by Matt Goldman
“In the Medical Arts Building.”
“It is full of obstetricians.”
Our eyes had a long conversation in which I learned she wasn’t kidding. I think I might have laughed and said something stupid like, “You’re pregnant. And drinking wine?”
She pushed her wineglass toward me and said, “I poured wine. I’m not drinking it. It would have been too obvious if I didn’t pour it. I wanted to tell you, not my wine habit.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yes, Nils. I’m pregnant. You’re usually a quicker study than this.”
I said, “Are you happy?”
“So happy.”
I got up from the table. She stood, and I gave her a long hug.
She hugged me tight and said, “Listen…”
I didn’t let go. I didn’t want to see her face. “Is it m—”
“Ugh. I knew you’d ask that. Of course it’s yours, you idiot. It could only be yours.”
I let go and stepped back. I saw something in her eyes I didn’t expect. I saw fear. She said, “We can’t do what we’ve been doing anymore. We need to make this permanent.”
I nodded. Micaela’s fear all of a sudden made sense because I felt it, too. A flutter in my heart. A light-headedness. I reached for my whiskey but stopped. Whiskey couldn’t help this one. Nothing could. Even though it had been my intention on my way over, her initiating the conversation still hurt.
Micaela said, “We have to go back to being just friends.”
“Uh-huh. Real exes.”
“Yes.”
Micaela’s wish to end our romantic entanglement surprised me, but my reaction surprised me even more. After the words were said, I felt happy. No, giddy. Not even a sliver of rejection. I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, “I never expected this would last. And whatever this is, or was, who knows? But it’s always felt temporary. Like summer vacation when you’re a kid. It’s always felt like the good times would end.”
She nodded—relief washed away her dread. “I don’t want or expect anything from you. Not money or time or anything. But you are the father. If this one sticks, and I so hope it does, you will be part of the kid’s life as much as you want.”
I hugged her again.
She said, “Kids adapt to their reality, right? This kid will know his or her mother is single but loves a man very much and together they created him or her out of love. Just not…” She stopped herself.
“You can say it. It’s okay.”
“… just not … partnership.”
I nodded, then kissed her on the cheek.
She said, “We’ll always be in each other’s lives, Nils. Until one of us dies. I hope so, anyway.”
“Me, too.”
She cried tears of happiness or sadness and said, “But you should move on.”
16
I left Micaela’s around 10:00 P.M. The frogs and crickets were at it again, calling out to their nocturnal predators, “Eat me. Eat me.” A mosquito buzzed in my ear, most likely a female out for blood to nourish her young. I waved her away, got in the Volvo, and called Ellegaard. He answered on the first ring.
I said, “I’m glad you’re up.”
“I was just about to head out to Robin Rabinowitz’s house. She’s scared to death. Molly thinks I should bring her back here.”
“Stay put. I’ll go out there.”
“You sure?” Ellegaard wasn’t questioning my work ethic—he was questioning my boundaries.
“Yeah. And don’t worry. The lines are clear on this one.”
He said, “You okay? You sound different.”
“I have to tell you something. I was calling to see if you wanted to go grab a beverage.”
“I would, buddy, but—”
“I know, I know. Robin. I’m on my way. But can you stay on the phone a minute?”
“Of course.”
I turned left on Lake Street. “I just had dinner with Micaela. She’s pregnant.” Ellegaard said nothing. I realized he was missing a big piece of information. “Oh,” I said, “right. Um, last spring we started up again. Now she’s pregnant. We didn’t try to prevent it because we didn’t think it was possible.”
“And…,” said Ellegaard, “how do you feel about it?”
“I’m fucking thrilled, Ellie. I can’t even tell you. Ecstatic.”
“So, you’re getting back together. Fantastic, buddy.”
“Actually, we’re not.”
“But you said—”
“I know. But we’re not getting back together.”
