by Matt Goldman
“That can’t be everything,” said Ellegaard.
“It is,” said Annika. “I think Luke Tressler never built an online presence. Or he’s been erased from the internet.”
“That’s impossible,” said Jameson.
“Not impossible,” I said. “But expensive.”
“It’s not the crime,” said Jameson. “It’s the cover-up.” He gave a knowing nod, took a swig of Grain Belt, then looked up at the TV. “Top of the eleventh. Strap yourselves in!”
Annika kept her face in her phone. Ellegaard thought for a moment then said, “The strangest part of this is I called Ian Halferin just after six tonight to say I’d send him a final invoice and to thank him for hiring us. He said he had no idea what I was talking about. We were still on the case as far as he and Susan Silver were concerned.”
Jameson said, “The Twins are putting in a baby pitcher they just called up. Welcome to the bigs, and tell the band to get ready!”
Ellegaard said, “I pointed out that GLMPD closed the case. Arndt Kjellgren killed Todd and Robin Rabinowitz before taking his own life. It was as good of an outcome as the firm could hope for. Todd died at the hand of his wife’s lover. No shame for the firm in that. But Halferin said they just wanted to make sure all the loose ends are tied up. Nice and neat.”
“Hmm,” said Jameson, his eyes still on the game. “Sounds to me more like a classic case of keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.”
I said, “You sure are full of well-worn sayings tonight.”
Annika looked up from her phone. “How are we Halferin Silver’s enemy?”
“They want to know what I know,” I said. “That’s what tonight was about. Access to my phone. Which means they’re hiding something.”
“Well, they’re not hiding their checkbook,” said Ellegaard. “We’re billing them for all three of us. And on a closed case. I have no argument with that.”
I said, “Even if Halferin Silver had something to do with three deaths at Christmas Lake?”
“That would change things.”
“Or what if…” I looked up at the game on TV. The rookie pitcher looked young enough to sell magazines door-to-door.
“Or what if what?” said Annika.
“Or what if Karin Tressler had something to do with three deaths at Christmas Lake?”
25
We left the Twins scoreless going into the top of the twelfth inning. Jameson and Ellegaard went their separate ways. Annika drove me toward the coat factory on her way home. She had a 2003 Toyota Corolla. It was silver with a gray interior, and the cloth upholstery shone with wear.
She said, “Sorry you had to see me in this getup.”
“I’m sure it’s effective. But for the record, I like your natural self better.”
“If you didn’t I might punch you in the stomach.”
“Get in line. But remember, we all have to wear a uniform sometimes.”
“Yeah?” said Annika. “What’s yours?”
“A leopard-print Speedo. I wear it when working undercover in the Lithuanian mob.”
“That’s a big business for us.”
“And in the circus. And when trying to track down female serial killers who target gigolos. Basically,” I said, “I’ll take any job where I get to wear it. You know, to amortize the cost. Not cheap.”
Annika’s phone dinged. A magnet held it to her dash. She read the text. “Shit. Celeste Sorensen.”
“What does she want?”
“To meet for a drink. It’s after eleven.”
“Tell her it’s too late.”
“I should. But…” Annika trailed off and shook her head.
“Work ethic or curiosity?”
“Little bit of both.”
“Want help? I still think she knows more than she’s said.”
“She wouldn’t be too talkative if I showed up with you.”
“Don’t show up with me. Meet her. Get a few drinks in her. Then I’ll just happen to bump into you. But only if you don’t have to get back to your kids.”
“I’m okay. My mom’s spending the night. They’re all asleep now anyway. You sure you’re okay stopping by? I wouldn’t mind the tag-team.”
“Nice wrestling lingo. You can take the girl out of North Dakota…”
“Watch it.”
“I’ll be there. But go home and get out of that getup first.”
“I have everything I need. Can I change at your place?”
