by Matt Goldman
30
Andrew Fine took so many shotgun blasts to the head and torso he had to be identified by a birthmark on his left calf.
The gunmen had approached through a vacant lot a few buildings from the Cedar Cultural Center. The lot sat between the Wienery, a restaurant featuring Polish sausages, and Samiya Store, a boutique that sold traditional Somali women’s clothing. The gunman all wore size-fourteen moon boots. Their footprints disappeared into the McKnight Building, the tallest of the towers in the Cedar-Riverside complex. It housed thousands of Somalis. Not one of them, I was sure, would admit to seeing gunmen, who most likely had incinerated their moon boots and threw the ashes off the roof before police arrived on the scene.
At 3:45 A.M., Ellegaard and I found ourselves in our favorite FBI conference room in Brooklyn Center. Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton sat at the head of the table and proceeded over the berating. Agents No Chin and Delvin Peterson sat on either side of her. They glared at us, no doubt pissed for being duped by a simple cell phone ruse, not to mention their yearlong operation was now floating in the shitter. Edina Police Chief McGinnis was there, too. He wore a tartan plaid scarf over a corduroy shirt, which confirmed that scarves were his affectation, a condemnation of his character that felt gratifying considering how much our relationship had deteriorated. Representing the Minneapolis PD—the killing happened there, after all—were Assistant Chief Rosalind Hardin, Deputy Chief Jacob Freeman, and Inspector Gabriella Núñez, who, I presume, was included because of her history with Ellie and me.
The only thing we all had in common was the desire to be in our beds. I’d stopped at Lunds on the way and bought two dozen freshly baked donuts—a transparent attempt at ingratiation that wasn’t a total failure.
Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths as if it were an exercise she’d learned in anger-management camp. “Tell it from the beginning and tell it all.”
Ellegaard and I looked at each other. He gave me a nod, and I told the entire story from the moment we left this room the last time. I told him about McGinnis firing me off the case and that Ellie and I had disobeyed the FBI’s wishes by not backing off Fine. Our intent was to flush Fine into incriminating himself since we were sensitive to the ongoing FBI investigation. We hoped he would, in the middle of the night, try to retrieve vacuum cleaner bags from the Hyland Lakes Office Park, an act we would photograph so he could be arrested when the FBI’s investigation was over. That’s all we wanted. I admitted to giving our cell phones a ride up north to free ourselves of any encumbrances that might thwart the task at hand. There’s no law against giving your phones a ride. And there’s no law against accepting an invitation to the party of a longtime acquaintance, and him confiding in you because of your expertise.
“The ironic thing,” I said, “is that Andrew Fine had convinced himself that Khandra Aden was working for the FBI, keeping an eye on him to make sure he was cooperating with you.”
“You should have told us about Fine’s relationship with Khandra,” said Milton. “We could have determined she was working for Al-Shabaab.”
“First you tell us to back off Fine. Now you’re telling us we should have done your job for you? No wonder you fucking missed the boat on this one.”
“Watch your mouth, Mr. Shapiro. I can make your life damn difficult.”
“And it’ll come right back at you, Special Agent in Charge Milton. I have a copy of an e-mail you sent to Chief McGinnis where you directed him to back off Andrew Fine, despite him being the prime suspect of a murder case.”
McGinnis ground his teeth. “How did you get that e-mail?”
“You forwarded it to me. Sir.”
“The hell I did.”
“It’s quite easy to prove,” said Ellegaard. “Saying you didn’t do it is only going to make you look worse.”
“You’re in enough trouble as it is, Detective.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong, sir.”
I said, “Maybe you should spend less time picking out scarves, Chief, and more time learning how to use your digital devices.”
