by Matt Goldman
“Definitely.” I left my drink on the counter, got up, and walked toward the bathrooms. I hid behind the line of women waiting to powder their faces. Most wore Minnesota Twins jerseys and glitter tattoos and skipped the cheap seats in favor of drink specials and big TVs.
A six-foot blonde wearing a blue-and-red TC on her cheek and a Harmon Killebrew jersey said, “Hey, you trying to sneak into the ladies’ can?” She held a large glass tumbler of green liquid.
“I’m hiding,” I said.
“From who?” She sipped her drink, retained a few ice cubes in her mouth, and pushed them around with her tongue.
Luke looked at his colleagues sitting at the end of the bar. The one with the military tattoo made an emphatic gesture to say what are you waiting for? Luke pulled something from his pocket then dropped it into my whiskey.
23
The son of a bitch roofied my drink.
“Hey,” said Killebrew, “I said, who are you hiding from?”
“That dude sitting at the bar.”
Luke grabbed a swizzle straw and stirred my whiskey.
“Why?” said Killebrew. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I was just sitting there and he sat next to me. Guy won’t shut up. He bought me a drink and now he thinks we’re friends.”
“He sounds stalkery.”
“Yeah. He’s something.”
“Fuck.”
The conversation went on like this as we inched closer to the women’s bathroom. My Good Samaritan had just revealed his not-so-good intentions. I needed backup. Luke and company knew me and Ellegaard, so there was a good chance they’d recognize Annika.
“What are you going to do?” said Killebrew.
“How’d you like to earn another one of those green drinks?”
“For free?” Killebrew was all in.
I coached her, keeping things simple, then returned to the bar.
Luke said, “We got wings, rings, and calamari on the way. And fresh drinks as soon as we finish the first ones.”
I said, “Perfect. Here’s to fried food and fine whiskey.”
We raised our glasses and clinked them together. I drew my glass toward my mouth.
“Nils! Oh my God! I can’t believe it!” Killebrew stood too close.
“Janice?”
“Yes! Oh my God! I can’t believe you remembered! Why didn’t you come to the twentieth? Everybody was dying to ask you about that murder in Edina.”
“I couldn’t make it. Sorry. Janice, this is Luke. Luke, Janice. Janice and I were in the same chemistry class in eleventh grade?”
“It was biology and tenth grade,” said Killebrew, improvising. “And oh! Guess who’s here? Karen and Gina and Dez.”
“No shit?”
She smiled and slugged me on the arm. “Hey, come with me. They will shit in their pants when they see you!”
“Sorry, Janice. Luke and I—”
“Too bad, mister! You’re coming with me.”
She grabbed my right hand and pulled me off the bar stool—my left hand clutched the roofied whiskey. I looked back at Luke and said, “Be right back,” as Killebrew dragged me away and into a private dining room. There, I complimented Killebrew on her acting, ordered her another green drink from a passing waitress, poured my rape juice into a potted plastic plant, and called Ellegaard to bring him up to speed. I hung up just in time to watch Killebrew spot her friends and say, “Hey, fuckers. This dude just bought me another Incredible Hulk!”
I knew from the Somerville case that Rohypnol starts to take effect about half an hour after being ingested. I didn’t know what drug I was faking the effects of, but half an hour seemed like a safe play. I waited ten minutes, then returned to my seat next to Luke. “Sorry about that. High school acquaintance.”
Luke said, “That’s what happens in the biggest small town in the world.”
The bartender set down our new drinks as the server brought our food. Luke said, “To another round.”
“To another round.”
I was pretty sure he didn’t bribe the bartender to taint my new drink, so I drank. Just a sip. I needed my wits. Sometimes, being a lightweight has its disadvantages.
We shot the shit for fifteen minutes about where we grew up and the weather and nothing much interesting, then I said, “So Luke, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a financial analyst for a private equity firm. We mostly buy and sell mid-cap companies.”
“Sounds like a good job. What were you doing on Sixth Street when my car was stolen? Don’t you have to pay attention to markets all day?”