We found a parking spot on First Street and walked a half a block to the coat factory. Annika had never seen my place before and noticed the same things other newcomers noticed. My lack of walls, eclectic furniture, industrial kitchen, and absence of air-conditioning. She commented on the sweaty metal hand railing while ascending the concrete steps from the loading dock to the factory floor. The wood floors were swollen with humidity and creaked less than usual. I suggested she change in the bathroom, pointed in its direction, and off she went. Annika emerged looking like the modest dark-haired grown-up I knew her to be.
I said, “Where to?”
“Bar Louie in Minnetonka.”
Someone banged on the door. I flinched. Annika’s eyes asked for direction. She pulled a Glock 26 from her purse—it was even tinier than my Ruger. Knock, knock, knock, though more of a rapping this time. I turned toward the door. Annika moved behind me, making sure she was in position to get a bead on whoever might enter.
I peered out the chicken-wired glass then turned to Annika and said, “It’s okay.” She lowered her gun. I opened the door, and Inspector Gabriella Núñez stood in the opening.
She said, “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. We’re working.”
“We?”
“Come in.”
Gabriella stepped into my loading dock. She wore faded Levi’s cut-offs and sandals. Her legs and feet were dark brown and her toenails were clear except for the tips, which were white. She wore a red, short-sleeved blouse that buttoned up the back. A white band held back her thick black hair. She wore neither makeup nor a smile. This was not a social call.
Gabriella and Annika said hello then I said, “We’ve had a hell of a night. It started—”
Gabriella shook her head and held a finger to her lips. She said, “It’s a hundred and ten in here, Nils. Let’s go out for that drink you owe me. Or anywhere with air-conditioning. My God. How do you live like this?”
She pointed to her phone, then my pocket. She held out her hand, and I gave her my phone. She set our phones on my weathered coffee table, then the three of us stepped outside.
Gabriella said, “Oh, I love your car, Annika!” She said this without looking at any car, then shrugged, as if to say, where is it? Annika pointed down the street, and the three of us walked the half block in silence. We approached Annika’s old Corolla, and Gabriella stuck her hand out for Annika’s phone. Annika pulled it from her purse, gave it to Gabriella, then opened her car door. Gabriella tossed Annika’s phone onto the driver’s seat and shut the door.
We stepped away from the car before Gabriella spoke. “Sorry about all that. Probably nothing to worry about, but I’ve spent too much time on the JTTF.”
The North Loop of Minneapolis was quiet at 11:15 P.M. Ambient city light glowed in the heavy air, and a halo of light floated above Target Field. The only sound seemed to be the game’s P.A. announcer and organ, muffled and distant from six blocks away.
I filled Gabriella in on the evening’s events. She shook her head and said, “How do you find these webs, know full well they’re right in front of you, and still manage to get tangled in them?”
Annika said, “I’d better hit the road for Minnetonka. Give me half an hour head start, Nils. If you can make it, I’ll see you there.” Annika walked back to her car. A massive roar swelled from Target Field. I turned toward the stadium and saw fireworks light the sky red. Half a second later, I heard them boom. The Twins had won with a walk-off in the umpteenth inning. I wished
I could have seen Jameson White’s face.
I turned back to Gabriella and said, “Hey, when’s the last time you worked undercover?”
We walked the neighborhood for twenty minutes to kill time, then got in her car and headed west. Gabriella said, “I’m hearing through back channels that the FBI is focused on the nature of the bomb at Halferin Silver.”
“You mean that it was primarily an incendiary device?”
“Yes. Couple that with Karin Tressler’s presence, and the feds are salivating.”
“Over what?”
“Let’s just say recent events in Washington have left our intelligence agencies extra wary of politicians.”
“Extra wary or extra vengeful?”
Gabriella ignored my question. We passed General Mills Corporate Headquarters with its sprawling lawn studded with lit-up trees and sculptures. I wondered if any were made by Arndt Kjellgren. Gabriella signaled to exit at Ridgedale Center Drive. “I spoke to Colleen Milton at the FBI. I suggested they hire you as a C.I.”
