The Shallows--A Nils Shapiro Novel

by Matt Goldman

  “Tell him I’m out working my other case, but I’ll swing by at about eleven.” Annika nodded and reached toward her phone. “One more thing. Tell him I’ll have Ellegaard with me. Poor guy’s spending too much time behind a desk.”

  “That’s the truth,” said Ellegaard.

  Annika unmuted her phone and told Halferin. He didn’t care who joined the conversation as long as I was there. He was in full pursuit of me, and pursuit can blind the pursuer to everything but his object of desire. It’s how you trick a fish into biting a hook, and how you trick a lawyer into exposing himself to a murder investigation.

  12

  Ellegaard and I sat in the reception area of Halferin Silver on a leather couch near the coffee table smeared with magazines. Ellie looked at the Arndt Kjellgren sculpture in the corner and said, “What is that supposed to be?”

  I said, “A sculpture.”

  “I know that. But what is it?”

  “It’s not anything. Just shapes. Shapes that move.”

  “Guess I’m missing something,” said Ellegaard.

  “Eye of the beholder.”

  “Or lack thereof.”

  I laughed. Ellegaard smiled. We reverted to twelve-year-old boys, making eye contact through suppressed merriment. Rebellion against a world where decisions were made for us because our voices didn’t matter. Camaraderie of the marginalized.

  The receptionist sat behind the cherrywood desk on her rolly chair and shot us snickering twelve-year-olds a disapproving look, as if she were a middle school librarian. Her teased, jet-black hair nested atop her head above a sleeveless black blouse studded with white polka dots. Her heavily made-up face made her neck, arms, and shoulders look sickly in the overhead fluorescents.

  Our silent scolding was interrupted when Karin Tressler entered with three men. She had been all over the news in the last year, but I’d never seen her in person. She was Minnesota royalty, heiress to a fortune made in taconite mining in the Arrowhead during the previous century. Billions, not millions. She had spendy-looking brown hair that fell straight and shiny just past her shoulders, and periwinkle eyes. She stood ramrod erect, as if she were wearing a brace, but her head rotated with ease. Her smile seemed permanent. She wore a navy blazer over a pink blouse, a matching navy skirt, and ivory shoes with a three-inch heel. The receptionist almost sprung out of her rolly chair with excitement.

  Karin Tressler beat the incumbent U.S. congressman in the recent primary. She took positions far right of the incumbent, who had staked out moderate positions to hold the purple district for six consecutive terms. Some felt assaulted by Karin Tressler’s victory. She outspent the incumbent five to one, made loud, media-attracting speeches, and worst of all for her party, Karin Tressler could lose the upcoming general election. Karin Tressler won the primary but was hated from both ends of the political spectrum.

  Ellegaard looked anxious, a rare aberration from his glasslike demeanor. He was one of the voters Karin Tressler had alienated. He shook his head and looked away.

  The three men with Karin Tressler wore boring suits and shoes and might have all gotten their hair cut by the same barber. They each had bright complexions from scraping a razor over their face every day. They varied in age from thirties to sixties but shared a common air of sycophancy.

  Celeste Sorensen darted into the lobby. Her grin was so big it could have caught bugs. “Ms. Tressler,” said Celeste, “so nice to see you! Mr. Halferin and Ms. Silver are dealing with an urgent matter. They’ll be with you momentarily.”

  “That’s fine,” said Karin in a high-pitched, reedy voice.

  Celeste asked if they wanted to wait in Mr. Halferin’s office or if they preferred the reception area. Karin Tressler said the reception area was fine. Celeste apologized again for the delay then turned to me and said, “Mr. Halferin asked that I bring you back right away.”

  Karin Tressler and her team of men remained standing near the reception desk.

  I said, “Celesete, this is Anders Ellegaard, my partner at Stone Arch. He’s joining the investigation.”

  “Wonderful!” said Celeste. “Welcome, Mr. Ellegaard.” She looked up at my tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed colleague with a reverence she had never offered me. “Right this way.”

