by Matt Goldman
I drove on the pavers toward a house of red brick, black shutters, and ivy crawling up its sides. Everything about the place felt expensive and traditional. I became conscious of how dented and dirty my Volvo was—I’d cleaned my windshield with the wipers—a film of something barely translucent lined the edges.
I wasn’t sure where to park. The pavers formed a circle. I stopped under an overhang near the front door, hoping to see a Do Park or Don’t Park sign, but instead the front door opened and a man of about sixty emerged wearing a wedding-quality black suit and threadbare combover. He smiled and nodded and with those two gestures managed to convey he would take the car from there.
I got out of the Volvo. He said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Shapiro. My name is Hawkins. I will be happy to take your car.”
Hawkins. That’s butler nomenclature. I said, “Thank you, Hawkins. The keys are in the cup holder.”
“Excellent. Thank you, sir.”
Another man, maybe fifty years old, with a marine crew cut and athletic physique, pink-faced and clean-shaven, as if he shaved before breakfast and lunch, stepped outside. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. I recognized him as one of the three men with Karin Tressler when the bomb threat cleared Halferin Silver.
“Hello, Mr. Shapiro. Blake Lamb. I’m Ms. Tressler’s chief of security.” I shook his hand. He had a firm, exploratory grip coupled with probing eye contact. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I have to ask: Are you in possession of a firearm?”
Since my Ruger was in the car I said, “I am not.”
“Any other weapons?”
I said, “Just my wit,” holding my arms out.
He looked like he was about to pat me down, but then nodded and smiled. “Thank you. Come on in.”
I followed him into a cavernous foyer. A polished marble floor and a bajillion-jeweled chandelier overhead. The molding and millwork were detailed with panels inside panels all painted white and looking like cake frosting. The furniture was antique. Walnut and oak, accented with marble and ceramic. The décor alone—heavy-framed paintings, carved benches, an armoire so big Paul Bunyan could hang his coats inside—sent me into detail overload, and I stopped noticing minutiae. Not a good thing in my business.
Blake Lamb led me through what I guessed was the living room, or probably a living room, and into a large corridor, passing what looked like a dining room, other sitting rooms, and a room I didn’t see but sounded like it might be a kitchen. We made our way toward the back of the house and into a somewhat more casual room lined with windows looking out on the grounds behind the house. There was a swimming pool with its own not-so-small house, putting green, tennis court, gardens, and several outbuildings. It looked like an exhausting place to live.
Karin Tressler appeared from another entrance. She smiled and said, “Nils Shapiro. Thank you for considering my offer.” She wore a white dress to the knee under a cardinal red blazer, an oversized American flag pin on its lapel.
I said, “I just wanted to see if the rumors were true.”
“What rumors?”
“That you live at an all-inclusive resort.”
She smiled. “You’re starting with an insult?”
“Come on, look at this place. You gave me no choice. But here I am. I thought about what you said. I want to hear more.”
“Good.”
We sat in chairs that looked like they had been upholstered in one of Sherlock Holmes’s tweed suits. Blake Lamb disappeared. Then a woman who last worked at Downton Abbey, wearing a battleship gray dress under a white apron, carried in a silver tray filled with hot and cold beverages, cakes, cookies, crudités, and pistachios. There were half a dozen mini silver tongs to transport the food from tray to plate. Karin Tressler tonged herself some radishes, celery, pea pods, and nuts.
I said, “Sticking with that caveman diet, huh?”
“The results are undeniable.”
Downton Abbey disappeared. Karin Tressler poured me a glass of lemonade and said, “You mentioned there are some things you’d like to clear up before you agree to work for me.”
“Yes. I’ve done a little homework. Not easy. You’re squeaky clean, or someone’s covering your backside well.”
“Squeaky clean, I’m afraid. Hope that doesn’t bore you.”
“Boring is good. I don’t have much, but I do have a reputation. I don’t want to throw it away by associating with someone who could go down in scandal. Or worse.”