“Don’t you fucking—”
“Shut up,” said Milton. “That e-mail doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. Asking you to hold off on Fine was a reasonable request.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But your carnival barking about the importance of your mission is just going to make you look that much more ridiculous because you botched that important mission. You did. Not me. Not Detective Ellegaard. Not Edina PD.” McGinnis lifted his chin with my absolving him of any wrongdoing. “Fine drove all over town with Khandra Aden. Khandra Aden was working with Al-Shabaab. She slept at his house. In fact, she was with him the night Maggie Somerville was murdered—sound asleep, passed out after too many martinis. And if you were doing your job, Special Agent in Charge, you would have known that. You might have even been able to tell us whether or not Fine left the house that night, and then none of this would have happened.”
“By the way,” said Ellegaard, “does anyone know where Khandra Aden is now?”
Gabriella consulted a folder. “The call she made to Fine pinged a cell tower in New York.”
“The sound quality was so shitty,” I said. “Any chance it was relayed from another cell from out of the country?”
“I wasn’t finished,” said Gabriella. Her tone was kind. Ellie and I weren’t in trouble with Minneapolis PD. “We know Khandra left the country. She flew United to Chicago yesterday then caught a Turkish Airlines flight to Mogadishu.”
I said to Milton, “You didn’t have her on the no-fly?”
“Fuck you,” said Peterson.
I said to Gabriella, “Are you saying the call was relayed by two phones being held up to each other?”
“That’s our guess,” said Gabriella.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Low-tech still wins the fucking day.” The room went quiet for too long. “So just out of curiosity, did Fine’s cooperation lead to anything or anyone?” Their silence answered my question. “So if you had just let us do our job, or maybe helped us, you would have found the one Al-Shabaab sympathizer in the whole goddamn building and she would have led you to at least half a dozen more.”
“Goddamnit,” said No Chin, looking at his phone. “Somebody just posted the ambush online.”
“God save us,” said McGinnis.
“Your suspect has paid for his crime,” said Milton. “That had better make you happy.” Milton stood and walked to the windows overlooking the tangle of freeways below. “The FBI is going to thoroughly investigate your recent activities, Shapiro and Ellegaard, and whether or not they impeded the work of federal law enforcement. My advice to you is don’t leave the country.”
I said, “You wouldn’t fucking know it if we did.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
At 4:25 A.M., I texted Ansley. My worknight has just concluded.
Come over.
I need to sleep. I’ll call when I wake up.
I’m working at the hospital from 6 A.M. to 8 P.M. See you after?
I have plans I can’t change. Sunday?
Yes, please.
I got back to the shitbox just before 5:00 A.M. I lay under my down comforter and listened to the plows on 54th. Or at least on the Edina side of 54th. Someone from Minneapolis PD had already knocked on Stevey Fine’s door and told him his big brother was dead. I pictured him hearing the news and was certain he’d be devastated. I envisioned Stevey Fine running a hand through his thick dark curls and dropping his head in sorrow.
I said “fuck” out loud and set my alarm for 8:00 A.M.
Stevey Fine’s head was the one I’d seen from the Christ Presbyterian Church balcony at Maggie Somerville’s funeral. Three hours of sleep would have to do.
31
At 8:15 I sat in my living room and drank coffee and ate a bowl of microwaved oatmeal. The monotone on the radio said it had snowed eleven inches at the airport—they always tell you the weather s
tatistics at the airport even though no one lives there. The voice forecasted cloudy skies in the morning then another three to four inches starting late afternoon. The temperature would hover around thirty. Most schools were starting two hours late. Not a bad morning to go sledding or make a snowman or snow fort. Lucky kids on a Friday.
I wanted to call Ellegaard but decided to let him sleep. I thought of calling McGinnis but didn’t want to talk to him before I spoke to Ellegaard. I’m sure their heads hit their pillows thinking the Maggie Somerville case was closed. First murder in Edina in over a decade and cleared off the books, or more likely book, in five days. All without the hassle or expense of a trial. Maybe Andrew Fine did kill Maggie Somerville, but last night, when he drove north on Highway 100 instead of south to the Hyland Lakes Office Park, I was almost certain he was innocent of that crime. Andrew Fine suffered from a fatal case of narcissism, but he wasn’t obtuse. When I told him I’d heard whispers of the Edina PD collecting vacuum-bag samples to compare to the murder scene, his only concern was Khandra Aden.
