Broken Ice--A Novel Read online

  “Tell Ben to call me if he thinks of anything else regarding Linnea. Or Haley. No matter how small, it could be useful.”

  “I will. Thanks for making time for me.”

  Raynard stood. I shook his hand. He turned and walked out of my office, lifting his giant portfolio so it didn’t drag on the floor.

  I stepped out of my office. Leah Stanley said, “I’m thinking of getting electric-blue glasses like that guy’s. How do you think I’d look in those?”

  “Your personality would overpower them. You need something more bold. By the way, did Ellegaard take my Nerfoop?

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “You work in a private detective firm. You’re supposed to notice when things get stolen around here.”

  “All I notice is you never go in your office. Now leave me alone. I’m busy.”

  “I marked my office chair.”

  She didn’t blink. “Tell someone who cares.”

  “If you’re sitting in it—”

  “Then what?”

  I smiled. Leah did not. I said, “Man, law school is a total waste of your talents. You should be an assassin.”

  Then she smiled and said, “You know, you really should hire my dad.”

  “I thought he only came down to the Cities for funerals, babies, and graduations.”

  “He’d add part-time work to the list. He’s a good detective.”

  “The best. Ellegaard and I learned a lot from him.”

  “So hire him.”

  “Next time we need help around here, I’d love to. Where’s Annika?”

  “BrainiAcme.”

  “Really?” I looked into Ellegaard’s office. He was on the phone with the door shut. I went in anyway. He was saying something about an initial consultation and our fee structure and sent the call out to Leah to get a meeting on the calendar. Then he hung up and looked at me.

  The Boy Scout in Anders Ellegaard was gone. He’d lost the twinkle, the eagerness, the satisfaction of doing a job the right way, the way he’d been taught, the way that would earn him the merit badge. The path, for Ellegaard, was everything. That’s why he lasted so long at the boring Edina PD. There, staying on the path was natural and rewarding. If I hadn’t shaken something loose in him during the Somerville case, he would have retired as Edina PD.

  When he looked at me with those beleaguered eyes, I wished, for his sake, I hadn’t come back into his life. I said, “I hear Annika is at BrainiAcme.”

  “They understand why you can’t be there right now, but I had to put someone on the case. She’ll do a good job.”

  “She’ll do great.”

  “Have a seat.”

  I sat. “I’ll know more about Linnea Engstrom tonight.”

  He sighed, like a man watching bad news on TV. “We’re working for free. We won’t get any more money out of Anne Engstrom. I doubt she has it, and she’s not responding to calls or emails.”

  “I’m pretty sure Linnea’s alive and okay. If we get that information to Anne, we’ll hear from her.”

  “You know, Shap. You’ll do what you’re going to do, regardless.”

  “Regardless of what?”

  “Of what’s best for this firm. Regardless of what’s best for our clients. And to tell you the truth, regardless of what’s best for you.”

  He was right. He and I were both about the path. Maybe that’s why we loved and respected each other the way we did. The problem was our paths were different. It made for an impossible situation. Neither of us wanted to dissuade the other from what he was doing. But neither of us wanted to join the other, either.

  I kicked back in the chair and put my feet on Ellegaard’s desk. “Was starting Stone Arch Investigations a mistake?”

  “I won’t tell you to stop looking for a seventeen-year-old girl, Nils. If one of my daughters were missing, you’d be the first person I’d call. A mistake was made putting this firm together, and the mistake was all mine.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake. We’ve succeeded so far.”

  “Barely. We’ve done good work on some routine jobs. Jobs that pay well and let us office here and make a good impression and keep Leah and Annika on the payroll. That thing we have in common that drives us—”

  “What is that thing?”

  “I guess you’d call it an overinflated sense of right and wrong, as if the world’s a fair place or at least should be. I think that’s what lights a fire under both of us. You’ve directed yours at the world. I’ve directed mine at our company.” Ellegaard picked up a pen and leaned back in his chair. It was the click kind of pen and he clicked it. He shook his head, but I didn’t know about what.

  “Are we in trouble, here?”

