Broken Ice Read online

  I heard him loud and clear, but didn’t feel like telling him.

  Ellegaard said, “So what are Graham’s and Luca’s futures, do you think?”

  “Come on, guys,” said Kozy. “Do your homework. It’s common knowledge. Both boys are playing college. I don’t know for how long—either one could leave for the pros—but they’ll both be skating Division I next year.”

  “Where are they going?” said Ellegaard.

  “University of Minnesota and Harvard.”

  I said, “Luca Lüdorf got into Harvard?”

  “Luca’s skating for U of M. Graham’s going to Harvard. He’s off-the-charts smart—2350 on the SAT, 35 on the ACT.”

  Technically, that was on the charts, though I didn’t feel much like mentioning it. But I had to make sure I understood him correctly. “Graham is going to Harvard? The big defenseman with the beard?”

  “Yeah,” said Kozy. “The big defenseman with the beard.”

  “But if Graham could play pro, shouldn’t he play for a better college team, like U of M?”

  “Harvard’s one of the best teams in the country,” said Kozy. “Better than Minnesota the past few years. And it’s a perfect fit for Graham. The kid’s got some serious brainpower, like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  Of course it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, I thought. You’re a hockey player.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” said Kozy. “I’m about to have a 911 in the shitter.”

  We said our good-byes without merriment. Ellegaard and I returned to the lobby then walked out into the night air. The temperature still hadn’t fallen below freezing. The day’s snowmelt had evaporated into an icy fog. A similar fog hung in the air last night, ideal conditions for a teenage girl or two to disappear.

  It was eerie quiet, but that’s the way St. Paul sometimes is. Like there just aren’t enough people to give the city a heartbeat. It’s a facade, of course. St. Paul’s heart beats in its tree-lined neighborhoods, in the granite foyers of its historic buildings, in the chests of its citizens who watch Minneapolis get most of the attention only because Minneapolis makes most of the noise. St. Paul moves forward with a quiet confidence, like the subdued kid in high school who has no need nor interest in sparkly, squealy bullshit.

  “He called me Shap,” I said.

  “What?” said Ellegaard.

  “Kozy. When I asked the guys if either of ’em jacked off last night, Kozy said, ‘Keep it clean, Shap.’”

  “So?”

  “So you introduced me to Kozy as Nils Shapiro. Not Shap. You never once called me Shap in front of him. And yet he made a fairly big stink about not knowing who I was. Remember? You threatened to tell the police you suspected him of shooting Nils Shapiro with an arrow? And he said something like who the fuck is Nils Shapiro after we’d been sitting there for a while.”

  “But he called you Shap,” said Ellegaard.

  “Yeah. Gary Kozjek knew exactly who I was. So why did he pretend he didn’t?”

  7

  I lowered myself into the Volvo, and the pain ripped through my shoulder as if it were making pulled pork. A sound came out of me I hadn’t heard before. I sat breathless and glassy-eyed. The windshield and cars beyond refused to come into focus. The streetlights starred like quasars. I shut my eyes and felt a tear roll down my right cheek. I was a man experiencing pain like a boy.

  “Let’s get you home,” said Ellegaard. “You can medicate for the night.”

  I wiped the tear with the sleeve of my jacket. “We need to see Ben Haas. I called in a favor. Got the address texted to me a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s after 10:00, Shap. You should be in bed. Besides, it’s too late. Ben Haas is a high school kid.”

  “Good. He won’t be expecting us.” Ellegaard started the Volvo but kept it in park. He was thinking hard when I said, “Linnea’s been gone over twenty-four hours, and we have nothing. There’s a hell of a lot more we should do right now than talk to Ben Haas. But after that we’ll call it a night. I promise.”

  “Ben Haas dated Haley Housh. Our job is to find Linnea Engstrom.”

  “Two missing girls from Warroad can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It can, Shap. It absolutely can. You know better than to base an investigation on an assumption. Let’s go home and get some rest and tomorrow we’ll talk to Linnea’s friends and teachers while everyone’s still in St. Paul for the tournament.”

  “You don’t have to go, Ellie. I can Lyft from here.”

