The Shallows--A Nils Shapiro Novel

by Matt Goldman

  “You think I should have had Luke put down?” She laughed at her joke. The gin was doing what gin does.

  “Maybe, but I’m referring to his lack of capability. He’s capable of killing and did, I’m sure. But he’s not capable of conceiving all that’s happened. Someone directed him.”

  “And you think it’s me?”

  “It’s possible. It depends on why Todd Rabinowitz died. I will tell you this: the FBI thinks the bomb at Halferin Silver was planted as a publicity stunt in your favor.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Luke says that’s why he did it.” The screen shifted to orange.

  Karin Tressler said, “Orange. Yuck. Who likes the color orange except when it’s on an orange?” She sounded like a snotty teenager, not a tightrope-walking politician.

  I turned toward her and said, “I think Todd Rabinowitz was having an affair. If that affair was with you, you’ll have to answer some questions.”

  “It wasn’t with me. Do you want to know something personal?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “I have been celibate for five years.” She held up her right hand and spread her fingers. “Five years. What do you think of that?”

  Karin Tressler was drunk, which for some reason made me believe her. But she was also a skilled politician. She won her primary campaign by making people believe what she wanted them to believe. And some affairs are never consummated. A good percentage, from my experience. So even if she were telling the truth about her celibacy, it didn’t mean all that much.

  I said, “Did you know Todd Rabinowitz?”

  “Of course I knew him. He was one of my lawyers.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  She smiled. “There was something decent about Todd. He worked hard. He was kind. Thoughtful and straightforward. I liked him. A lot. And it’s true what they say, you know. All the men like him are taken. Too bad for women like me. And you know what else is too bad?”

  “Are we talking about your dating life now?”

  “Yes we are. What else is too bad is our society is so fractured that a person can only date half the eligible men because the other half hate your guts.”

  “I agree.”

  “Hey, that wasn’t very nice. Are you saying you hate my guts?”

  “I used to. But now that I’ve gotten to know you a little, I find your guts at least tolerable.”

  “Thank you.”

  I said, “Do you know neurological differences affect the way people think? About families and countries. About inclusiveness and homogony? Our brains are different. Those differences predict a person’s political disposition even more than what family the person grows up in. So, all the talking and arguing in the world means nothing. Almost no one’s going to change their mind, because they can’t change their mind. Their frontal lobe or amygdala is what it is. Just like with introverts and extroverts. We’re born the way we’re born.”

  Karin Tressler said, “That sounds hopeless.”

  “And dangerous. At least with introverts and extroverts, the biggest argument is whether to go out on Saturday night or stay home. And yet, I remain an optimist. Because what’s the point of being a pessimist?”

  Karin Tressler smiled and said, “I agree with you on that.”

  “Hey. We have one thing in common.”

  I have friends and relatives, people who if I met today, I would dislike. But I’ve known them for decades. I met them when I was less formed and less self-aware and less critical. So I had time and space to appreciate the good in them, their qualities that balance their faults. It’s a plague on humanity we can’t know everyone like that.

  Karin Tressler stared straight at me and smiled, lost the smile in thought, and then found it again. Her eyes twinkled. She said, “I like to stay home on Saturday nights. What about you?”

  “Stay home. Always.”

  “Huh. Two things in common.” She burst into laughter, and I summoned a Lyft. It took half an hour for my ride to get there. I spent that time getting to know Karin Tressler. I liked her more than I thought possible, but was certain I would neither work nor vote for her. I was equally certain she had nothing to do with her brother’s crimes.

  35

  I called Detective Irving on the way home and set the meeting for 9:30 P.M. at a semi-equidistant restaurant called Bacio.

  Someone had parked my Volvo in the coat factory. I found my keys on the counter and a sealed envelope between wiper and windshield. It was a handwritten note on Gabriella Núñez’s personal stationery. I didn’t know people still had personal stationery. The note said: Call me ASAP. I have a problem –Gabriella

  Gabriella obviously wasn’t afraid to communicate by phone, otherwise the note would have said Leave a note on my windshield ASAP. But there’s something personal about a handwritten note. Something urgent. I would not forget to call Gabriella Núñez.