  “A little, yeah. We got about sixty days’ operating expenses. Ninety if you and I go without salary for a month. BrainiAcme is paying a fraction for Annika of what they would’ve paid for you. I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. I’m just saying we got a trickle coming in. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I was a cop all those years protecting the high-living citizens of Edina. Guess deep down I wanted to be one. But we don’t need this upscale office. We don’t need to be downtown. We should have officed in Northeast or Armatage in something cheap or have not even rented offices at all. You never did and you did okay.”

  “Bullshit I did okay. Listen, I’m all for finding cheaper offices, but let’s do what we can to keep Leah and Annika. And let’s make the company work. I can go without salary for a month. I used to go without it a hell of a lot longer than that. I’ll wrap up Linnea Engstrom and we’ll take a boring job. We’ll be like movie stars, Ellie. We’ll make a superhero movie, then a horror movie, an international spy movie, then after our bank account runneth over, we’ll make a good movie.”

  Ellegaard smiled. “Sounds all right to me. Our lease here is almost up.”

  “Good. I hate this fucking place. Let’s find a shitty little dump in Northeast. Leah’s getting too comfortable here, anyway. Plus, she swiped my chair. And did you steal my Nerfoop?

  Ellegaard opened a desk drawer and tossed me the hoop. “I was giving Earl Davis a tour. Tried to make the place look respectable.”

  “And the ball.” Ellegaard handed me the ball, and I got up to leave.

  “You need help on Linnea?”

  “Not now. Like I said earlier, I’ll know more in a few hours.”

  “Let me know.”

  “I will, buddy. I will.”

  23

  Jameson White changed my wound dressing midafternoon. Char Northagen called and said her sources turned up nothing on Gary Kozjek. I suggested she make a flirtatious call to her cop friend, Stensrud, in Warroad to see if he’d heard anything. She made the call. He hadn’t. My SPPD contacts didn’t return my calls. Nor did Jamie Waller. I guessed we were having a tiff. Ellegaard hadn’t heard anything. The world had gone silent regarding Gary Kozjek.

  Mel Rosenthal texted to see if I was free later. I said I had to work until 9:00 but should be free after that. We made a plan. I took a nap then changed my Lauren-smelling sheets. I wanted to call to see if she was okay but restrained myself—there were too many ways that could make matters worse. I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, changed back into my faux navy-blue work clothes and dummy eyeglasses, then returned to Tenth Street shortly after 7:00.

  Chrissia Maeda answered the door wearing the same floral print dress but under a sand-colored cardigan. She said her grandson was in the basement, but I could go down to retrieve the radon test kit. I thanked her, told her I’d send the kit to the lab and call when the results came back, then descended the narrow basement steps.

  Joaquin Maeda sat on the afghan-covered couch next to a half-eaten frozen pizza, his face in a worn paperback of One Hundred Years of Solitude. He wore jeans and 1970s Nike Waffle Trainers, yellow with a blue swoosh, probably reproductions but I couldn’t tell, and a purple Southwest High School sweatshi
rt. His brown unkempt hair fell over his ears. He had heavy eyelids, a week’s worth of stubble, and an asymmetrical but not unpleasant-looking nose. He looked up and said, “You the radon test dude?”

  “I am. Sorry to bother you. This will just take a minute.”

  “No worries. Is it done?”

  “Should be. Just have to take a quick look and retrieve the electronic sensor to make sure there wasn’t any IR interference.” Ernesto Cuellar told me Joaquin Maeda wasn’t good at science. I was counting on that being true.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes wireless devices in the home throw off the test.” Complete bullshit. “You know, TV remote, video game controllers, cell phones.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I left a monitoring device.”

  “You mean the test near the TV?” He held the book open. I hoped he’d keep it open. That’s where I wanted his attention. He closed the book.

  “No. That’s for radon. The electronic interference monitoring device is in the ceiling.”

  Joaquin looked up. “I don’t see it.” Then he looked at me. “Why the ceiling?”

  “Because the device detects interference from down here and also from the floor above.”

  “Why not just put it next to the radon test? That’s where the interference is most important, right?”