“Hey, what did I ever do to you?”
“Ian Halferin has brought you into the fold. He wants you on his team. He’s on Karin Tressler’s team. That puts you on Karin Tressler’s team. It’s a logical move.”
“Colleen Milton hates me. She won’t hire me as a C.I.”
“What makes you think the FBI likes any of their C.I.s? Milton’s just entertaining the idea right now. But so should you in case you get an offer. And I have a feeling when I tell her what happened in that van tonight, you’ll get one.”
“You two talk on a regular basis?”
Gabriella pulled into the parking lot in front of Bar Louie. Not a bad crowd for a mall bar at midnight. Quiet downtown. Noisy in the suburbs. What the hell was happening to this world? Gabriella turned off the car and said, “So why are we here?”
I told her about Celeste Sorensen befriending Annika Brydolf, and that we considered a drunk Celeste Sorensen a possible source regarding Halferin Silver.
“Well then,” said Gabriella. “Let’s go buy her a drink.”
26
Bar Louie in Minnetonka featured booths and tables surrounding a big square bar like on Cheers. It had more TVs than a Best Buy and served more summer rum drinks than a pirate ship. Food servers carried rectangular white plates filled with rectangular pizzas that some asshole rebranded as flatbreads. There was no shortage of tank tops, shorts, and golf shirts, all in colors normally reserved for Easter eggs. I spotted Annika and Celeste on the corner of the bar. Celeste was drinking cosmos again, so it might be a productive night. Gabriella and I found a table in back. I ordered a Guinness and she ordered a Shirley Temple. It was time for act two in my night of tavern playacting. I was halfway through my beer when I hoisted the mug and headed toward the bar.
“Annika! What are you doing in the burbs?”
Celeste turned and saw the voice belonged to me. She slumped.
Annika said, “Just catching up with Celeste. What got you out of the city?”
“A woman. Turns out some of them live out here. How are you, Celeste?”
Celeste sighed. “Fine. I always enjoy seeing Annika.”
“Is the old ball and chain here? I’d like to meet the lucky man.”
“He’s at home,” said Celeste. “Asleep as usual.”
“You married a narcoleptic?”
Celeste rolled her eyes. “Not exactly. Just a guy who goes to bed at nine every night.” Celeste polished off her cosmo. Her jiggly eyes told me it wasn’t her first. “My mother told me not to marry a man fifteen years older than me, but I was in love.”
I said, “Love will get you every time.”
“Are you married, Nils?”
“Divorced.”
“Oh,” said Celeste. “You’re one of those. The easy path never leads to anywhere worthwhile.”
“I beg to differ. Plus, Annika’s divorced.”
“Well, of course, Annika’s divorced. Her husband hit her. He’s dangerous. He’s in jail. Divorce in that situation is permissible. Not ideal, but permissible.” She forced a smile at Annika. “If everyone would just…”—Celeste Sorensen’s jaw clenched—“get their you-know-what together then this country would be what our Founding Fathers intended it to be.”
I said, “Shit?”
“What? The Founding Fathers didn’t intend this country to be shit.”
“You said if everyone would get their you-know-what together. Did you mean shit?”
“Oh. Yes. Where’s that lazy waiter?”
“So, if everyone had a marriage like you, this country would be a-okay.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just everything’s so goldarn cockamamie. Some people work hard and get no help but do their jobs without complaining. And other people do nothing and complain and get money thrown at them.” She gave me a cold stare.
I smiled. It was hard. “Like private investigators who keep getting paid to work on a case that has already been closed?”
“I didn’t say those words, Nils Shapiro. You did.”
People only use my full name when they’re flirting with me, angry at me, or disappointed I didn’t send a Mother’s Day card. Celeste Sorensen wasn’t flirting and she wasn’t my mother.
Annika said, “So Celeste, why is Halferin Silver keeping us on the case?”
