by Matt Goldman
After coffee and a shower and more coffee I put on jeans, a T-shirt, dry socks, Stan Smiths, and walked to a coffee shop called Moose & Sadie’s. It was 8:15 A.M. and eighty degrees and I had thoughts of driving to the North Shore of Lake Superior where the cold waters push away August. I entered Moose & Sadie’s with my T-shirt sticking to my back, got in line, ordered two iced teas, then sat down facing the door.
The place had brick walls painted white and old wood floors and a clientele of former hipsters turned professional gentrifiers. Annika Brydolf walked in and found me. She wore shorts and sandals and a linen blouse. Summer hadn’t darkened her pale skin. It was so white it couldn’t absorb enough light to get jump-started on a tan. Her glacier-blue eyes looked fake but weren’t. Her right eye drooped thanks to nerve damage inflicted by her now-incarcerated ex-husband. You noticed it until she smiled and then you saw nothing but wonderful.
She sat and looked at the iced teas. “This one for me?”
“It’s for the first person who asked. Congratulations.”
She grabbed the tea and took a sip. “You look tired.”
“I am. Ellegaard called at three forty-five this morning. Asked me to check out a crime scene.”
Annika said, “What happened?”
“A man named Todd Rabinowitz was murdered last night. His wife found him tied to their dock in Christmas Lake with a stringer through his jaw.” Annika gave me an incredulous look. “I know. Someone’s either trying to send a message, has a flair for the dramatic, or is trying to create a distraction.”
“Did the police bring you in?”
“No. The wife.”
“Odd.”
“They were about to separate. She’s having an affair. She knows she’ll be a suspect so she wants me to clear her by helping the police figure out who killed him.”
“Bold fucking play if she killed him.”
Annika didn’t used to swear. The job did it to her, and I found it adorable. I said, “I know. And it’s possible Robin killed him. Or had him killed. But I’m going to start with her boyfriend and Todd Rabinowitz’s law firm. Robin thinks his employer had something to do with it. Or at least that’s what she’s saying.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Two young men sat next to us. They each had gauges in their earlobes, quarter-size rings stretching the skin and cartilage as if it were made of Play-Doh. I wondered what they’d think of their stretched-out earlobes when they were my age. I felt grateful for having no visible markers indicating the decisions I’d made twenty years ago.
I said, “Annika, I want you to just be you. Except with a fake story. You’ve left Stone Arch Investigations to work freelance. Drop in on Todd’s law firm cold. Give them your résumé. See if you can get past the receptionist. Whether you do or don’t, tell them you worked with me. Hit my name hard. Let’s see what they do.”
“I’m not quite sure I understand.”
“I want to know if they’re interested in hiring you. Do they call me for a reference? If so, do they use the call as an excuse to meet me in person? I want to investigate them, but the goal is for that to happen by them calling me, not me calling them.”
Annika Brydolf understood. She smiled. Her right eye perked up.
“So my story is I’m freelance now?”
“Print up some business cards. Say we still hire you on a case-by-case basis but freelance gives you more flexibility with your kids.”
That sounded all right to Annika. She asked if she could buy me breakfast. I said yes if it was on the Stone Arch Investigations credit card. The food came, we ate and talked about regular life. She said her kids were getting older and more independent. She could start focusing on what she wanted for herself. I asked what his name was. Annika Brydolf smiled and asked me to pass the salt.
5
The call came just after 2:00 P.M. A woman said, “I have Ian Halferin for Nils Shapiro.”
I’d perused the firm’s website. Ian Halferin was from Golden Valley. I’d never met him, or at least I never remembered meeting him. I’d heard of a few attorneys at the firm—I either knew their siblings or my siblings knew them—but I didn’t know any directly.
A deep, smoky voice on the other end of the phone said, “Is this the famous Nils Shapiro?”
I said, “If you’re only famous in Minnesota, you’re not famous.”
He laughed and said, “Nils Shapiro. How have we not met?”