Karin Tressler’s smile faded. “Worse?”
“Ethics are one thing. The law is another.”
“You’re worried I’m involved in something criminal?”
“I’d be an idiot not to look into the possibility.” I bit into a tiny white cake of thin layers sandwiching pink jellylike mortar. “As far as I can tell, you’re not asking me for investigative work. You’re asking me to help you understand the electorate and broaden your support.”
“That’s correct.”
“I like the bipartisan notion, but if you’re dirty—”
“Excuse me. I don’t appreciate that word. I’ve worked hard to play by the rules. I may have inherited a great deal, but, like you, I’ve earned my reputation.”
“As far as I can tell, that’s true. But it’s not true of everyone you’re associated with. And that’s what concerns me.”
“Ah,” said Karin Tressler. She munched a pea pod. “That’s why you asked for my staff to be here today. Not to introduce you so we could hit the ground running, as you said.”
“You ambushed me. Now I’m repaying the favor. Could you bring them in, please?”
Karin Tressler reached for her phone and did something I couldn’t see. I reached for mine and did something she couldn’t see, then slipped it into the breast pocket on my shirt. A minute later, fifteen people had joined us. Some women, some men, including Blake Lamb and the two other men who’d accompanied Karin Tressler on bomb blast day. After they’d all entered Karin said, “Now what?”
“Some are missing.”
“No one’s missing,” said Karin Tressler, “except for possibly Ian Halferin and Susan Silver, but you know them.”
“I do. But I’m not talking about them. Two men in their thirties work for you. They dress eighties preppy. Polo ponies and madras and white bucks. That kind of tomfoolery. Where are they?”
Karin reached for a radish. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. One of them is your brother Luke.”
If my life had been a movie, a murmur would have swept the room. A cacophony of woe. Concerned faces. Shared glances of outrage. Not-so-subtle whispers. But my life wasn’t a movie. These people were pros. You had to look for the anxiety to see it.
Karin Tressler did not blink. She said, “No one in my family works for me.”
I said, “That’s not what I hear.”
“Then you’re hearing wrong. Someone is lying to you.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but I won’t move forward without meeting your brother Luke.” She opened her mouth to say something but I cut her off. “And if that’s a deal breaker, then fine, we’ll go our separate ways.”
I’d put Karin Tressler’s self-made reputation front and center. She’d either bring her brother in or she’d refuse. Either way, she had to make a move. She thought for a moment then turned to one of her bombing day associates and said, “Please ask Luke and Gregory to come in.”
Luke and the man I now knew to be Gregory Wilson or Pinsky entered less than a minute later. Luke wore a seersucker suit, tan stripes on an ivory field, suede bucks, a white shirt, and an aquamarine tie. Gregory Wilson or Pinsky wore khakis, a navy blazer, a pink shirt, and a yellow bow tie. They looked like polo mannequins. Their clothing, combined with using their full names, was like applying burl maple veneer over a rusty tin can.
Luke said, “Hello, Nils. Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you, Luke.”
Karin said, “You two know each other
?” Her question seemed genuine.
I said, “Luke witnessed someone stealing a car. He followed the thief, made a call to trace the license plate, learned it was mine, and called to tell me where it was. Small world, huh?”
Karin looked at her brother and said, “Is that true?”
“It is,” said Luke.
“When did this happen?”
“A couple days ago.”
Karin looked at me and said, “Why didn’t you mention it to me?”
“I didn’t know he was your brother until I ran a background check on you.” That was a lie, but a plausible one. “But aren’t you going to ask Luke why he didn’t tell you?”
Karin shook her head in small, subtle oscillations. Then she turned to Luke and said, “Why didn’t you tell me, Luke?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Just witnessed a crime and reported it.”
Karin looked confused. I said, “Except you didn’t report it. To the police, anyway. You called me.”
“Yeah. It’s your car. Why get a bureaucracy involved?”
“Really? The police are a bureaucracy? A dispatcher would have had a squad car behind my stolen vehicle in five minutes.”
