The Shallows--A Nils Shapiro Novel Page 13

“The latter, I’m afraid.” We shook hands. “I would have called, but I’d appreciate an off-the-record conversation. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I’d ask how you found me but I know too many lawyers.” She responded with a nod and nothing more. I said, “It’s hotter in here than it is out there. I’m about to head out and grab something to eat if you’d like to join me.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  I wasn’t about to grab something to eat. I felt a bit nauseous. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was seeing three dead people in the last two days. But we had to go somewhere. I considered a few of my local favorite spots, but sitting down with Susan Silver felt like first-date territory. Not that I felt anything romantic toward her, or her toward me, but it felt like a first date in that I didn’t want to be tied to a long meal if it went badly. First dates work best as a drink or coffee. If it goes well, it can push into dinner. If not, you can get the hell out of there. But I’d already brought up food so I suggested a salad place where they make it assembly-line style, and you pay before you sit down. The lighting was a bit harsh, but like I said, it wasn’t that kind of first date. We walked a couple blocks then sat down with salads and iced teas. Susan started to say something about giving up artificial sweeteners but must have seen impatience in my eyes.

  She said, “You don’t care about my relationship with stevia, do you?”

  “Not so much, no.”

  She nodded. “There’s something I’d like to share with you. It’s probably not important, but I feel compelled to tell you about it.”

  I don’t know why people want to tell private investigators their life story, but they do and it’s rarely interesting. It could be worse. I could be a therapist or a priest.

  Susan Silver looked down at her salad as if she’d lost her place and what she’d wanted to say was written on a leaf of kale. “I had my babies early. Before I went to law school. Three by the time I was twenty-eight.” She looked up from her salad. “My husband worked all the time and left me with the kids then golfed on weekends and told everybody what a beautiful family he had. He was doing it all for us. I used to say the kids and I were a trophy family. He’d take us off the shelf and show us off on holidays but, other than that, we weren’t much a part of his daily life.”

  Susan Silver’s eyes looked brown but the brown yielded toward green near her pupils. She probably checked hazel on her driver’s license. I wanted to ask her but let her continue. She swallowed a bite of salad then said, “So when I was thirty-one, I told him I wanted a divorce. He wanted to stay married. He promised he’d change, but that wasn’t the point. The point was he was content, maybe more than content, not spending time with us. I didn’t want him compromising his priorities. He wasn’t one of the kids. I shouldn’t have had to make him do the dishes instead of play video games because he needed to learn how to contribute to the family. So, I held firm and divorced him.”

  I had no idea why Susan Silver told me all this. Maybe she needed a ramp to get to where she was going.

  “My husband went through an angry phase, and during the divorce proceedings, insisted I get a job because—how did he put it?—he wasn’t going to fund my lavish lifestyle after getting kids out of him, which, according to him, was all I wanted. He liked to make loud pronouncements like that. I never even got a chance to say I wanted to go to work. And I figured it was better to just let him think it was his will and I was yielding to it.

  “He kept negotiating and renegotiating the divorce settlement, dragging it out hoping I’d change my mind. So, I made him an offer. If he’d pay three years of spousal maintenance, I’d put myself through law school and then he wouldn’t have to pay any more spousal maintenance. Just child support. He said he’d think about it. I said the offer was good for twenty-four hours, as if I were buying a house. He accepted in the twenty-third hour.

  “A year after the divorce, my ex-husband, who was so willing to become father of the year, moved to Florida and out of his children’s lives except for one week on Sanibel Island every winter. Then my life got extremely busy and didn’t slow down until my youngest went to college.”

  Maybe Susan Silver told me this to win my favor. It was a hero’s story, and she was the hero. I knew that. But it still worked. She’d endeared herself to me. I told myself she was playing me the way you tell yourself you’re drunk. You know it, but you’re still drunk.

