourself—it’s not a charity venture. I hire good people—they’re smart and work hard. They make a good wage, and I make a good profit.”
We turned down a short, wide corridor. In it, a desk with a receptionist. A young Somali woman with a cheerleader’s smile and cover-girl eyes under a hijab of red and gold.
“Khandra, this is an old friend of my brother, Steve. Nils Shapiro, this my assistant, Khandra Aden.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shapiro,” said Khandra with a polished grace, like a spokesmodel or beauty-pageant contestant. She stood to shake my hand. She was tal
l, maybe five ten, and curvaceous under the most delicate jaw and long neck.
“Nice to meet you, Khandra. And you can call me Shap.”
“Little Shap!” laughed Andrew. He put an arm on my shoulder and led me toward his office. “Hold my calls for a bit, Khandra. Thanks.” We entered Fine’s office and he shut the door. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair made of black-and-white cowhide. “Notice the carpet. Same in here as it is out there. It sends a subtle but powerful message. We’re all in it together. Know what I’m saying?”
I knew what he was saying, and it had little to do with what he was doing. But I played along. “Yeah,” I said. “It does send a powerful message.”
“Motivation is everything, right? I mean we’re all, to some degree, a bundle of unrealized potential. But the closer we get to reaching that potential, the more worthwhile life becomes. For everyone.”
“I didn’t realize you’re an industrial psychologist.”
“School of hard knocks, man. No better way to learn.” Andrew sat behind his desk, rocked back in his chair, and sighed.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Right to business. I like that, Little Shap.” He twisted something on his lightsaber and took a hit of vapor, held it a few seconds, then exhaled it. “I know you’re working on the Maggie Somerville murder.”
“You do?”
“Minneapolis is the biggest small town in the country.”
“That it is.”
“And I’m sure you know I was kind of dating Maggie.”
“Kind of?”
“Who’s that comedian who had that great fucking line? The one that goes like, ‘I don’t have a girlfriend, but I know a girl who’d be really mad if she heard me say that.’”
“Mitch Hedberg.”
“That’s his name?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, I gotta go see that guy sometime.”
“Sorry to tell you. He’s dead.”
“Really? That sucks.” Fine took another hit off his lightsaber. “Drugs?”
“Yep.”
“Could’ve been me.”
Fine got lost in himself and disappeared. I guess he went into the place narcissists go, the place that allows them to hear someone died and somehow make it about themselves.
“So,” I said, “Maggie thought you guys were dating, but you thought something else?”
“You’re single, right?”
“I am.”
“You know when two people start dating and one person is ready to lock it down before the other person?”
“That’s what happens most of the time.”
“Yeah, well, three dates and Maggie was ready to get married.”
“Not you, though?”
“Not anyone who’s sane. And even if I wasn’t, legally, I still am married. Separated six years, but we haven’t finalized the divorce.”
“Why’s that?”
“It ain’t love, that’s for sure.”
“Money?”
“She wants too much. It’s fucked up. We only communicate through lawyers. Lynn Diamond. Do you know her?”
“I know who she is.”
“But even if I wasn’t still legally married, I never fell for Maggie the way she fell for me.”
“But you stayed in the relationship.”
“More or less, yeah. Sweet woman. And physically, we had something crazy. But long-term, I didn’t see it.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No. That would have ended it. And it was one of those things that I thought might end up going somewhere. Like, I was open-minded about it. Didn’t think it would last, but you never know.”
“So are you worried about the investigation? Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“I’m not worried about anything serious. I didn’t kill her, and I have no idea who did. Frankly, it’s weird anyone would want to kill Maggie. She was kind of like a lamb, you know.”
“Then what’s your concern?”
He took another hit of vapor and blew it toward the ceiling. “How much can the cops poke into my private life?”
“I’m not a lawyer, Andrew. I’m a private detective.”
“I know, but you know cops. You know how these things go. And I trust you to be honest with me. I’m paying you for your time, by the way. So feel free to lay it all out there.”
I bit my lower lip to look like I was giving his question serious thought, but I was stalling to figure out how to handle the moment. Robert Somerville was easy. We connected—we could’ve been friends in real life—so I just exploited that by telling him to distrust Edina PD and imply he could trust me instead. But Andrew Fine was different. We weren’t friends, would never be friends, although he probably didn’t reciprocate the animosity I felt toward him because that would have required him to give me some thought.
“Are you afraid of what the police will find?”