“I have no idea!” said Celeste. “They won’t give me a raise, but they’ll waste money finding out what they already know. It makes no sense. Except…” She smirked and looked at Annika as if Annika knew how Celeste was going to finish the sentence.
But Annika just shook her head and said, “Except what?”
“Hey, waiter!” said Celeste. “Another round, por favor! We’re dehydrated over here.”
A waiter who might have been Latino or might have been a dark-haired Norwegian forced a courtesy smile and said in perfect Midwestern bland, “Yes, ma’am. Coming right up.”
Annika looked at me for some kind of direction. I said, “Must be tough for you, Celeste, working at Halferin Silver.”
“It’s a job,” said Celeste. “We all have to work. And Susan has been very good to me.”
“How do you like it there? You don’t exactly fit the mold.”
“I like it just fine. Their heart’s in the right place. They’re the good guys.” She sighed again. “But how many holidays can one religion have? They got the big ones in the fall, of course. But then there’s the one they made the Ten Commandments movie about, and the one where the kids wear costumes, and the one with the lemon and the hut. It’s a miracle they get any work done.”
The waiter brought another cosmo and a gin and tonic for Annika. Celeste snatched her pink martini.
I waited until her first swallow then said, “You must miss Todd.”
She kept the liquid down, but with effort. When her pipes were clear she said, “Why did you say that?”
“By all accounts he was a nice guy. Who doesn’t like having a friendly face at work?”
Celeste thought a moment then said, “He was a nice guy.”
I thought she might elaborate but didn’t. I was about to excuse myself to the men’s room when Gabriella said, “There you are. I thought you fell in.” She walked up, put an arm around me, and kissed my cheek. Then she turned to Celeste and Annika and said, “Hello. I’m Gabriella.”
Everyone introduced themselves. Small talk ensued. Celeste didn’t recognize Gabriella as a high-ranking Minneapolis police officer. And it’s the last thing Gabriella looked like. She’d freed her hair from its binder and swished her Shirley Temple around like a daiquiri. She moved her hips and leaned into me like a golden retriever or girlfriend might do. I felt it in a way I didn’t expect, in a way that forced me to concentrate. I played my part and put my beer-free arm around my former fellow cadet, my hand weaving through her hair and releasing a wave of lavender. We talked a little more, then Gabriella and I excused ourselves.
On the drive home, she said, “Think you were any
help back there?”
“I think I irritated Celeste, and irritated people like to run their mouth.”
“Interesting strategy.”
“What can I say? I am interesting guy.”
Gabriella said, “Shap, we need pie.” We stopped at the Perkins off 394 and joined the crowd of drunks and insomniacs. A hostess sat us at a booth in back. The first thing Gabriella said to me was, “We’re ordering eight pieces of pie. We each choose four. And the rule is you have to take at least one bite from every piece.”
“Eight pieces?”
“We don’t have to eat it all. But we can.”
“You can,” I said. “You run ten miles every day. I have my boyish figure to consider. I don’t want to be single forever.”
“What about that?”
“What about what?”
“Why are you still single?”
“Why are you?”
“No, no. Don’t do that. I asked the question. Something seems different about you. Lighter. Do you have a new girlfriend I don’t know about?”
A waitress with light pink hair and heavy black-framed eyeglasses approached holding a pad of paper and a pencil. “You two ready?”
Gabriella said, “If we get eight separate pieces of pie, can we get the whole-pie price?”
The waitress bit her pencil and said, “What whole-pie price? They’re a bunch of different prices.”
“Whatever the most expensive slice is, the price of that whole pie.”
“No one’s ever wanted that before. I have to ask my manager. I’ll be right back.”
The waitress left.
I said, “Apparently all of your type-A overachieving tendencies go away when you’re near pie.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“All of a sudden, you’re fun.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name is nada because she doesn’t exist. Are you working right now? Are you trying to get me high on fun and sugar so I’ll go C.I.?”