We went back and forth like that for five boring minutes, Ian Halferin asking if I was related to a shotgun splatter of Shapiros. I said no to all, then his tone grew more serious and he said, “So Nils, I’m calling because I’m looking at the résumé of an investigator named Annika Brydolf. And according to her résumé, she worked for you at Stone Arch Investigations.”
“Yep. I know Annika well. Hell of an investigator. She went freelance to spend more time with her kids, but we hire her whenever she’s available.”
“That’s good to hear. Unfortunately, Nils, a sad and sensitive matter has come up at our firm. I’m not comfortable discussing it over the phone. It would mean a great deal if you could come in so we could continue this conversation in my office.”
Ian Halferin had taken the bait. I just needed to play him a bit to land him. “No offense, Ian, but I don’t go to meetings unless I know what they’re about.”
Halferin said nothing. A truck rumbled outside the coat factory—air brakes hammered it to a squeaking stop. It rumble-idled outside my loading dock door. Maybe I wouldn’t miss this place, after all.
Halferin cleared his throat then said, “Can we speak in confidence?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. Did you hear about the body found in Christmas Lake today?”
“No. Haven’t looked at the news yet.”
“The man, God rest his soul, was named Todd Rabinowitz. He was a partner at this law firm.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I’d like to discuss the investigation of his death. And I’d like to do it in person.”
“I understand. Let me reschedule a few things. I’ll try to be there in an hour.”
“You’re a mensch, Nils Shapiro.”
We hung up. I did not have a few things to reschedule. I could have been there in fifteen minutes. But I didn’t want to appear eager, which is a detriment when meeting prospective clients. Same goes for when meeting women, children, and dogs. I showered off another layer of August, shaved, threw on khakis, black wing tips, and a pressed white shirt. I left the shirt untucked for ventilation and to convey a dash of apathy. I clunked down the four cement steps from the factory floor to the loading dock. The steps were sweaty. So was the metal hand railing. I opened the heavy service door and stepped into the August sauna. Some asshole had just poured a bucket of water on the rocks.
It was a four-block walk to enter Minneapolis’s skyway system at Parking Lot C near Target Field. The Minneapolis Skyway System is over eleven miles of enclosed bridges connecting downtown buildings to one another on the second and third floors, allowing its citizens to move about, never having to go outside. Just like hamsters in a Habitrail. I walked over a mile through air-conditioned bliss, passing over the homeless and indigent, the only street life that does exist outside the glass enclosures when the weather is too hot or too cold or too wet.
The law firm of Halferin Silver filled a wing of offices on the twentieth floor of some tower on Ninth Street. It was unpretentious as far as downtown law firms go. The walls were neither oak nor crotch mahogany but simple painted sheetrock. Numbered prints made up most of the art collection as opposed to tax-sheltering originals. A receptionist sat behind a curved desk made of cherry wood. It had a 1990s feel to it, and so did she.The woman had an equine nose and short, jet-black hair teased into something that might have looked good on Joan Jet. She wore heavy makeup and a purple and pink polyester combination of blouse and jacket. A telephone headset seemed to hold everything above her neck in pla
ce. The desk spared me the rest of her outfit.
She said, “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“Nils Shapiro to see Ian Halferin.”
“One moment, please.”
She didn’t hesitate before she said it, but as she pushed buttons and spoke in her professional, discreet tone, I saw my name register behind her makeup. The Twin Cities’ Jewish community is a small, well-greased grid. There is no more than one degree of separation between each of us. We all know someone who helped fund the Coen Brothers’ first movie, Blood Simple. We all know someone who grew up down the street from former U.S. Senator Al Franken. We all know a relative of Bob Dylan. We all know a descendant of Isadore Blumendfeld, better known as Kid Cann, a Minneapolis gangster and close associate of Al Capone and Meyer Lansky.
I hadn’t done much to deserve my notoriety other than solve a few crimes, including the Duluth murders five years ago, but it didn’t take much in this community to become talk-worthy.
The receptionist said, “Mr. Halferin’s assistant will be out momentarily. Can I offer you coffee or water?”