  Ellegaard looked at me. He’d lost and knew it. He put the car in gear and drove east on Warner Road paralleling the Mississippi, which for most of the river’s two thousand-plus miles, runs north-south. But not in St. Paul. In St. Paul, the Mississippi runs south-north, then east-west, for a bit then returns to its journey toward the Gulf. It’s all over the place.

  A truck in the oncoming lane sent a wall of water into the Volvo’s windshield. Ellegaard searched for the wiper controls, but the car’s sensors took over and started the wipers for him. We drove through Indian Mounds Park. The fog hung in the trees and undulating swells, comfort for the Native Americans buried there, I’m sure.

  Driving toward Ben Haas eased the pain. Pursuit is nature’s anesthetic. It works wonders on skewered shoulders and roughed-up hearts. It slows racing minds and dulls unpleasant truths. Pursuit works like whiskey or electronic gadgets but without emptying your wallet.

  Fifteen minutes later we arrived in Woodbury, Minnesota, St. Paul’s farthest suburb, only thirteen miles from the Wisconsin border. Overbuilt homes sat on acre-plus lots landscaped to create the illusion Man has bested nature. As if saplings naturally grow out of concentric circles of white rock and boulders lie in perfect balance with one another. The production is set on land that grew corn and soybeans twenty years ago.

  Ellegaard parked my Volvo on Crestmoor Bay, which is not a bay but a cul-de-sac where Ben Haas and his mother lived in a two-story behemoth sided with faux brick and boasting half a dozen columns of no structural value. The place reeked of new money, which displays worse than no money at all.

  We walked up the driveway between a blue Toyota Highlander and a black Jaguar. I rang the bell at 10:32 P.M., three hours past Minnesota’s polite time to pay an unannounced visit. Lights turned on behind the windows’ sheer drapes. A security camera over the door panned to Ellegaard and me, then the amplified voice of a woman said, “Hello. May I help you?”

  I didn’t see where the voice came from so I spoke to the mammoth wooden door that was, most likely, not made of wood but fiberglass. “We’re sorry to bother you so late. My name is Nils Shapiro. I’m with Anders Ellegaard. We’re private detectives looking for Linnea Engstrom, a missing girl from Warroad. We’d like to speak to Ben Haas, please.”

  No response. We stared at the door. I felt Ellegaard’s eyes and looked up at my partner, who stood a full head taller than me. He glanced down with eyebrows raised and lips pursed. He had told me so. I was about to concede defeat when the disembodied voice said, “Are you the Nils Shapiro?” Ellegaard’s eyebrows fell in disappointment.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “And sorry it’s so late.”

  The door swung open. “I understand. You have a job to do.” Winnie Haas wore flannel pajamas of baby blue and gray plaid. She’d tied her blond hair back in a ponytail, exposing the muddy roots. She looked older than me, maybe forty-five, and her face was clear and smooth. Her expression was neutral, as far from a smile as she could get without frowning. Another blue-eyed Minnesotan, though hers sparkled more than most. I thought maybe it was the halogen bulbs in the chandelier, the kind jewelry stores use to make their gems dance. I glanced at Ellegaard to see if his eyes were sparkling. They were not. Winnie’s neck and chest looked more sun damaged than her face. But she made no attempt to cover either, the V in her pajama top open down near her sternum. Her large breasts hung near her body without support. Her round hips topped her long legs, though she wasn’t tall. Like everything beautiful
in this world, Winnie Haas was about understatement and proportion. I glanced at her left hand. Her ring finger was empty.

  “Please come in,” she said in a voice soft and raspy. She wasn’t slurring her words, but they weren’t clear, either. I began to wonder if the sparkle in her eyes had a little help.

  “Thank you,” said Ellegaard, handing her our card. She put it in her robe pocket without looking at it. “I know who Mr. Shapiro is. I read everything about Maggie Somerville’s murder. I didn’t know her, but a colleague of mine went to high school with her, so I followed the case. I read about you, Mr. Ellegaard, as well.” She walked toward the staircase with a slight limp. Her left knee didn’t bend so well, so she used her hip to swing the leg forward. “Ben’s been talking to the police all day. He’s quite upset. And exhausted. My ex is visiting him now, but I’ll explain why you’re here. I’m sure Ben will cooperate.” Winnie Haas turned and ascended an open staircase. She used the railing to help lift herself up the stairs.