  She said, “I went to work for a law firm when the kids were still little. Most of the other lawyers I’d known since I was a kid. They were all what we’d now call liberal elites. And that worldview seemed normal—I was born in the sixties—it’s what I grew up with. You couldn’t idolize The Beatles when you were a kid and not believe in peace and love. Especially when John sang about it. But then nine-eleven happened…” She trailed off and looked down at her salad again.

  I said, “Did you lose someone in nine-eleven?”

  She shook her head then forked another piece of kale into her mouth. She hesitated then chewed and swallowed. “Both of my parents are Holocaust survivors. They met at Dachau when they were ten years old. They’re in their early nineties now and still madly in love with each other. I did lose grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles in the Holocaust. I never knew them, of course. But boy oh boy do I feel the loss. Nine-eleven triggered something in me. A protector instinct kicked in. Like how I’d protected my self-worth and my kids from their absent father. And my worldview shifted to the right. Maybe shifted isn’t the right word. More like jumped.

  “A week after nine-eleven the firm informed me I’d made partner. But I declined. I left the liberal elites and started Halferin Silver with Ian. By day we practice law and by night we fight the good fight for the principles we believe in.” She smiled. “I can see by your expression you don’t believe in our cause.”

  I returned the smile and said, “There are two political camps and all the issues get bundled into one or the other. So, you’re either an independent or you have to live with some causes you don’t care for because they’re packaged with the ones you do care for. It’s like buying a car. You want leather seats but they’re pretty hard to get if you don’t take the sunroof, too.”

  “You’re right about that,” she said.

  “A lot of people believe you have to buy into the whole package or you’re part of the problem.”

  “Yes. And I fear Todd Rabinowitz was one of them.”

  So that’s what this was about. “How so?”

  Susan shook her head again. That little head shake meant something—I didn’t know what. “I think Todd might have gone too far.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  She sighed. “He got very involved, let’s say overinvolved, with some radical groups on the right. Anti-tax groups, anti-entitlements groups, and hateful anti-immigrant groups, which was tough for me because, obviously, my parents are immigrants. Robin loathed it. When she attended social events with Todd, I saw her literally roll her eyes on more than one occasion.” Susan Silver shook her head again.

  “You think he got involved with dangerous people.”

  “Yes, but I’m not accusing them of killing Todd. There are fringes on the right and the left. They both do ugly things. Bomb buildings. Kill people.”

  “Yes, they do. But if someone in a fringe element killed Todd Rabinowitz, were they on the left or the right?” She shrugged. I said, “Are you telling me this because you think Arndt Kjellgren was a fringe lefty and that motivated him to kill a fringe righty?”

  “Well, it looks that way to me. That’s what the news is practically saying.” Her voice grew small and light. Her eyes glistened. She was holding something in. Something that upset her. She looked like she might be reciting a mantra: Don’t cry. A man wouldn’t cry. I’d heard Micaela say it a hundred times. Susan Silver and Micaela Stahl shared some traits. Smart. Hard-working. They steered their own ships at work and at home. And apparently, they both felt emotional expression was an obs
tacle to achievement. What a tough burden to carry.

  I said, “I don’t know what you’re holding in, but I doubt it has anything to do with fringe elements of an ideology.”

  She shook her head again then said, “But it does. It does, it does. Because I created the environment in which Todd Rabinowitz grew. Like a petri dish for a germ. Like one of those awful cable news channels. A myopic feeding frenzy on its own bullshit. So, no matter whose hand was at work, I killed Todd Rabinowitz. That’s what I’m saying, Nils. In a way, I killed him. It was me. I’m as guilty as anyone.”

  Susan Silver looked down one last time, then, without a word, stood from the table and walked out.

  22

  “Hello, Nils. This is Detective Norton with the Greater Lake Minnetonka Police Department.”

  “You sound chipper, Detective.”

  The Minnesota Twins had a 7:05 P.M. start, and I had an hour to kill before meeting the Good Samaritan who spotted Ernesto Cuellar stealing my car. I was scouting outside Target Field for a ticket when Detective Norton called.