  I showered, dug one shirt deeper into the well-creased polo shirts, got in my twice-dented Volvo, and headed west for the thousandth time that week.

  I called Gabriella. She answered on the second ring. I said, “I don’t think Karin Tressler is our man.”

  Gabriella said, “I don’t want to talk about Karin Tressler right now. Can we meet?”

  I told her about my 9:30 at Bacio.

  She said, “Go to Bacio. My place after?”

  “You have a place? I thought you lived at the first precinct.”

  She said she’d text me the address and to call when I was leaving Minnetonka because she’d most likely be asleep.

  I said, “Sounds like maybe it should wait until tomorrow.”

  “No,” said Gabriella. “It shouldn’t.”

  I hung up and received her text. Ten minutes later I exited 394 at Plymouth Road and got that creepy feeling I get around shopping malls. I have nothing against commerce but when two hundred stores are under the same roof, you get marketed at from every angle. It’s unnatural and disconcerting.

  Bacio was in the smaller Bonaventure mall connected to the main Ridgedale mall by a sea of asphalt. Bonaventure was Ridgedale’s moon that didn’t rotate but sat there waiting for spillover shoppers who weren’t ready to go home. The restaurant abutted a Marshall’s discount store, and it brightened my mood to think plenty of day-drinkers had tottered next door and left with ridiculous outfits.

  I parked the Volvo a hundred feet from the restaurant. The day’s heat held firm in the pavement and cooked my feet through my Rod Lavers. I stepped into a full blast of air-conditioning and the calliope music made by alcohol, conversation, knives and forks on plates.

  Bacio was full of men with haircuts from sports-themed barber shops wearing wrinkle-free khakis and tucked-in golf shirts. Most of the women wore sleeveless frocks and preferred their wine sweet and their husbands out of town on business. The restaurant itself was decorated in faux castle complete with fake stone arches with no supporting columns, leather booths, and a huge, curved bar that’s greased plenty of quadragenarian make-out sessions in minivans.

  I found Detective Irving in wrinkle-free khakis and a tucked-in golf shirt sitting on a bar stool, his back to the bar. He sipped on a glass of water then raised it in a toastlike gesture when he saw me. I approached and said, “Where’s Norton?”

  “Not here yet.”

  “Is he coming?”

  Irving shrugged. “He’s had a rough day.”

  “Yeah?” I sat on the stool next to Irving and ordered a soda with bitters.

  “The committee relieved him of his chief duties.”

  “What for?”

  “You know what for. He closed the Christmas Lake cases too soon. That M.E. with the ponytail, what’s his name?”

  I said, “Melzer.”

  “Yeah. He copied the committee on a bunch of emails he’d sent Norton.”

  “About the water in Todd Rabinowitz’s lungs containing milfoil not found in Christmas Lake?”

  Irving said, “Yeah. How’d you k
now?”

  “Just paying attention.”

  Irving cast me a dubious glance then said, “So when the news broke that Luke Tressler confessed to the killings, the committee wasn’t too happy with Norton. Karin fucking Tressler’s fucking brother. Jesus. Committee members got news vans camped outside their houses. And I’m not talking just local news. It’s a freak show and GLMPD are the freaks.”

  “Did the committee demote Norton or is he on leave?”

  “Leave. Unpaid. He’s pissed.”

  “Who’s the new temporary chief?” Detective Irving shrugged. Even in the dim castle light, I could see he was blushing. “Well, well, Chief. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink unless I’m home for the night. You know in Utah, a blood alcohol level of point zero five is the max. Anything more and you go to jail.”

  “We’re not in Utah, but I get your point. Did the committee question you?” Chief Irving nodded. “Did you tell them what you told me about the missing tool?”