Luke reacted like a scolded child. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think about that.”
Karin Tressler waved her hand to stop Luke or maybe the whole conversation. She said, “Okay, Nils. Luke and Gregory are here. What do you want?”
I looked at Luke, Gregory, Blake Lamb, then back to Karin. I said, “I want every man in this room to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves.”
Karin’s mouth popped open. It took her a while to say, “What? Why on earth?”
“Someone in this room killed Arndt Kjellgren and most likely Robin and Todd Rabinowitz, as well. I know this dramatic intervention is a little weird, but I couldn’t see another way.”
No one said anything for a moment, then Blake Lamb said, “It’s a dangerous way. There are over a dozen of us, some armed, and one of you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t believe much in conspiracies. I’ve run checks on all of you and all of you have spotless reputations. I just don’t buy this group colluding to commit murder. Not most of you, anyway.”
Now there were murmurs and audible gasps and shared looks of incredulity. That was more like it. The only calm one in the room was Luke Tressler, who had inched toward a pair of French doors that opened to the patio.
I said, “I’ve taken precautions. I’m live broadcasting right now to law enforcement and my partners at Stone Arch.” I tapped the phone in my breast pocket, its camera sticking above the top of my pocket. “Local police are cooperating with the FBI, Greater Lake Minnetonka Police, and Minneapolis PD to watch all roads and fields around this estate. I’ve tipped off a few reporters to join them.”
Blake Lamb looked like he wanted to strangle me. He placed his right hand inside his suit jacket.
A woman wearing Chanel and smelling of it, too, said, “You’ve opened yourself up to countless lawsuits, Mr. Shapiro, civil and criminal. We will see this prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
“I know. But only if I’m wrong. And I’m not wrong. So, if the men could please remove their jackets and roll up their sleeves.”
Luke Tressler darted to the French doors, swung one open, and reached for the screen door behind it. A wire flew toward him. I followed the other end of the wire to Blake Lamb, who held a stun gun. Luke Tressler crumpled into a convulsing mess. Karin Tressler screamed. The room of dignified professionals lost their shit. Blake Lamb threw Gregory up against the wall and zip-tied Gregory’s hands behind his back, led him to an empty chair, sat him down, and zip-tied Gregory’s feet together. Blake produced two more plastic strips and bound writhing Luke’s wrists and ankles, though it was hardly necessary.
Karin Tressler lost most of the blood in her face. She looked ghostly, and her eyes dimmed. She said to herself more than anyone else, “I knew this day would come. I knew you would drag me down.”
33
We gathered around a big table in a small room at FBI headquarters in Brooklyn Center. The table was so big in comparison to the room you could barely get around it without walking sideways, as if you were traversing a narrow ledge, your back to the wall. Luke Tressler sat with his team of lawyers, who were led by the woman wearing and smelling of Chanel. Luke’s seersucker jacket was gone, the sleeves of his oxford rolled up to his elbows, exposing swirled scars on his forearms, the same scars I’d seen in Arndt Kjellgren’s building wheeling a dolly of welding gas tanks. Luke’s bound wrists rested in front of him on the table.
Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton and Special Agent Delvin Peterson sat at the opposite end of the table. I took the chair next to Peterson, who gave me a you can’t sit with the FBI look but said nothing so I stayed put. Ellegaard sat to my left.
Detective Irving from the Greater Lake Minnetonka Police Department was there. His old partner and new chief, Norton, was absent.
Officers from Chanhassen PD, Chaska PD, Eden Prairie PD, and Minneapolis PD filled out the room, including Inspector Gabriella Núñez, who wore her dress blues and her hair in a tight French braid.
The gathering was a formality, and an unusual one. The FBI invited municipal law enforcement agencies because each had jurisdiction in one of the crimes. They included me for no reason other than I had witnessed a man delivering welding gas the day I met Arndt Kjellgren. That man directed me to Kjellgren’s studio. He wore a cap, had long dark hair, brown eyes, and a hoarse, weak voice. He also had scarred arms. That man delivered poison gas in a leaky tank that would have killed Arndt Kjellgren if Arndt Kjellgren had spent much time in his studio after it was delivered. He had not. I spent less than an hour there looking at record albums and felt sick.