Ellegaard said nothing for a long time. I could feel him searching for words. He finally said, “Nils, are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, for some reason, I am. At least for now. And it’s early. Who knows if—”
“It will, Nils. You guys just had bad luck before. This one will make it. I’m happy for you. For both of you.” He said the words. He meant the words. But I heard a not-so-sureness in his voice. A hesitancy. A parental-like worry.
I said, “If Micaela wanted a relationship because of this, I’d be all in. But she doesn’t. And the weird thing is I’m good with that. If I push getting back together, it could destroy everything. And everyone. I can feel it in my gut, Ellie. Don’t ask me how.”
“Like on cases.”
“Yes.”
I could almost hear him smile. “But you’re not psychic.”
“Not even close.”
“You’re an outfielder.”
“Exactly.”
Ellegaard referred to how I explain what sometimes appears to be my psychic intuition. I’m like an outfielder in baseball. As soon as a batter makes contact with the ball, the outfielder, who stands three hundred feet away, knows exactly where to run to make the catch. In what direction. At what speed. At what distance. How does the outfielder know where to go when the ball is still on the bat? It’s not intuition or psychic ability. It’s experience. Or the data from that experience that gets crunched somewhere in the brain in a fraction of a second.
“Well buddy,” Ellegaard said, “I couldn’t be happier for you. We will celebrate tomorrow.”
I passed Highway 169. The western sky still had a brushstroke of purple that night had yet to paint over. It’d been a long time since my own happiness pushed away everything else. On the remainder of that drive, for fifteen whole minutes, I didn’t give a shit who killed Todd Rabinowitz or who blew up Halferin Silver or that Arndt Kjellgren had taped me into the coat factory.
I even assumed the baby had deep enough roots and functional enough chromosomes to be born alive. My fear of a repeat tragedy barely whispered. When Micaela and I lost our first baby, it cracked a marriage that was waiting to crumble. That marriage would never be rebuilt. Instead, my happiness stemmed from the simple idea of becoming a father and the less simple idea of knowing Micaela and I would be connected by something other than joint tax forms and shared utility bills.
I was about to call Robin to tell her I was almost there when Annika Brydolf called.
Annika said, “I just finished having drinks with Celeste Sorensen.”
“I forgot that was tonight. Tell me.”
“It was weird, Nils. You know how you taught me when something feels wrong, that’s when you need to pay attention? I can’t put my finger on it. Not even a guess really. But something definitely felt wrong about her.”
“Well,” I said. “Let’s talk it out. Maybe we can narrow it down. What did she say?” I stopped for the red light at the Highway 101 intersection. There were only two other cars. Dead town at 10:10 on a weeknight.
Annika said, “One thing she kept saying was how good it was to talk to a normal person. She kept complimenting me on being normal. She was so happy they finally hired a normal private detective. She said she liked working at Halferin Silver but no one there is normal. She said they’re good people. Their hearts are in the right place. Especially Susan Silver. She loves Susan. But she said they’re not normal. I’m not kidding. She said the wo
rd normal a thousand fucking times. What is that about?”
“Did you ask her how she ended up working at Halferin Silver?”
“Yes. Her father got her the job. He’s friends with Ian Halferin.”
“Huh,” I said. “I wonder who her father is.”
“I didn’t ask, but it’s easy enough to find out. She had a few drinks then didn’t shut up.”
“What did she drink?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wine? Beer? Cocktails?”
“Cosmopolitans.”
“At an Irish pub?”
“I know.”
“Amateur. And she had a few of them?”
“Three. Why?”
“Oh, boy. Did she drive home?”
“No. Ubered from work and then home.”
“She’s not a drinker if she’s drinking cosmos. Cosmos are a fun night with the girls drink for girls who don’t drink all that much.” I turned left on Christmas Lake Road then pulled over and parked to continue the conversation. “Any info on Celeste’s personal life?”
Annika said, “She’s married. Since she was nineteen.”
“Hmm … Did she ask about your personal life?”