  Celeste started toward the corridor, expecting we’d follow, but I turned to Karin Tressler and said, “You go get ’em in November, Ms. Tressler. We need you. And I’ll tell you what irks me. Those damn red and green lights at intersections. Who’s the government to tell us when to stop and go? This country is supposed to be about freedom. Our Founding Fathers put their lives on the line for it. It’s time we take it back.” Karin Tressler’s perma-smile didn’t budge. The eyes of her male entourage were flat. I affirmed my declaration with a nod and walked away.

  Celeste Sorensen didn’t acknowledge my statement.

  Ellegaard said, “Was that necessary?”

  I said, “Absolutely.”

  Celeste led us through the hall of signed prints and into Ian Halferin’s office. Halferin stood behind his desk wearing a charcoal suit and a big heap of worry. Annika sat across from him.

  Susan Silver leaned against the credenza, arms crossed over her white blouse. I guessed she was early fifties. She had long wavy gray hair that framed high cheekbones under tiny horn-rimmed glasses. Old-fashioned tortoiseshells of rich browns and golds over milk chocolate eyes. Her skin had a half-century patina, and it suited her.

  Ian Halferin thanked me for making time from my other case. We introduced each other to Susan Silver and Ellegaard. Susan managed a smile and spoke in a husky, atonal timbre. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Shapiro.”

  “Hazard of the trade.”

  She smiled but it didn’t last.

  Annika said, “Ian and Susan were just talking about the call they received from Arndt Kjellgren this morning.”

  Susan said, “Are you familiar with him?”

  “I’ve seen his work.”

  “It’s his specificity of language that’s most concerning,” said Annika. “He seems to have concocted a whole story about how this firm had Todd Rabinowitz killed.”

  I said, “Did you?”

  “Did we what?” asked Susan.

  “Have Todd Rabinowitz killed?”

  Susan Silver and Ian Halferin looked at each other and then at me. Susan had a most perplexed expression. She said, “No. Of course we didn’t have Todd Rabinowitz killed.”

  “Well good,” I said, “let’s move on to Arndt Kjellgren. What exactly did he say?”

  Ian said, “He accused our firm of funding private militias. Specifically, militias that exist to counter dissent and asylum seekers.”

  Ellegaard said, “That’s quite an accusation.”

  “It sure is,” said Susan, “and it would be illegal if we are. But we’re not. What’s most relevant is Arndt Kjellgren said Todd discovered what we’re allegedly doing, threatened to tell the authorities, and in response, we had him killed.”

  I sat in the chair next to Annika and said, “How does an artist even know about Todd Rabinowitz? Or that he worked here?” We knew about Arndt Kjellgren’s affair with Robin Rabinowitz. But did Susan Silver and Ian Halferin know? Ellegaard’s job was to look for the little telltales.

  “We have no idea how Arndt Kjellgren knows or for that matter cares about any of that or…” Ian Halferin finished his sentence with a shrug.

  I looked back at Ellegaard, who was ready and waiting with his answer. Ian Halferin and Susan Silver were full of shit. They were well aware of how Arndt Kjellgren knew about Todd Rabinowitz and Halferin Silver. Robin Rabinowitz’s secret affair wasn’t so secret after all.

  Annika said, “Would you like us to look into Arndt Kjellgren so you better know who you’re dealing with?”

  “Yes,” said Susan. “That’s exactly what we want. This firm has suffered a terrible loss with Todd’s murder. He was our dear friend. We’re all dealing with that on a personal level. Not just the death but the
grisliness of the murder. We also lost a colleague, an important cog in what we do here. Every lawyer in this firm is scrambling to cover Todd’s workload, which was substantial. If this psycho, Kjellgren, drags our name into the press with wild accusations, it could push us over the edge.”

  “We need to discredit Kjellgren,” said Ian Halferin. “The commodity he trades is just as subject to reputation as ours. We want to dig up so much dirt on him that collectors and institutions cancel commissions, the value of his sculptures plummets, and museums put his pieces into storage. As soon as we’re out of this meeting, I’m going to have his sculpture removed from our reception area.”

  Ellegaard said, “You sound confident there’s a lot of dirt out there on Arndt Kjellgren.”

  “He’s an artist,” said Halferin. “I’ve made some calls, and by all accounts, he’s a complicated man. That’s the nice way of saying it. He’s temperamental. He’s promiscuous. He doesn’t respect the boundaries of our social institutions. I want to bury the son of a bitch.”