  Ellegaard and I said nothing for a couple minutes, then Ben Haas came down the stairs with his father. Ben wore a pink button-down oxford, khaki pants, and navy Jack Purcell sneakers. He looked like he didn’t need to shave more than once a month, and at five foot four, the high school senior probably still bought his clothes in the boys’ department. “So more questions?” he said with a voice too deep for his tiny body. He pushed longish, sandy brown hair away from hazel eyes.

  “It won’t take long,” said Ellegaard. “And it’ll probably be a lot of what you’ve already answered.”

  “That’s okay,” said Ben. “Whatever helps.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” said his father.

  “No, Dad. But thanks.”

  Ben’s father stood no taller than his son. He had no hair on his shiny head and perfectly maintained stubble on his face. He wore round glasses made of cobalt-blue plastic, a black turtleneck, faded blue jeans, and butterscotch leather shoes that I assumed were European because no American I knew would wear them. I took a wild guess that the black Jaguar in the driveway was his. Raynard Haas stood out like Anne Engstrom stood out. On purpose. A short, bald man who wanted recognition for something other than being short and bald. But that’s an unwinnable game, like trying to describe a person who happens to be Chinese without saying they’re Chinese. It’s just easier to say what everyone notices first. “You know, the Chinese guy.” Or “You know, the redhead.” Or “You know, the fat guy.” With Ben’s father it was, “You know, the short, bald guy.”

  The short, bald guy stuck out his hand. “Raynard Haas. Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” We shook hands and introduced ourselves. Raynard gave his son a hug and told him to call day or night, whatever he needed, then left.

  We moved into the great room. Huge windows looked out on the backyard, but there was nothing to see at night. The ceiling hovered two stories over walls of paneled wood. It felt like country club decor, except a country club would have had a real fireplace. Almost twenty years had passed since Minnesota Building Code permitted building a home with a real fireplace. Now fires have to burn natural gas through fake logs behind sealed glass. The fires kick out plenty of heat but look like they’re on TV.

  Ellegaard and I sat on a caramel leather couch facing two chairs upholstered in red velvet. Winnie sat in the left, Ben in the right. After some small talk I said, “Ben, did you see Haley last night?”

  “I was supposed to but she didn’t show up.”

  “You planned to meet?”

  “Yeah. We played The 7th Street Entry at 10:00. She wanted to come but you have to be twenty-one, you know?”

  “But the people in the bands don’t have to be twenty-one?”

  “No. I mean, if they ever catch any of us drinking we’ll never play there again. And they kick us out right after our set unless it’s an eighteen-and-over show. It’s a good gig, you know? It’s music history in that place. We’ve been playing there since we were fifteen, and sometimes we get to play in the main room. Earlier this year we opened for Trampled by Turtles.”

  “What’s the name of your band?”

  “The Fiveskins,” he said, emphasizing the five, like in the word foreskins.

  “Really?” I said. “I have The Last Temptation of Eric. Great album. I knew you guys were young but didn’t realize you’re still in high school.”

  “Yeah,” he said, matching the friendly but unflappable detachment of his mother. “That’s our first record.”

  “So is all your stuff newgrass?”

  “Yeah. That’s what we do, you know?”

  “I do.” I first learned of The Fiveskins when the androgynous barista at Dunn Brothers, whose hair changes color more often than bruises, passed by my table and wrote the band’s name on the napkin under my scone. The androgynous barista at Dunn Brothers makes no bad suggestions. The Fiveskins are good.

  “So when and where were you supposed to meet Haley?” said Ellegaard.

  “Mickey’s Diner at 11:30. I was there on time. She never showed up.”

  “You always hang out that late on a school night?”

  “No, not usually. We try to only play on weekends, you know, but when The Entry calls, we’re there. It takes time to wind down after a show. Plus, Haley is—Haley was—in town. That didn’t happen often on weekdays, you know?”

  I liked the kid, but when he said you know it was hard to restrain myself from getting up and slapping him. “What do you mean ‘on weekdays’? How often did Haley visit?”