  He drained his glass of water. The remaining ice cubes clung to the bottom, loosening their grip enough to twist and turn but not fall. Irving said, “Yup.”

  The bartender brought me my soda with bitters. I gave him a ten and said, “Sure you don’t want a drink, Chief? It’s on Halferin Silver.”

  “Yup. I’m sure.”

  I said, “This has worked out pretty well for you, hasn’t it?”

  Irving shrugged. “For a little while. I just turned thirty-six. They’ll bring in someone else to be chief by the end of the year.”

  “Thirty-six isn’t too young.”

  “Me being permanent chief is not going to happen. The best thing about all this, to tell you the truth, is Norton’s on leave and out of my hair. Guy’s kind of a dick. I didn’t like working with him and I hated working for him. I hope he’s gone for good. Or at least gets bumped back down to patrol.”

  “Do you think Norton will show up tonight?” Irving shook his head. “Are you sure you told him about it?”

  Irving said, “I texted him.”

  “Did he respond?”

  “He did not.” A blonde with short, teased hair wearing a sleeveless white blouse said hello and sat on the stool next to me. She ordered a Riesling and set her red Coach purse on the bar. Not that I know my purses, but it said Coach on the side in gold letters.

  I thought of asking Irving to show me his text to Norton, but Chief Irving seemed a little too confident and comfortable, and I wanted to keep him in that place. I said, “So do you think Norton did it?”

  “Did what?”

  “Do you think Norton gave the tool to Luke Tressler so Luke could remove the plexiglass window and break Arndt Kjellgren out of jail?”

  Irving shrugged. “Someone did.”

  “Do you know where Norton is right now?”

  “Home, I’d guess.”

  “Anyone keeping an eye on him? Making sure he doesn’t join his old boss in Nicaragua?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, Chief, maybe it’s time you showed some leadership skills.” I got off my stool and told the bartender to keep the change he’d laid on the bar. I turned to the woman, put a hand on Irving’s shoulder, and said, “See this guy here? He was just promoted to chief of police of the Greater Lake Minnetonka Police Department.”

  “Wow,” said the woman. “Congratulations.”

  “Pretty impressive for a young buck. And he’s single.” I had no idea if that was true. “And he’s celebrating.” I looked at Irving and said, “Chief Irving, you’re a big shot now. Act like it and pay for this young lady’s grape juice. I got to run. And hey, I’ll let you know how it goes with the committee tomorrow.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Irving.

  “The Greater Lake Minnetonka whatever committee. They asked me to come in tomorrow.”

  A mixture of concern and surprise swept across Irving’s face. Why would the committee want to talk to me? What did they know? Did they suspect Irving of setting up Norton? Those were good questions and they would not be answered because the committee didn’t want to see me. I just told Irving that to see his response. I walked out of Bacio and onto the lava parking lot.

  * * *

  I’d known Gabriella Núñez eighteen years and I’d never been to a place she called home. Most cops lived in a suburb because they couldn’t afford Minneapolis. But Gabriella was frugal, invested well, and worked her way up to a top paygrade. She owned a one-bedroom condo near the northeast edge of Loring Park across Hennepin Avenue from the Walker Art Center’s sculpture garden. She had a view of it from her balcony, and that’s where we sat at a bistro table drinking añejo tequila garnished with a slice of orange.

  “Do you like the tequila?”

  “I do.”

  “Good,” said Gabriella, “because this might be a two-drink conversation. At least.”

  The humidity hung still and heavy, softening the edges of everything in sight. Gabriella said, “I’ve spent a lot of this past year with the feds. The Joint Terrorism Task Force has met more frequently. Not because the threat of terrorism has increased, but because the destructive bullshit in Washington has led to an increase in cooperation between agencies.”

  “Like when Mom and Dad are fighting, the kids get along better?”

  “Exactly like that. So, when Halferin Silver got bombed, the wheels were greased for Minneapolis PD and the FBI to work together.”