“I’m not a stockbroker or hedge fund manager. I don’t make equities trades in real time. I analyze underperforming companies. When the numbers are right, we buy them, install a new management team, turn things around, then sell them.”
He sounded legit. He dressed legit. But something about Luke was far from legit, and that doesn’t count my drugged drink or his two thug buddies sitting at the end of the bar. I whipped up a yawn to feign the first effects of being drugged, then said, “I got some buddies in the finance world. Where do you work?”
“Norsk Capital.”
I shut my eyes and swayed. “Man, I’m sorry. That drink hit me hard. I’m in danger of losing my he-man credentials. I’ll be right back. I’m going to throw some water on my face.”
I edged off the stool, but Luke grabbed my upper arm. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m getting tired, too. Let’s finish up and call it a night.” He didn’t let go of my arm until I returned to the stool. I smiled and nodded. Luke stole another glance at his comrades.
“Ha! Lookie this!” said a deep baritone. “We got a pitcher’s duel in the Twin Towns.”
Luke looked to his right and saw a large African-American man standing six feet seven with a full-cheeked face under a tangle of twisted curls. The giant smiled, revealing high-vis white teeth. He wore powder blue sweatpants and a gray T-shirt with the size printed on the chest—5 XL. Jameson White had perfect timing.
“I always say,” said Jameson, “if the Twins can hang within five games of first until September, then they still got a chance. This is the American League Central. Nobody’s immune to choking in September. Ha!”
I met Jameson White last spring while recovering from an arrow wound I received while investigating the disappearance of a high school girl. Micaela hired him to be my private nurse even though he was, technically, a nurse practitioner, a fact he reminded me of whenever I called him a nurse. We remained friends after my skewered shoulder healed, enjoying each other’s company at sporting events and lazy dinners. Jameson played offensive line for the Montreal Alouettes after college ball at UCLA. Then he became the best trauma nurse in Minnesota, and we entertained each other with stories from the emergency room and stakeouts. Every time I saw him he asked if he could help on a case, as if he were a lion and I was a mouse who’d pulled a thorn from his paw, leaving him forever in my debt. In truth, it was the other way around.
Jameson said, “Why didn’t you fellas go to the game?”
“No tickets,” said Luke.
“Ha!” said Jameson. “That’s no excuse. Tickets are practically falling out of scalpers’ butts. Face value when they’re playing five hundred ball. No tickets. No excuse.” He laughed his infectious laugh.
Luke couldn’t hide his annoyance at this stranger infiltrating our twosome.
I said, “Why didn’t you go to the game?”
Jameson said, “I’m a conversationalist. Tough to have a good conversation at the game with all the cheering and assigned seats. What if you get stuck between a couple of duds? Where do you go? Don’t got that problem at a bar. Plenty of spots to go, but no need now. I found myself a couple of fine gentlemen with whom I can discuss the day’s events.”
“Actually,” said Luke, “my buddy and I were just leaving.”
“Oh, come on! We’re just getting to know each other.”
I heard a shrieking giggle from the far end of the bar. I looked over and saw her standing between the military tattoo and crew cut, one hand on each of the brutes’ shoulders. Annika Brydolf wore a blond wig, pink Twins T-shirt that stopped at the narrow of her waist, and low, hip-hugger jeans. If I didn’t suspect she was coming, I wouldn’t have recognized her.
We first hired Annika as a distractor. We’d send her into bars to occupy not-so-bright men while we searched or bugged their property. I’d always known she did a good job, but I’d never witnessed it. I’d have to talk to Ellegaard about giving her a raise.
“Yeah…,” I said, trying to slur the one-syllable word. “I’d better go.” The bartender set down my card and the tab. I looked at it then showed it to Luke. “I’m so out of it. How much should I tip?”
“Well, probably twenty percent…”
“I know that. What’s twenty percent of ninety-seven dollars and sixteen cents?”
Luke hesitated. He had to think. I knew then he was no financial analyst. He tapped the top of the bar and said, “Well … ninety-seven is almost a hundred, and twenty percent of a hundred is … twenty. So … nineteen? I don’t know. Something like that.”