Annika hesitated then said, “Yes. I told her, and she said how sorry she was about my husband. She asked what was going to happen when he gets out of jail. I asked what she meant. She wondered how I thought it would go when he came back home. I said I didn’t know because he’s never coming back home—I divorced him.”
“She looked disappointed, didn’t she?”
“How’d you know?”
“What’d she say at the end of the night?”
“She wants to do it again. If drinks are involved, learning more from Celeste Sorensen will not be hard. And it was kind of weird,” said Annika. “She invited me to a dinner party. Said there’d be some single men there. She stressed that they’re normal men. Good husband material. Kept saying how sorry she was about what happened with my marriage. I think she wants me to give the asshole another chance. So strange.”
I put the car in Drive. “Thanks, Annika. I know you didn’t get to see your kids tonight.”
Annika said, “Once in a while, that’s okay. I’m starting to feel like a real detective.”
I wanted to tell her about Micaela being pregnant. I don’t know why. I would in person, maybe soon, maybe not. I pulled back onto Christmas Lake Road. “You’ve been a real detective for a while. I—” Red and blue light swept through the car. I checked my rearview mirror. “Annika, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She started to say something but I hung up. I pulled the Volvo to the side of the road. A police car passed going sixty on the small road. No siren. It continued another hundred yards or so before killing its emergency vehicle lights. A stealth approach. I turned off my lights, hit the gas, and followed.
I called Robin. She answered on the first ring with a whisper. “Nils.”
“I’m almost there. Did you call the police?”
“Yes. Someone’s outside the house.”
“Where are you?”
“In the basement. In the wine cellar.”
“Do you know who’s outside?”
“No, but they were trying to break in. They tried the front door then tried to jimmy the French doors facing the lake.”
“Do the police know where you’re hiding?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do not move unless they identify themselves by name. I’m right behind them.”
“Nils.”
“Yeah?”
“Stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” I pulled over three houses away from Robin. I turned off the Volvo, reached for the door handle, then stopped. Where was I going? The police were at the scene. It was dark. The dumbest thing I could do was try to help, the most likely outcome being a cop mistaking me for whoever was trying to break into Robin’s house. I didn’t want to get shot. Not after the arrow I took in the shoulder last year, but especially not after Micaela’s news.
“Nils,” said Robin, over the car’s speaker, “are you still there?”
I took the phone off Bluetooth and held it to my head. “Yes. The police are outside your place now. Stay where you are.”
My headlights shot forward, illuminating the road and its border of trees. Maples, oaks, and cottonwoods, each carrying leaves at full capacity to harvest the last months of sunlight before autumn took the leaves away. The headlights kept me safe. No police officer would shoot in their direction. They also made me worthless. Safety was one thing. Being of no value was another. I killed the headlights, then the engine.
Robin said, “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark.” I felt for the glove compartment keyhole, unlocked it, and retrieved my Ruger. “I’m covering Christmas Lake Road.” At the academy, they taught us to load, unload, and reload our weapons blindfolded. I dropped the clip into my left hand. It felt heavy with six rounds. I popped it back in.
“Hold on,” said Robin, “the police are calling.”
She clicked over, and I lowered the Volvo’s windows. More crickets and frogs. The August steam bath rushed in and condensed on everything the air-conditioning had touched. I put the call on speaker, rested the device on the center console, and stared into the dark until I could see the edges of the road. Bits of gravel on the shoulder reflected light from somewhere. Just enough to make out the straight piece of gray surface before me.
I heard footsteps, quiet at first, then louder, followed by a shout, “Police! Stop and get down on the ground!” But I saw nothing. No flashlights sweeping the woods or road. Just darkness.
The footsteps grew quicker, louder, closer. Robin’s voice startled me. “I’m back. The police said someone’s definitely out here and—”
I killed the call, silenced my phone, and shoved it in my pocket. The footsteps were now running and almost to me. I took a breath, then put my right foot on the brake pedal and pushed the Volvo’s Start button. The headlights ignited everything in front of me.