At the academy they taught us that when a woman is killed, the investigator should focus on the husband or boyfriend. The murder of a woman is most likely a crime of passion, they said, especially when she hasn’t been robbed or raped. So that’s where Ellie and I started, first with Robert Somerville. He had no alibi for the night of the killing. He did have financial trouble and, knowing his children were the beneficiaries of his ex-wife’s life insurance policy, he had motive. But Robert Somerville didn’t seem to have it in him. Everything about him said pacifist. His house, his clothing, his business. There are two types of people. Those who will kill someone else and those who will kill themselves to hurt the person they can’t bring themselves to kill. Robert Somerville was the latter. He didn’t even kill the sheep he used to make sheepskin boots—he waited for them to die of old age.
So we focused on Andrew Fine because most everything pointed to Andrew Fine. But most everything isn’t everything. The biggest detail being that Fine didn’t love Maggie Somerville. He never had. We rationalized that away by theorizing that Andrew Fine killed Maggie to keep her from talking about his sexual proclivities, which would arm his ex-wife in their long-running divorce war. But that theory began to crumble hours before his death, when Fine’s relationship with Khandra Aden revealed itself. And when Fine admitted to being in love with Khandra, I just couldn’t see him caring enough about Maggie Somerville in any way that would motivate him to kill her. And the last misshapen piece of the puzzle: Andrew Fine was a creature in need of immediate gratification. He didn’t have the patience or foresight to plot a murder like Maggie’s—to conceive the logistics of such a plot, to accumulate the used vacuum bags over months or years, to have it all in place and then wait for the perfect opportunity coinciding with the right weather event.
But I continued down the wrong path of pursuing Andrew Fine because it was hard to let go of something that seemed so promising. Potential is a foul fucking temptation. It seems a noble and worthwhile pursuit. Its singularity promises great reward. But potential blinds and insulates you from the elements. Whether you’re focused on a romantic partner or idea or job or murder suspect, your subject’s potential feels warm and inviting. Letting go of potential is difficult because then you’re out in the cold again. Then you’re alone.
I opened my laptop, went to Facebook, and downloaded a picture. Then I read three e-mails from Micaela. She was worried because I hadn’t responded to phone calls or texts. I replied that I’d lost my phone and would call her later. It was the kind of e-mail you’d get from your mom, and, for a moment, I thought I might understand the nature of Micaela’s love for me. But the moment passed.
I put on my down sweater and boots then carried my laptop out to the garage. The Volvo proved itself again by conquering the icy, rutted alley. Three minutes later, I parked in front of Beth Lindquist’s house.
She and Perry were home—they’d just returned from a walk up to Caribou for coffee. They were changing out of their boots and jackets in the small foyer when I knocked on the door. Beth seemed brighter than when I’d last spoken to her—maybe the funeral started her healing process.
“Nils, come in,” she said. “Perry, you remember Nils.”
“Of course I do. He’s the guy who always refuses my sandwiches.” Perry smiled and shook my hand. “Nice to see you again. If you want to take me up on my offer, we’re eating at eleven A.M. sharp because Beth’s running a twenty this afternoon. Needs time for digestion.”
“No, I’m good. I just have one quick question for Beth.”
“Would you like to sit down?” said Beth.
“No. This will only take a minute.” I opened my laptop. “Do you know who this man is?” I turned the screen toward her.
She recognized him instantly. “Yes! That’s Slim! Maggie’s old boyfriend. You know, I said hello to him yesterday at the funeral. He’s an awfully nice man. And I hate to admit it—I still don’t know his real name.”
“It’s Stevey,” I said. “Stevey Fine.”
“Hey,” said Perry, “he wouldn’t by any chance be related to Andrew Fine, would he?”
“Yes. They’re brothers.”