  Ben looked to Winnie. She nodded. He said, “A bunch of times.”

  “Did her parents know?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s a six-hour drive. Each way. How did Haley manage to be away so long without her parents knowing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ben. “She’d drive down Friday night and go back Sunday. I asked Haley about it, you know, but she just said her parents are clueless.”

  “Whose car would she drive?”

  “Hers. She had an old Rav4.”

  “And no one noticed her putting over seven hundred miles on the odometer in one weekend?”

  “Guess not,” said Ben. “It was her car. I don’t know if anyone was paying attention.”

  “Where would she stay when she was down here?” said Ellegaard.

  “Here,” said Winnie. “Kids are going to do what they’re going to do. I prefer that they’re home safe.” She offered a slight, self-congratulatory smile. I didn’t hold it against her.

  “So, Ben,” I said, “was that the plan for last night? You and Haley were going to come here after Mickey’s Diner?”

  “For a little while, yeah. But Haley’s parents are in town, so she had to get back to the hotel, you know?”

  “Were you two sexually active?” said Ellegaard.

  “Yeah.”

  “Exclusively?” I said.

  “No. We had an FDR.”

  “What’s that?” said Winnie, her forehead scrunched, but her eyes still sparkled.

  “Full disclosure relationship,” I said, as if I’d known for more than half an hour. “They sleep with other people, too. And fully disclose what they’re doing.”

  Winnie looked at her son with something between disappointment and curiosity. “Apparently, my son doesn’t tell me everything.”

  “Well,” said Ben, “we lived three hundred and fifty miles apart. I’m going to California next year. She’s not. There was no sense getting all tied up in something.”

  “How grown-up of you,” said Winnie in a flat, unreadable tone.

  Ellegaard said, “Ben, are you sleeping with someone else?”

  “No. But I could. That’s the idea.”

  “Whose idea was the FDR?” I said.

  “Haley’s. But I was all for it, you know?”

  “You didn’t love her?” said Ellegaard.

  “Respect for the dead and all, but I didn’t even like Haley all that much.”

  I told Ben we�
�d heard he and Haley had talked about marriage. Ben said that wasn’t even close to true. Whoever said that was either lying or Haley had lied to them. Winnie listened and shook her head, her glassy eyes dancing with light.

  Ellegaard said, “Why didn’t you like her all that much?”

  “She was more into the band than me. She mostly came down for the good gigs, the eighteen-and-over shows at The Entry or other clubs or private parties. She especially liked the private parties. Fraternities, mansions out on Lake Minnetonka, corporate Christmas parties. My dad’s a pretty big architect. Sometimes we’d play for some of his rich clients.”

  I said, “Did he design this house?”

  Winnie looked annoyed. “God, no. Raynard designs one-of-a-kind, Architectural Digest–type houses. Everything’s custom built, even the furniture. He has to hold his nose just to enter this cookie-cutter McMansion, as he calls it.”

  Ben nodded. “He’s remodeling a house for Graham Itasca up in Bemidji.”

  Ellegaard said, “The Graham Itasca? I thought he lives in L.A. now.”

  “I guess he spends half the year in Minnesota. He’s got a recording studio and everything, you know? Huge house up north. I met Haley there for a party once. A bunch of famous musicians. Gold and platinum records on the wall. She was in heaven, you know? My dad was about to start an addition and remodel, so Graham let people draw on the walls and floors. It was crazy. Haley couldn’t get enough of those kinds of parties. She didn’t even try to pretend that she was interested in me. It was almost like we’d made a deal.”

  “Sex for access?” I said.

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  “The sex must have been pretty good. Respect for the dead and all.”

  “I don’t have a lot to compare it to, but yeah. I’ve talked to some friends about it. And to Mom. We have a pretty open relationship, right?”

  “We do. Although, I did think you two had an exclusive relationship,” said Winnie.

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “Sorry about that.” He turned to Ellegaard and me. “Haley was different from the other girls I hear about. She’d just say ‘what do you want tonight,’ like I was ordering a burrito at Chipotle. It’s not like she didn’t enjoy it—she did. And she asked a lot of questions later. Did I like this? Did I like that? For Haley, the sex was definitely about the sex, not an emotional connection, you know?”