  “We’re closing the Rabinowitz murders.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “There is nothing to indicate any possibility other than Arndt Kjellgren killed Todd first and then Robin before taking his own life.”

  “Based on what motive?”

  “Our internal investigation is firming up the details. I’m just calling to inform you both cases are closed, and we’re no longer interested in your services.”

  “I declined your offer of employment this afternoon. So why exactly are you calling?”

  “To confirm that we’ll no longer be interested in your services and because of your uh, uh … romantic association with the victim. I thought you should hear it from us rather than on the news.”

  “I didn’t have a romantic association with the victim, and your department has nothing to do other than arrest drunk drivers and boaters. Why are you closing the case so fast? It’s been less than a day since Robin was killed.”

  An African-American man swung a stiff left leg forward while fanning a dozen or so tickets in his right hand and yelling, “Tickets! Who needs tickets?” I let him pass. There’s always an upcharge for splitting one off a group.

  Detective Norton said, “Closing the case now frees up resources for other ongoing investigations. And they don’t all have to do with operating a vehicle under the influence. We have the same problems every other municipality has.”

  “Bullshit you do.”

  “You really don’t need to—”

  “You’re bad at your job, Norton. It’s amateurville over there.” I wanted to bring up the milfoil in Todd Rabinowitz’s lungs, but that may have caused trouble for Dr. Melzer.

  “Maybe you’re a little too close to this one, Shapiro. Let it go. The D.A. and commission agree with the GLMPD. This is our turf. We know it better than anyone else. And based on what we know we’ve made a decision.”

  “I don’t care if you know every goddamn twig and ladybug on your turf. It has nothing to do with what motivates one person to take another person’s life. There’s no upside to closing this case now. And if you’re wrong, there’s a huge downside.”

  A heavyset man on a mobility scooter rolled in my direction holding a single ticket in the air. A plastic tube delivered oxygen under his nose, a hamburger and fries sat half-eaten in the scooter’s front basket, and an orange flag stood tall to alert cars and ticket buyers to his presence.

  “Our decision is final, Shapiro. I’m sorry you don’t like it. Thank you for your help. And good-bye.” He hung up.

  I waved down the scooter and bought the ticket, which was for a field-level seat between home and first. My baseball team was having another mediocre year, hovering around .500. But, with six weeks to go, they were only a few games out of first place. Anything could happen. And when anything can happen, things get interesting.

  I bought an Able Black Wolf Stout at the microbrew kiosk and found my seat. Even the heavy, wet heat couldn’t deter from the beauty of Target Field. Green grass, a limestone façade, and glass buildings over the right-field bleachers reflecting white, billowing clouds.

  Two men in their forties sat a few rows in front of me. One wore Eddie Rosario’s name on his back. The other wore Miguel Sano’s. Their heroes were fifteen years younger than they were. I envied their absence of cynicism.

  Some people complain about how slow baseball has become, but I like it slow. The stadium is a place to contemplate. It’s expensive, but cheaper than most places of worship. Brief moments rivet between big gaps of time. They are of equal value. The noise of the stadium can insulate you from the noise of everything else. Except when the deplorables participate in the wave. That should carry the same penalty as streaking onto the field.

  I had time to think. About dead Todd Rabinowitz. About dead Robin Rabinowitz. About dead Arndt Kjellgren. About Ian Halferin insisting I investigate someone else’s investigation and about Susan Silver blaming herself for Todd’s death.

  The Twins had two outs in the bottom of the first inning when Eddie Rosario ripped a single over the shortstop’s head. The fortysomething Sano jersey turned to the fortysomething Rosario jersey and patted him on the shoulder, as if anyone wearing Rosario’s jersey deserved credit for the hit. Yet another example of tribalism run amok. The value human beings get from associating with other human beings probably helped our ancestors evolve into the dominant species, but man, has it become ridiculous.

  I left Target Field after four innings of 0–0 baseball and walked three blocks to J.D. Hoyt’s. It was the kind of place that sold expensive entrees under a cheap suspended ceiling and showed off a lot of liquor bottles and TVs over the bar.