“No, thank you.”
She smiled and swiveled away on her rolly chair as if she had something to do. I sat on a couch and looked at the cover of Minneapolis-St. Paul magazine. It made noise about the best doctors in town who I bet all just happened to be photogenic. I let it lie.
A large, modern sculpture sat in the corner. Probably another Arndt Kjellgren. Robin Rabinowitz’s boyfriend had, apparently, sold a sculpture to Todd Rabinowitz’s law firm. The piece was made of metal and had moving triangles, squares, and circles, each painted bright blue, green, or red. It was simple and complex at the same time, just like me. I decided I liked it.
A woman in her early thirties approached. “Hi. Mr. Shapiro. Celeste Sorensen. I’ll take you to Mr. Halferin.” She spoke bubbly cute and smelled like soap. A good kind of soap they sell at fine gift shops, not the chemical infused olfactory-bombs you can detect passing by a storefront. I stood, shook her hand, then walked with Celeste down hallways and around corners lined with more framed prints. She didn’t shut up about the humidity, so my attention wandered. She had green eyes, shoulder-length blond hair, and an exercised body under a sleeveless blue linen dress. Rodin wouldn’t have made her arms that defined. She must have had an all-you-can-bend pass at some yoga studio.
She said, “And here we are.” She led me into Ian Halferin’s office. It, too, was simple and understated. The man collected photography, mostly black and white. The print that caught my eye was a stack of books with the edges sawed off, bits of paper and hardcover scattered around the stack. I thought of thinking about what it meant but I was tired.
Ian Halferin stood six feet tall behind his desk. We shook hands and he said, “Nils. So good of you to come in.”
“Happy to do it.”
He wore a charcoal suit with a white shirt and baby blue tie. He had olive skin, short-cropped dark hair with a few gray threads, and warm brown eyes that might have smiled, but the solemnity of the day forbade it. His desk was clean and neat. I never trust someone with a clean and neat desk. Celeste and her soapy smell left. She closed the door behind her, and we sat down on opposite sides of Ian Halferin’s spotless desk.
“Tough day around here. Will we be billing a lot of hours? I don’t think so. Nor should we be. Poor Todd. God rest his soul.”
“Tell me about him.”
Ian Halferin took a breath, and his brow wrinkled. “Todd Rabinowitz was an excellent lawyer. More importantly, he was a lovely person and wonderful friend. We’re like a family here, and I don’t think I’d be the only one to say Todd was the favorite son. I’ll be honest. I’ve had quite a cry this morning.”
He didn’t look like he’d had quite a cry. Maybe he had it on the inside.
“I’ll be at the funeral and shivah all day tomorrow so I’m trying to hold myself together and get some things accomplished today, one of which is helping the police find the monster who did this to Todd.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did you mention he was murdered? I didn’t catch that.” The only personal effects in Ian Halferin’s office were pictures of his family on the otherwise spotless credenza behind him. His wife, one daughter, and one son, each in a silver frame. I felt a twinge of envy mixed with more than a twinge of sadness.
Ian Halferin said, “I don’t remember if I mentioned it or not. I’m sorry. Yes, Todd Rabinowitz was murdered. His wife, Robin, found him in the lake, fastened to his dock by a fishing stringer. Quite gruesome.”
I said nothing.
Ian Halferin said, “Our firm is small. We don’t employ our own in-house investigator. We hire out for that. Usually it’s one of a few independent P.I.s. You probably know them. But in this situation, I feel the most ethical and responsible thing to do is bring in someone new.”
“To investigate what?”
“Todd’s murder. We want the son of a bitch who did this to pay with his life.”
“You’re a lawyer, Ian. You must know Minnesota hasn’t had the death penalty since 1911.”
“Okay, okay, so not literally with his life. But do I want the monster to spend the rest of his days behind bars? Yes. Do I wish him great suffering? Absolutely.” Ian Halferin unlocked his fingers so he could shake one at me. “May he wish he were dead.”