“I’m not afraid, but I’m not crazy about it either. I got a reputation in the business community and at Beth El. I also got a weakness for beautiful women. The police go poking around, they’ll hear some unflattering stories about me. And if they find who killed Maggie, but the defense’s strategy is to point a finger at me, some not-cool shit’s going to hit the fan.”
“Hookers?”
“No. Never. Well…” He took another hit off the lightsaber. “Yeah, but not for a while. I got a few women who are legit employees here and at other businesses. But I’m also involved with them socially. I shouldn’t do it, I know, but fuck, you know what? I love the power in the relationship.”
“Of the employer-employee relationship?”
“I know it’s wrong, but there’s something old-world about it. Everything’s defined on one level and muddy on another level. Makes things interesting.”
“That’s what power’s all about.”
“Little Shap the philosopher. I like it.”
“Here’s the thing, Andrew. The police aren’t your biggest concern. They’ll look into your background. It’s nothing personal, it’s just because you’re the boyfriend. Or at least from Maggie’s point of view, you were her boyfriend. They’ll talk to Maggie’s friends, see what she said about you. They’ll talk to her family, see if they know anything. It’s all about determining the state of your relationship. Did you guys fight? Stuff like that. And again, it’s not personal. They’ll do the same with Robert Somerville. He’s the ex-husband. Statistically, chances are one of you two killed her. So that’s where they start.”
“The low-hanging fruit.”
“Exactly. Do you know anyone over at Edina PD?”
“Just the cops at the bottom of the hill on 50th who write me a ticket or two each year.”
No mention of Chief McGinnis. There it was again, the lie that was so easy for me to discover. Talk about low-hanging fruit. “Well, my advice is to cooperate with them. You didn’t kill Maggie, so you have nothing to worry about. If some less-than-pleasant details come out about your personal life, then they do, but that won’t hurt you in the long run. But if you actively try to prevent those unpleasant details from coming out, it’ll look like you’re trying to cover up something. And the cops will assume it’s murder. Then you will have a big problem.”
“Thanks, Little Shap. Good advice. I appreciate it.” He took another hit off his lightsaber then exhaled a cloud of vapor into the air. “You coming to the party Thursday night?”
“Yeah. If I’m still invited.”
“Of course.”
“Kind of had to invite me when you invited the nurses.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. You, uh, talk to either of them?”
“Nah. Figured you might have your eye on one of ’em.”
“Kind of like that blonde.”
“I kind of like the brunette.”
“That one’s got some curves.”
“I fell for her eyes.”
“Yeah, right you did.” He looked at his watch. “Who
a, hey. I got to run. I’ll see you Thursday night.”
I handed him my card. “Call me if you have any more questions.” I had one foot out the door when I stopped and turned back to him. “You mentioned you have this business and others. What are they?”
“I back a couple of restaurants and I own a commercial real-estate venture.”
“Buildings?”
“An office park in West Bloomington.”
“Hyland Lakes?”
“That’s the one.”
“Stevey’s your property manager then. I just ran into him the other day.”
“Yeah. I’m not there much, so it’s nice having family run the place.”
“I bet,” I said. “See you Thursday.”
I called Ellegaard from the car. “The Hyland Lakes office park on 494 and 100—the one that’s about five buildings with a duck pond in the middle—compare their vacuum-bag dust with the dust found in Maggie Somerville’s house.”
“What’s the connection?”
“Andrew Fine owns the whole thing. That’s a lot of square footage with a lot of carpet that needs a lot of vacuuming.”
“On it,” said Ellegaard.
I pulled out of the parking lot and onto Lake Street. I’d driven a couple of blocks west when I noticed a gray Buick three cars back. A mile later, it was still there. I took a left on East Calhoun Parkway. So did the Buick.
14
Fifteen minutes later, I turned onto Bruce Place, stopped and watched my rearview mirror. The Buick passed without turning. I continued, parked in front of Beth Lindquist’s house and got out of the Volvo. The Lindquists’ garage door was open. Perry stacked paper bags of leaves against the back wall. He wore khakis and an old peacoat and a pair of worn black Weejuns—the left one was missing its tassel.
“Need a hand?” I said as I walked up the driveway.
“No, I’m just about done. But thanks. It’s Nils, right?”
“Yes. Nice to see you again, Perry.”
“I tell you, the weather’s getting stranger every year. Leaves weren’t done dropping until mid-November, but they stop picking up November first. Can’t burn ’em anymore, so we got to store ’em until they start picking up again in the spring. Now we’re in a deep freeze, so I need to make room in the garage for the cars. And apparently, it’s all because I don’t drive a Prius.”