  I mentioned that would open a second front on our investigation. Annika would focus on who might have killed Todd Rabinowitz, and Ellegaard would do background work on Arndt Kjellgren. Susan and Ian approved the added expense. Me working for Robin Rabinowitz just got a degree more messy. More risky. But Ellegaard didn’t blink.

  Celeste Sorensen reappeared in her cloud of soap and said, “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  Halferin said, “Almost done here, Celeste. A few more minutes.”

  “It’s urgent. We just received a bomb threat. Everyone has to clear the building.”

  13

  When Celeste Sorensen said “we just received a bomb threat” she meant Halferin Silver had just received a bomb threat. One firm. But every person in the thirty-story office tower had to evacuate, sending a flood of able-bodied, highly-educated laptop-clutchers down the staircase in a din of their own creation. Leather soles scuffing on concrete coupled with comments and jokes. I heard two neckties say something to the effect of, “Come on, guys. My PowerPoint wasn’t that bad,” followed by genial laughter. The exodus felt like a fire drill in fifth grade. A swirl of excitement over the break in routine mixed with the slight possibility there may actually be a fire. Or in this case a bomb.

  The stairwell spit us onto the street, and authorities cattle-drove us a block away from the office tower. Smartphones were held high, documenting the event live on social media. Minneapolis PD and FBI headed the throng of law enforcement agencies that rushed to the scene. The Minneapolis Fire Department sent a long, red truck. Ian Halferin and Susan Silver’s wish to avoid attention had not been granted. A threat to blow up their office, in effect, shut down an entire city block, became the lead story on the local news, and shot out to millions via news alert notifications.

  A reunion of friends and foes pooled on the corner of Ninth and Marquette. Gabriella Núñez, deputy chief for the Minneapolis PD, was the ranking local cop. Gabriella was the third musketeer to Ellegaard and me at the Minneapolis Police Academy. She invited Annika, Ellegaard, and me inside the yellow tape. My pals from the FBI, Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton and Special Agent Delvin Peterson, weren’t so happy to see me. It’d been almost two years since our skirmish following the Edina murder. Not long enough.

  Cameras and microphones surrounded Karin Tressler and her suit-clad goon squad. A reporter asked if the bomb threat was a threat on her life. She said something about death threats not being new to her, and she was confident that the capable men and women in our law enforcement agencies would make their determination after a thorough investigation.

  FBI Agent Delvin Peterson finished talking to the rolly chair then turned away and bumped right into me. I said, “Why are you still in Minnesota, Delvin? I thought you were D.C.”

  “I was, but I’m being punished.” He said it as if his plight were my fault. “Five more years in Minnesota before HQ will consider a transfer. Had to move my wife out here. My three kids. I’ve spent thousands of dollars on jackets and boots alone. And my Nats never play the Twins. I had season tickets. I miss my Nats, Shapiro. I miss cherry blossoms. And I hate winter.”

  “Maybe you should take up cross-country skiing or ice hockey. Makes winter more enjoyable.”

  “I’m from Marietta, Georgia. I don’t do winter sports.”

  “It’s your five years, Peterson. I don’t care what you do. Mope all you want.”

  In the interest of expediency, information ricocheted about and was easy to overhear. Celeste Sorensen calmed down enough to explain she had taken the call, which came in to Ian Halferin’s direct line. The FBI said the call originated from a Voice over internet Protocol rerouted through so many servers and virtual servers that they doubted they could trace it. The caller used a digitized voice and, according to Celeste, sounded like auto-tune. She couldn’t guess whether the caller was male or female, young or old, ethnically distinct in any way. She couldn’t even be sure it was human—it sounded like a robot.

  Ian Halferin and Susan Silver told the FBI about the call they’d received from Arndt Kjellgren earlier that day. They admitted they told private detectives first in hopes of keeping it quiet for business reasons. They defended their decision, pointing out that Kjellgren made no threats, much less a bomb threat. But they continued throwing around the artist’s name, anxious to smear it. They acted as if Karin Tressler hadn’t even been in the office when the threat was called in.