A man, blinded by my headlights, shielded his eyes with his hands. He wore black pants and a black T-shirt. My headlights were too bright for him to see anything but white, and when he got five feet in front of me, I pushed the car door open. He smashed into the Volvo’s driver-side door panel and collapsed to the pavement. I grabbed a handful of plastic ties from the center console, bolted out of the car, and jumped on top of him.
He said, “Fuck! Get the fuck off me!”
His fist caught the side of my head, and he squirmed out from under me. He scurried like an animal and got back onto his feet. I lunged toward him and caught a few fingers inside his pant leg. He hit the pavement face-first and screamed, “It’s not safe, you idiot! It’s not safe!”
I rolled him onto his stomach, grabbed his wrists, and zip-tied them together behind his back.
Then I turned around and zip-tied his ankles. The phone rang inside the Volvo. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and took the call off Bluetooth.
“Call the police, Robin. Tell them I’ve caught the man who was outside your house. He’s three houses north on Christmas Lake Road.”
17
I’ve been in plenty of police stations but none more lovely than the Greater Lake Minnetonka Police Station. New carpet (no coffee stains), the pictures on the walls had matching frames, and the office furniture coordinated in a way that suggested furniture store instead of being stolen from other city bureaucracies. Unprecedented in law enforcement. And unnerving. It didn’t look like a place in which to fight crime. It looked like a place where you sit across the desk from a business casual to discuss your retirement account.
I sat in a small conference room with Detective Norton. His sad eyes had come to life with the night’s excitement, two big orbs under his giant forehead. He and Detective Irving had been outside Robin Rabinowitz’s house when Arndt Kjellgren ran into my driver’s side door. Norton asked how that h
appened, and I told him. He seemed too delighted with my answer, as if he were a German shorthaired pointer who had flushed the gamebird for me to shoot out of the sky.
Robin sat in another office talking to Detective Irving. I could see them through the glass walls. Irving’s hair looked like Orange Crush in the LED overheads. He couldn’t mask his boyish enthusiasm. I made eye contact with Robin. She looked like hell. After completing the formality of taking our stories separately, Irving brought Robin into the conference room.
Before Robin sat down she said, “Tell them, Nils. Tell them to let me see Arndt.”
Norton and Irving sat in adjacent chairs at the head of the table like a couple of kids who both wanted to be in charge. I said, “Let her see Arndt.”
“I’m sorry,” said Norton. “That’s not possible right now.”
“Why won’t you at least tell me if he’s asked to see me?” said Robin.
“All right. He has asked to see you,” said Irving, “but he wants to see Mr. Shapiro first.”
Robin looked at me. I shrugged and said, “Maybe he should see his lawyer first.”
Norton said something about Arndt’s lawyer being on the way, and the FBI and Minneapolis PD were, too. And that Arndt said he had nothing to do with the bombing at Halferin Silver and that he wasn’t trying to break into Mrs. Rabinowitz’s house. He claimed he was there to protect her, not harm her, and that he only ran because he was afraid of getting shot by police.
I said, “Well, Detectives, what do you want to do now?”
Irving the Orange said, “Not sure. With no chief of police, we’re kind of freewheelin’ here.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Detective Norton. “We got this under control.” It wasn’t just his eyes that looked different. For the first time since I’d met him, Detective Norton wore a necktie. All dressed up for the big occasion.
Irving said, “Detective Norton and I spoke with the head of the coordinating committee, and they have authorized funds to hire you as a consultant, Mr. Shapiro. Just like how Edina hired you a couple years ago.”
All those years I struggled for work, then all of a sudden everyone wanted to hire me. And on the same case. Irving looked at me with what da ya say? raised eyebrows. Robin looked at me with an unpleasant expectation. I said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t work for the police. I’m already working for Robin.”