  Maybe he was better at science then Ernesto thought. “Because,” I said, “if the device is next to the test, it will interfere with the test. That’s why I put it in the same room but not too close.” I reached up into the low ceiling and, five feet from Joaquin’s face, retrieved the digital voice recorder. I looked at its LCD screen and said, “A little IR interference but not bad. Nothing that would make a difference.”

  Joaquin didn’t question the device’s authenticity. “My video game controller is Bluetooth. Does that mess with the test?”

  “Nope. Just infrared.” I put the recorder in my pocket then gathered the test kit. “Hope this comes back negative. Wouldn’t want to mess up your gaming space.”

  “I don’t play that much. Mostly read down here. If I do it upstairs, someone’s always on me to do something like take out the garbage. When I’m down here, they forget about me.”

  Then my slow brain clicked in. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection earlier. Maybe it was getting shot by an arrow and knowing the shooter was still out there. Maybe it was a side effect of the general anesthesia I underwent during surgery. Maybe it was the stress of Lauren having dinner with Micaela and the aftershocks that followed. Maybe it was the stress of Ernesto sitting on the white bucket, hands in pockets, face in hood. Whatever caused my lapse, I hadn’t even asked the question until I answered it.

  Yes, I had wondered how whoever stuck the arrow in my shoulder knew I was looking for Linnea Engstrom less than an hour after Roger and Anne hired me. But I’d never wondered how Joaquin Maeda knew I was on the case. “Stop looking for Linnea Engstrom,” Joaquin Maeda’s note said. Who told Joaquin I was looking for Linnea? There could only be one person: Linnea Engstrom.

  Linnea Engstrom knew I was looking for her. She told the archer. She told Joaquin Maeda. But who told her? Who knew Roger and Anne had hired me? Roger did. Anne did. And Mel Rosenthal did. One of those people was, or at least had been, in contact with Linnea.

  Joaquin saw the gears turning in my head. “You all right, man?”

  “Yeah. Just remembered something I have to do.”

  I left the Maeda house and got in the Volvo. I wanted to listen to the recorder right there, but if Joaquin suspected my deceit, he could make one call, and I’d never get out of that neighborhood. I drove straight back to the coat factory. When the loading dock door closed behind me, I listened to the chitchat in Joaquin Maeda’s private lobby.

  I heard three distinct voices. One belonged to Joaquin Maeda. The second, which I heard through the TV, belonged to a male with a strong Spanish accent. The third belonged to a young woman. They spoke over machine guns, explosions, computer-generated commanders urging them to victory, and the screams of fallen warriors.

  Young Woman: Did you buy the GPS?

  Spanish Accent: Yes. I’ve been using it to make sure it works.

  Joaquin: Do you have the right map?

  Spanish Accent: Yes. It is downloaded.

  Young Woman: How long is the battery life?

  Spanish Accent: It says sixteen hours. But I have not tested it.

  Young Woman: Sixteen hours isn’t enough. It’s not even close.

  Spanish Accent: I got the one that uses double A batteries. I have ten extras.

  Joaquin: That’s plenty. Has everyone checked the weather?

  Young Woman: Yes. Looks great from here.

  Spanish Accent: And from here.

  Joaquin: Same GPS coordinates and time?

  Spanish Accent: Yes.

  Young Woman: Yep.

  Joaquin: No further contact then for a while. If there’s an emergency, post the pic, okay?

  Young Woman: Got it.

  Spanish Accent: Sí.

  Joaquin: Good luck, you guys.

  That was the end. I got out of my car, climbed the loading steps, changed out of my faux work clothes, ditched the dummy glasses, then bagged my shoulder and let my mind swirl in the white noise of a long, hot shower. If I was correct, the young woman’s voice belonged to Linnea Engstrom. I would confirm that with Mel. The Spanish accent belonged to Miguel Maeda. I could confirm that with Ernesto Cuellar, though I hoped I wouldn’t have to bring him into this any more than I already had. Miguel would sneak across the U.S./Mexican border, with Linnea waiting on the other side. Where and when I had no idea.