  Most were tuned to the game, but two showed CNN’s coverage of the bomb blast in downtown Minneapolis. The sound was off, but I read Karin Tressler’s name in the crawl. Half the country thought she was the intended victim. The other half thought she was somehow responsible. I wondered which algorithm-wielding assholes figured out how to divide us in half.

  A lot of eyes were focused on the report. Two of those eyes belonged to him. He waited for me, seated on one of the stools.

  It was the clean-cut blondish one wearing a white oxford shirt, sleeves still cuffed at the wrist, and madras tie, a plaid of blues and pinks, loosened around the collar. I stepped into the bar area and looked left and right to pretend I didn’t know who I was looking for.

  He said, “Mr. Shapiro?” His voice was clear and smooth, as if he worked in radio or sold investments over the phone.

  I turned to him. “Are you my Good Samaritan?”

  He smiled and stood. He extended a hand. “Luke.”

  I took his hand and said, “What’s your drink, Luke?”

  “Macallen if that’s all right.”

  I asked him how he took it, and he told me. I sat on the bar stool next to Luke and caught the bartender’s attention. “A Redbreast neat and a Macallan eighteen, one rock.”

  The bartender nodded and went to work. Luke laughed and said, “You didn’t have to get me the eighteen.”

  “I got my car back because of you. Intact. That’s not nothing.”

  “Well then,” he said, “thank you.”

  Luke was in his midthirties and had green-gray eyes under white-blond eyebrows, a pale complexion, and red shaving bumps on his neck. His white shirt had a polo pony on the breast and a button-down collar. The garment was heavily starched, which meant he was fastidious or not in charge at home or unaccustomed to wearing dress shirts in summer heat. The stiff shirt was tucked into khaki pants, simple and straight. He wore white bucks on his feet and pink socks. He looked like a man familiar with country clubs and fine cigars, but something money can’t buy danced in his eyes. Something wild.

  I said, “Pretty crazy someone stole my car off Sixth Street in broad daylight. I don’t know what the kid was thinking. And a Volvo station wagon. What soccer moms are looking for black-market parts?�
�

  Luke smiled. “Did the police arrest him?”

  “I don’t know. I called them right after you called me. They took the kid and the car into the station, found some fingerprints on the dash, then let me drive away. Some detective is supposed to call me with more information.”

  The bartender set down our drinks. I lifted mine and said, “To neighborhood watch.”

  He tilted his head, then his brow scrunched. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you like a famous detective?” He was a terrible actor. He knew exactly who I was. And there’s no such thing as a famous detective.

  But it gave me a chance to play dumb, and playing dumb is one of my favorite pastimes. “Oh, wow. Really? You recognize me?”

  “Yeah, yeah! You’re the guy who solved the Duluth murders and when that woman got killed in Edina.” He sounded like a reality show contestant when they talk to the camera, trying to pretend the producers didn’t script every word they say. “This is so cool. I helped a famous detective track down his stolen car. How awesome is that?”

  My new friend, Luke, made a mistake. Well, several. But this was his biggest. A small flick of his eyes to our left. I waited a minute while his cascade of flattery gushed on, his ingratiation a neon indicator of his intent. Then I said, “You want anything to eat? Where’s a menu?” With that excuse, I looked to my left and saw the other goon who had waited for me earlier on Sixth Street. Same crew cut and dark complexion. His sleeves were still rolled above the elbow, but his wraparound sunglasses were gone. He looked up at a TV, pretending to pay attention to the game. He wasn’t all that intimidating, but the guy sitting on his left was. He had a blond-red brush on top of his head and had shaved the sides clean. Though he was sitting, I pegged him for about six feet four. He had broad shoulders and a military tattoo on his right forearm. He seemed to be staring straight ahead at nothing.

  “Yeah,” said Luke, “I could eat something.”

  “Great. I got to take a leak. See if you can find a menu.”

  Luke said, “Another round?”