“We saw on the news this morning that Andrew Fine got himself killed last night in Little Somalia. The Edina police said he was their lead suspect in Maggie’s murder.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Then why are you still investigating?” said Perry. He glanced at Beth. The sadness had returned to her face and her thin neck seemed to shrink another size. Perry put his arm around her and kissed the side of her head.
“I’m not investigating. Just tying up a few loose ends. You have to be extra diligent when a case is closed without a conviction.” The tension eased in Beth’s eyes. “And don’t tell anyone I said this, but I get paid by the day so I’m stretching it out a bit.”
Beth laughed. What I said wasn’t that funny—she just needed the release. Perry smiled, relieved that Beth’s mood had lightened. “Nothing wrong with being enterprising.”
“I can’t believe Slim and Andrew Fine were brothers,” said Beth. “It’s strange Maggie went from one brother to another. Especially because Andrew was so awful and Slim—what’s his name again?”
“Stevey.”
“Right. Stevey was so good to Maggie. He really cared for her. Last year, Maggie went to Mexico with her kids for spring break. She was dating Stevey then. Well, while they were gone everyone in town was raking all the dead leaves and muck from winter out of their yards. Maggie refused to hire anyone to do it for her—something about the divorce made her want to do her own lawn, you know, to prove she was independent and okay on her own. And Stevey, he just adored Maggie. So when she was in Mexico he raked that whole yard by himself. Took him an entire weekend. Maggie came home to what must have been two dozen bags on the curb filled with yard debris. Oh, it’s a shame, really.”
“What’s a shame?” I said.
“That Maggie didn’t feel the same way about Stevey as he felt about her. They could have been so happy together, and Maggie deserved happiness and love more than any person I know.”
The grandfather clock ticked in the dining room. Perry put his arm around his wife. I said, “Thanks, Beth. You’ve been very helpful.”
I left the Lindquists and drove to Uptown where, at 9:55 A.M., I was one of several idiots standing in front of the Apple Store waiting for it to open. Half an hour later, I had a new iPhone that was bigger and lighter than my last one. I had four messages from Micaela, one from my brother, one from Ansley, and one from Stevey Fine. I listened to his first.
His voice was raw and deeper than usual. “Shap. I don’t know if you heard, but Andrew was killed last night. I had to go down to the morgue. It was fucking brutal.” He sobbed. “They blew his head off. There was nothing left of it.” He cried more and then said, “Call me.” The time of the call was 9:17 A.M.
I called Ellegaard at his home number
and asked Molly to wake him. She said he was already up and building a snow castle in the backyard with the girls. A few minutes later he came to the phone.
“What are you doing up so early?” he said.
“I need to meet with you and McGinnis as soon as possible.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Can you tell me now? McGinnis is probably still asleep.”
“Then have the station get ahold of him. It’s urgent.”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Shap.”
“Nor should you. Your office at 11:00.”
“Eh boy.”
“No fucking shit.”
I called Stevey Fine from the car. He answered on the first ring, scratching out a weak, “Hello.”
“Stevey, it’s Shap. I am so deeply sorry.”
“I want you to find out what happened.”
“I know what happened.”
“So why? Why did they do it? Fuck, Shap. They posted it on the Internet. What’s going on?”
“We should talk. I can stop by this afternoon.”
“My sister’s supposed to land around 1:00. As soon as she’s with my mom, I’m free.”
“Want me to come over at 2:00?”
“Yeah. That’d be good. I’ll see you then.”
I got in the car and headed west on Lake Street. While waiting at a stoplight on the north side of Lake Calhoun, Ansley called.
“You got a new phone already,” she said.
“They’re a bad habit.”
“Guess what I’m looking at.”
“A spleen?”
“No, silly. A check for one million dollars. The insurance company said it’d take two weeks, but FedEx delivered it to me half an hour ago.”
“I’d say congratulations but that doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“No,” she said, “it doesn’t. Listen, Nils. I’m having a hard time with all of this. I talked to my dean this morning, explained everything to him. He suggested I take a week off, get away.”