  I finished my shower and texted Jameson White. Deodorant, brushed teeth, boxers, and jeans. I left my shirt off but slipped into my Blundstones just before the big paw of Jameson White knocked on my service door.

  I sat on the stainless steel counter. Jameson wore yellow sweatpants and a gigantic UCLA sweatshirt in baby blue. He cut his handiwork away with bandage scissors and said, “Whoa. Clean and showered and fresh. Someone must have a date tonight.”

  “I think I do.”

  “You think you do? You don’t know?”

  “I suspect it’s a date. But it might not be. Half the fun will be finding out. She may show up while you’re still here. Look at how she’s dressed and acts. If you think she thinks it’s a date, cough once. If you think it’s not a date, cough twice.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” said Jameson. He finished taping my shoulder and discarded the trimmings in the trash. “What time tomorrow? I won’t expect anything early.”

  “What do you think of a trip south?”

  “You inviting me?”

  “Yep. Maybe El Paso or San Diego or Tucson. I need you to keep an eye on my shoulder.”

  “Let me clear it with Micaela. Gotta keep the boss happy. But a trip south sounds great to me. Minnesota’s all brown and melty and ugly this time of year. No leaves on the trees, and you know more snow is coming. Gotta fly first-class though. I’m too big to sit in coach.”

  There was a light rap on the service door. I slipped on a dusty blue cashmere V-neck. Jameson helped me into my sling. I descended the loading dock steps and opened the door. Mel Rosenthal stood sans ponytail, hair down and resting on her shoulders. She wore a midlength trench coat belted at the waist and, I assumed, a dress underneath. Her bare legs stuck out of the coat and ended in a pair of patent leather flats. She carried a bottle of Dom Perignon. She wore diamond studs on her ears, at least a karat each, and the same frameless teardrop eyeglasses over eyeliner and mascara. She smelled of gardenia, and her lips shined.

  “Ha!” said Jameson from above the loading dock stairs. “It is definitely a date!”

  “We should have used the code.”

  “Come on, man. That’s beyond code.” He laughed.

  Mel Rosenthal blushed and stepped inside. “Mel,�
� I said, “I’d like you to meet my nurse.”

  “Nurse practitioner,” said Jameson.

  We walked up the stairs. Jameson took her hand with the gentle touch of a watchmaker. Mel thanked him for taking such good care of me and asked if he wanted to join us for a glass of champagne. He appreciated the offer but declined, saying he was on call.

  “On call my ass,” I said.

  “To God’s ears,” said Jameson. “Looks like you might get hurt tonight.” He laughed his big loud laugh and had to catch his breath then said good-bye and exited with his bright blue jacket over his arm.

  Mel removed her coat. She wore a simple black dress underneath. And why not? She had so much to mourn: dead Howard, two years of celibacy, a devastated sister, her brother in-law, and a once-sweet relationship with her missing niece.

  I shot the champagne cork across the room then we kissed our way through the bottle. A few coherent facts escaped. Mel had put Ivy on a plane to Boston that day. Howard’s eightysomething-year-old parents insisted on taking her to see the few colleges she’d applied to but hadn’t yet visited. I explained how Jameson White came into my life. Mel updated me on Anne, who was still at their parents’ house in St. Louis Park, Ativaned up to her chestnut bangs while planning Roger’s funeral. Roger’s parents had flown in from Aspen and so had a brother from San Francisco and a sister from Los Angeles. Roger had come from big money and had tried desperately to earn his way back into it. He never succeeded.

  It was a night of blurred lines, from those painted around Mel’s eyes, smeared with tears, to the boundaries I smudged with disparate motives. I wanted Mel’s spirit, her body, and to destroy her defense and coping shields. The first two she gave generously. I’m not big on couch sex—it’s like shower sex, a nice idea fraught with logistical challenges and physical hazards. But that’s where it first happened. My damaged shoulder let her undress both of us. I felt her clumsily with my untrained right hand. I’m southpaw all the way. Operating as a righty forced me into adolescent territory. I switched tactics and explored Mel with kisses instead. Clothing and couch cushions dispersed from ground zero.