  I looked over at my fellow cadet. When we made eye contact, she glanced down. Her swagger was gone. When a strong, confident person misplaces her swagger, even for a second, its absence leaves a vacuum that can suck your heart out.

  I said, “What’s going on with you?”

  Gabriella said, “They offered me a job today, Nils.”

  “The FBI?” She nodded. “I thought they didn’t take anyone older than thirty-six.”

  “Thirty-seven,” she said, “but they make exceptions. In my case it’s because of my work at JTTF.”

  I said, “Why does this feel more like bad news than good news?”

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  “That’s unlike you.”

  “No shit.”

  “Do you want the job?”

  “Yes. And because I’m thirty-nine, it’s a one-time offer. But if I take it, I’ll have to go to D.C. for a while then most likely be sent to wherever they need me, which is unlikely to be here.”

  “Tough view to give up.”

  Gabriella nodded. “Tough job to give up. I could be chief here in the next ten years.”

  “Sooner than that. I hear your boss wants to retire.”

  “But if I take the FBI job, who knows how high I can go?”

  “Is that what you want? To go high?”

  She smiled something worried and lifted her glass—it was empty. “See what I mean? Two-drink conversation.” She got up and left the balcony. The crickets and frogs were at it again. They sang about how Ellegaard and I had rekindled our friendship after over a decade of infrequent contact. Now Gabriella and I seemed to be doing the same. All from a bond forged in a few months at the police academy. I didn’t have that bond with any of my other fellow cadets. But Ellegaard and Gabriella and I complemented one another like chamber music instruments.

  She returned with a tequila bottle in one hand. It looked like a short baseball bat. She sat, poured, and lifted her glass toward mine. “To old friends.”

  We sipped and looked out at the sculpture garden and listened to the croakers and leg rubbers for a minute then Gabriella said, “We’ve both had a long day, so I’ll just say this: Do you ever think about you and me? You know, in a romantic way?”

  I kept my eyes on the giant cherry and spoon in the sculpture garden and said, “Of course.”

  In a steady, calm voice she said, “You son of a bitch. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because.” I turned and looked at her. “Because I’ve never felt it reciprocated an
d even if I did I would have fucked it up.”

  She nodded and looked away then said, “I had the same fear. But—and I know this is going to sound strange—but in the last few days something has changed. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t even understand it. But something is different, Nils. I’ve been feeling it in a big way. And thinking about it. Too much. Like nonstop. Then I get this job offer from the FBI today and it just turned up the volume on all of it. Because if I accept it I not only ruin any chance with you, which is an absurd notion because all of a sudden, I’m thinking about a chance with you, but being a fed would probably keep me single until I retire. Which big fucking deal, right? Being single never bothered me before. And yet all of a sudden, it does. I don’t know why. I don’t fucking need a relationship. I don’t fucking need you. No offense. And yet, for some goddamn reason you’re pulling at me. And don’t you dare say it’s my biological clock because I don’t want kids. Of that I’m sure. It’s just something. Do you feel it?”

  A wave of sadness ran through me. It came from that part of my brain I can’t access. Or worse, from my heart. I said, “Yeah.” I stopped, but felt she was about to say yeah what? So I started again. “I’ve felt something. I think for a long time. But I’ve never given myself permission to acknowledge that feeling for you. You’re too … I don’t know … out of my league, I guess.”

  “Well, thank you. But I’m not. And why now? Why is this happening now? Why do you seem different now, Nils?”

  I was about to answer when Gabriella Núñez leaned across the tiny bistro table and kissed me. A slow, soft kiss. An introduction. A kiss that stood on its own and needed nothing else to complete it. She pulled back and looked at me. Just looked at me.

  36

  Gabriella said, “Don’t say anything.” She poured more tequila, refreshed the orange slices, then tossed the spent ones over the balcony. “It’s not littering. The squirrels eat them.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So what’s different, Shap? What am I picking up on?”

  I said, “I wasn’t free before. Now I am.”

  “How did that happen?”