The kind of scarring on Luke’s arms is sometimes the result of laser tattoo removal. That’s when my newfound friendship with the FBI paid off. I shared my suspicions with Agents Milton and Peterson, and they put the FBI computers to work analyzing photographs.
The algorithms found it in less than ten minutes. Luke Tressler, a full sleeve of tattoos on each arm, carrying a tiki torch in Charlottesville, Virginia, two years prior, marching with other men wearing polo shirts and chanting, “Blood and soil! Blood and soil!”
That’s why Karin Tressler had her brother Luke scrubbed from the internet.
Before we gathered in that room, Luke Tressler had confessed to killing Todd Rabinowitz by drowning him in Lake Minnetonka then moving the body to Christmas Lake, where Luke tied Todd Rabinowitz to the dock. Luke confessed to breaking Arndt Kjellgren out of jail, then killing him and Robin Rabinowitz in the Rabinowitz home. And he confessed to planting the bomb in Halferin Silver’s mail room by posing as a UPS delivery person, using the same disguise he used when delivering the poison gas.
“Luke,” said Colleen Milton, “we’re going to ask you some questions. We appreciate your cooperation, but of course, you don’t need to answer. You can consult with your attorneys. Or you can just remain quiet. But I advise you not to lie. That will not make your road any easier.”
“I’ve told you everything,” said Luke. “I killed them. I planted the bomb. What more do you want to know?”
“Quite a few things, actually. For example, why?”
“Why what?” said Luke.
“Let’s start with why did you kill Todd Rabinowitz?”
Luke Tressler looked at the Chanel woman. She nodded. He looked at Colleen Milton and said, “He knew about my past. About Charlottesville and other things that could hurt my sister politically. He planned to leak it to the press.”
Colleen Milton scrunched up her face, then said, “How do you know he knew?”
Luke Tressler shook his head.
Colleen Milton said, “Who are you protecting?”
“No one.”
“All right. Why did you kill Arndt Kjellgren and Robin Rabinowitz?”
“Because,” said Luke, “it made Arndt Kjellgren l
ook guilty for killing Todd.”
“It did,” said Colleen Milton. “But you made a mistake delivering the poison gas. How long ago did you have your tattoos removed?”
“Over a year ago. The person who gave me the tattoos didn’t do it right. That’s why I have all this scarring.”
“Uh-huh. So you thought to cover your hair in a hat and disguise its color with a brown ponytail. And you thought to cover your blue eyes with brown contact lenses and your face with a beard. Our witness says you disguised your voice to sound weak. But you didn’t think to cover the most distinguishing physical characteristic you have?”
“It was hot that day,” said Luke. “I rolled up my sleeves. I forgot.”
“You forgot about your scarred arms?”
Luke said, “Yes, because it was hot.”
“But the day you were waiting for Nils Shapiro at his car, you were wearing long sleeves. I guess you thought of covering up your tattoos that day.”
“I guess I did.”
“You know,” said Colleen Milton, “whether you spend the rest of your life in jail will depend on how cooperative you are from this point forward. That’s how a judge is going to look at it. And I got to tell you: right now, you’re not being all that cooperative.”
“I confessed,” said Luke. “What more do you want?”
“I want to know who else is involved.”
“No one.”
“Right. No one. Stick with that. You, Luke Tressler, may never see another snowfall. Another Christmas. Another warm spring day. Another—”
“That’s enough,” said the Chanel-clad lawyer. “My client has told you what he knows. There’s nothing left to tell.”
I whispered something to Delvin Peterson, who repeated it to Colleen Milton. The special agent in charge of the Minneapolis FBI office leaned in front of Peterson and gave me a nod. I said, “Luke, why were you waiting for me at my car the day it was stolen?”