  The FBI’s bomb squad geared up to sweep the Halferin Silver offices. “It’s a routine procedure,” said Agent Colleen Milton. “We’ll send a robot up the elevator to the twentieth floor then drive it through the offices via remote control.” She went on to say something about the employees of Halferin Silver probably getting back in their offices by day’s end.

  Then the bomb exploded.

  Glass rained down. Tempered pebbles splitter-splattered off the pavement in the echoing decay of the boom. Law enforcement scrambled. Susan Silver went pale. Ian Halferin looked like he might cry. The fire drill atmosphere ramped up to panic. People moved farther away from the building. We all thought the same thing: if the buildings fell in New York, a building could fall here.

  Half a dozen hook-and-ladders arrived, and a squadron of helicopters circled overhead. Chaos is an extrovert’s playground. I had no desire to stick around. I found Ellegaard and Annika and suggested we get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  The Mercury Dining Room and Rail in the Soo Line Building had dark wood floors and dark wood wainscoting below off-white walls featuring panels and sconces. The booths and high-tops were full of chattering Minneapolitans who ventured out to gossip about the explosion. Rumors of terrorism, assassination attempts on Karin Tressler, and conspiracies surrounding the murder of Todd Rabinowitz floated in the air with orders for gin and tonics and lunchtime beers.

  “Listen,” said Ellegaard, “investigating Todd Rabinowitz’s murder for both his widow and his employer puts us in ethically murky waters, so let’s make sure we stay out of the police’s and FBI’s way.”

  I said, “Why are you looking at me?”

  “You got to behave on this one, Shap. This situation is now federal and, with Karin Tressler being present, political. If we, or more likely you, get in the news, we could alienate half our potential clients. So color within the lines, buddy, professionally and personally.”

  Annika twisted her mouth into an expression of good luck. I nodded to Ellegaard, which signaled my intent to behave. He was about to continue his lecture, but my phone rang. Micaela. She needed to know I was no longer available whenever she felt like reaching out. I declined the call. She called again. I declined again. She texted before I could turn off my phone. She could see the text was delivered. One thing I knew about Micaela: she wouldn’t stop.

  Annika said, “What’s wrong, Nils?”

  “Nothing. Just have to make a call. I’ll be right back.”

  I walked out of the restaurant and i
nto the lobby of the Soo Line Building, passed the sales office for the apartments on its upper floors, then climbed the spiral staircase to the second level. I found a quiet spot in the skyway and returned Micaela’s call.

  She answered. “Are you safe, Nils?”

  “Yeah.”

  She was crying. “I saw you on the news just before the bomb went off then I didn’t and I told myself you were okay but I just had this nagging feeling that— Why didn’t you answer before?”

  “I was talking to the FBI,” I said, bending the timeline of events. “We were in the law firm when the bomb threat was called in.”

  “With Karin fucking Tressler?”

  “Not with her, but she was there, too.”

  “Oh my God, Nils. Oh my God. This country is so crazy. It’s just insane.”

  “I saw I had a message from you. Sorry but I haven’t listened to it yet.”

  “That’s okay. Hey…” She paused. “Are you free later tonight?”

  I wanted one final moment with Micaela Stahl to bust her on her New York lie. I wanted an ugly confrontation to catalyze our split. The final split. I said, “I think so. Not sure what time. I’ll have to go in and give a formal statement at some point.”

  “I don’t care how late it is. I just need to see you.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know how the day’s playing out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh hey,” I said, “how was New York yesterday?” I eyed a military helicopter flying directly over Fifth Street. The big fat kind with two rotors.

  Micaela said, “Fine. I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

  I said good-bye and walked back downstairs to the restaurant.

  Annika’s eyes looked heavy with concern. She said, “What’s wrong, Nils?”

  Goddamn women and their emotional antennas. “Nothing,” I said. Annika’s silent gaze accused me of lying, and my expression no doubt pleaded guilty.

  14

  What most people assume are the non-glamourous aspects of investigation are my favorites—the hours researching on the Net, days staked out in a car, nights lying awake hoping the inaccessible part of my brain will tell me the story, weeks waiting for something, anything to happen. Those times are peaceful and profitable.