“Okay. I’ll just make it twenty so it’s easier to add.” I wrote 20—into the tip area then showed him the bill. “Now how much is it?”
Luke pulled out his phone and opened his calculator app. He pushed some buttons and showed me the answer. I wrote down the total, then signed the check with an even more sloppy signature than my normal one. Then I slid off my stool and stumbled. Luke jumped off his stool and grabbed my arm.
“Whoa,” said Jameson. “How many did he have?”
“Too many,” said Luke. “Come on, Nils. I’ll help you out.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Luke walked me out of Hoyt’s then led me down Third Avenue toward Target Field. I dragged my left foot into my right, fell onto the pavement, then rolled onto my side to see back toward Hoyt’s. No one was following. Luke pulled me up, and just before Bev’s Wine Bar, steered me to the right and down a drive that led to a large parking lot along the railroad tracks.
I said, “Hey. Did I park here?”
“I don’t know,” said Luke. “Let’s look for your car.”
“Good idea.” I panned the massive lot as if I were looking for my Volvo. I did not see Jameson. I did not see Annika. I did not see Ellegaard. I said, “Oh, man. All these cars … I’ll never find it.”
“Sure you will,” said Luke. “I’ll help you.”
I whipped up another stumble, then a black van pulled next to us, and the side panel slid open. Luke threw a fist into my gut then threw me into the van.
24
I lay on the cargo van floor, my lungs void of air. When they managed to draw some in, the van floor smelled of metal, paint, and dirt. I moaned then rolled over, eyes fluttering. The sucker punch hurt like hell, but at least I could stop acting drugged for a few minutes. I got a glimpse of the dark-haired crew cut sitting behind the steering wheel. The tattoo rode shotgun. But someone near me spoke.
“Take his phone.”
“What are you doing?” said Luke. “He knows you.”
“Doesn’t matter. He won’t remember any of this.”
“Good.” Luke pushed my face into the metal floor with his shoe.
“Ease off! We’re not here to hurt him.” The voice belonged to Ian Halferin, senior partner at Halferin Silver.
Luke said, “This asshole’s caused me nothing but trouble. I want to take this van up to ninety and throw him out.”
Ian Halferin said, “Get his phone and shut up.”
Luke rolled me onto my back and patted me down. He pulled my phone from my right front pocket. “It’s locked.”
“Use his fingerprint. Probably a thumb.”
Luke held my left thumb to the fingerprint sensor on my iPhone. “It’s not working.”
Ian Halferin said, “Then try the other thumb.”
Luke held my right thumb to my phone. “We’re in.”
“Give it to me,” said Halferin. Luke did. As Halferin sifted through the contents of my phone, I feigned grogginess and wondered why our client tried to drug me, had me thrown into a van, and was violating my phone. He either felt I was withholding information from my investigation, or he had something to hide and wanted to know if I’d found it.
“Dammit,” said Halferin.
Luke said, “What?”
“He talked to Ellegaard forty-five minutes ago. Did he do that in front of you?”
“No,” said Luke. “He was out of my sight a couple of times. He went to the bathroom once. And some drunk chick pulled him away to see friends.”
“There’s nothing relevant in his texts. Shit. He may have suspected something. Did you make eye contact with Wilson or Pinsky when they came in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know where they sat?”
“Yeah…”
“Then you looked at them. He could’ve picked up on it and called his colleague for help.”
Luke said, “Did Ellegaard tip him off about our visit this afternoon?”
“Not by text,” said Halferin. “But they call each other all the time. Fuck, someone could be watching us. Dump him.”
“What?” said Wilson or Pinsky. I didn’t know which was who.
“Open the door, take Shapiro out, and let’s get out of here. Now.”
“But we have to question him.”
“Too risky.”
“But my sister.”
“Fucking listen to me!” said Halferin. It got quiet for a moment. Halferin calmed down. “If Shapiro’s coworkers find out what we’re up to, we’ll have more heat on us than we got from the goddamn bomb blast. Now get him out of here.”
Luke opened the side panel door and knelt next to me. He slid me toward the opening when Halferin said, “Not that way. Set him down. Easy. I don’t want him banged up.”