I didn’t know if I believed Ian Halferin. Maybe he was lying or maybe he was just used to talking in lawyer speak or salesman speak so you couldn’t get a bead on what he was saying.
Halferin said, “And am I concerned that Todd’s murder is related to a case he was working on? Absolutely. Because that could put everyone who works at this firm in danger.” Halferin looked out the window and frowned. “I have one additional motive. And it’s a sensitive one.” He interlocked his fingers and placed his locked hands on his desk. “This firm represents Karin Tressler. Ah, I see by your expression maybe you don’t like her or agree with her politics.”
I wished there was something on Halferin’s desk I could pick up and play with. Even a pen or nameplate or dish full of paper clips. But there was nothing. Ian Halferin’s desk was unnatural. I said, “I don’t care about Karin Tressler’s politics.”
He nodded. “My point is this: a partner at Halferin Silver has been murdered. It will draw attention to the firm. From the media, of course, but more importantly, from our clients. Do we want this attention? We do not. It could hamper our efforts to get Karin Tressler elected to the United States House of Representatives. So, personal and professional tragedy aside, we’d like this investigation wrapped up as soon as possible.”
“You can’t force the police to go faster than they’re going to go. It’s not possible. And I wouldn’t advise trying. It will not reflect well on you or the firm or your precious Karin Tressler.”
“Ah. You don’t care for her.”
I noticed a quarter in my right hand. I wondered when I’d fished it out of my pocket. “I don’t want to get into a political discussion, but a lot of people don’t care for her. People on both sides.” I set the quarter on edge then gave it a flick with my left index finger. It spun like a top across Ian Halferin’s too-clean desk you should clutter it up with some obstacles. I said, “Moving on.”
Ian Halferin tried his best to ignore the spinning coin. He said, “All right. We’ll move on. So this morning, after I stop grieving long enough to think, I wonder where we can find an independent investigator on short notice. Then as luck would have it, Annika Brydolf walks in and drops off her résumé. The Lord works in wonderful and mysterious ways.” The quarter spun off the desk and made a soft thud on the carpet. I did not pick it up. Halferin said, “I think, could this Annika Brydolf be our outside investigator? I look at her references and see your name. Of course, I’ve heard of you. And I think, is Nils Shapiro the investigator I want to hire?”
It had happened before. A subject I was investigating tried to hire me. It’s an excellent way to serve your client and an excellent way to lose yo
ur P.I. license. Especially if you’re double-agenting a lawyer who knows the rules and how to have them enforced.
I said, “I’m in deep on a couple cases I can’t abandon right now. I can’t in good conscience take on another client. I just wouldn’t be able to do my best.”
“I see…”
“But if you hire Annika, I will, as a favor to you, consult with her on a daily basis. Annika and I have a shorthand so I can make time to do that. And I will investigate directly if my schedule clears up. No guarantees. And only as a favor to you and this firm and out of respect for your loss. I will not accept payment. Nor can I enter into a written or verbal contract. Again, I’m just not available to do so.”
Ian Halferin stared down at his desk and said, “So my choices are to either hire Annika Brydolf and get your experience and wisdom on the side, or to hire someone else.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
“Please do. And hey, I have a question. Is that sculpture in your reception area an original Arndt Kjellgren?”
“It is. Why do you ask?”
“I just noticed most of the other art pieces here are signed reproductions. Does the sculpture belong to the firm or one of the partners?”
“The firm. We purchased it ten years ago. Bought it before Kjellgren got famous. Probably the best investment we’ve made. If you’re here enough, you may get to meet him.”
“Kjellgren? Is he a client or a lawyer?”
Ian Halferin smiled. “Neither. Because his sculptures have moving parts, he services them a few times a year. Does the work himself. Says he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.”
“They’re giant mobiles, not particle accelerators.”
“I know, but he’s an artist. What are you going to do? His sculptures are all over the country. I don’t know how he gets to them all.”
I said, “Artists don’t have to go to meetings. That frees up all sorts of time.”