Luke said, “This is bullshit.”
Wilson and Pinsky got out of the van. As they lifted me out and set me on the hot asphalt, Halferin said, “And Luke, not a goddamn word about this to your sister. I’ll handle it.”
The door slid shut, Wilson and Pinsky got back in, and the van crept away. I lay there for five minutes then heard footsteps.
“Hey, mister. You okay?”
“Little tender in the ribs, lady.” I sat up and saw Annika Brydolf, blond wig and bare midriff, standing in her high heels.
“What’d they do to you?”
“Played a little rough. I may turn purple in a few spots.”
I sat up as Annika said, “I think he’s okay,” into her phone. Thirty seconds later, Ellegaard and Jameson White joined the party. Jameson helped me to my feet then the four of us got in Ellegaard’s Navigator. It still had that new-car smell despite a piece of Fruit Roll-Up shaped like a foot being stuck to the inside of the rear passenger window. It was no doubt put there by Maisy, Ellegaard’s youngest.
“Lyle’s or Lee’s,” said Ellegaard.
“Lee’s,” said Annika. “It’s closer.”
Lee’s Liquor Lounge on Glenwood Avenue has a timeless feel if Time began in 1957. It has an elevated stage for live music, a linoleum dance floor of red and gold checkerboard tiles, a plastering of neon beer signs, and chrome-legged bar stools. The taxidermied cougar, hissing and crouched on a rock, adds a nice touch, as do the year-round Christmas lights, which I find more comforting than melted cheese.
The Twins had taken their 0–0 tie into the ninth inning. Every TV was tuned to the game. A neophyte rock band waited for the game to end so the show could begin. They must have been in their mid-teens—their parents were there and didn’t look much older than me. I was going to be an old dad, partaking in preschool drop-offs and birthday parties with younger parents. I’d have
to develop a gruff persona so no one would talk to me.
We found a booth in back, and a waitress with Uncle Fester eyeshadow took our orders. On the drive over, I filled them in on the happenings inside the van. Ellie couldn’t get over Ian Halferin’s involvement. Annika couldn’t get over my choice to call for backup instead of text. And Jameson White couldn’t get over pretty much the whole thing. Ellegaard and Jameson knew each other from our adventure in Warroad last spring. They were happy to see each other again and picked up where they left off, Jameson asking Ellegaard about his family, and Ellegaard asking Jameson about his most interesting gunshot wound patients. But there was one thing we didn’t discuss until seated in Lee’s.
“Who is Luke’s sister?” said Ellegaard. “Susan Silver?”
I said, “I don’t think so. Search Karin Tressler siblings.”
Annika pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. I reached for my ribs and must have made a face because Ellegaard said, “Maybe you should get some X-rays.”
“No need. I’ll just be a little sore for a while.”
“Nothing can be done for bruised or cracked ribs,” said Jameson. “We can tape ’em, but that’s about it.”
Annika looked at her phone and said, “Yep. Luke Tressler. Along with Elizabeth and Michael.”
“Google just Luke Tressler.”
Jameson said, “This is better than a detective show on Masterpiece.” Uncle Fester Eyes brought us three Grain Belts on tap and a soda with bitters for Ellegaard.
Jameson said to Ellegaard, “You in the program?”
“No,” said Ellegaard. “Just don’t like alcohol.”
“No shit?”
“He doesn’t swear either,” I said.
“That’s fucked up. Ha!” said Jameson. “On religious grounds?”
“Nope,” said Ellegaard. “Just made a choice a long time ago.”
“You’re like a time traveler from Plymouth Rock,” said Jameson.
“Weird,” said Annika, her face in her phone. “Luke Tressler is barely on the internet.”
“He said he worked as a financial analyst for a private equity group called Norsk Capital. Any record of that?”
Annika thumb-typed on her phone. “None,” said Annika. “And no Facebook page, no Instagram, no Twitter feed, no Snapchat. Nothing on People Finder or White Pages. No school or job affiliations. Only three hits on Google, all articles on Karin Tressler that reference him as Karin’s brother.”
