The Shallows--A Nils Shapiro Novel Page 8

  But the afternoon following the Halferin Silver bombing was none of those things. Annika, Ellegaard, and I spent hours at FBI headquarters in Brooklyn Center. They put us in three different rooms and interrogated us separately.

  Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton led me into her office on the fifth floor of the FBI building. Unlike on my previous visits, she smiled and offered me a beverage. This time, I wasn’t the enemy. My case wasn’t bumping up against hers. Not yet, anyway.

  “Let’s forget about two years ago,” said Colleen. She’d blonded her brown hair and cut it shorter into a Minnesota mom do. It’s an odd combination of color, length, and shape that counteracts a woman’s natural beauty, as if she had rotten breath or talked about reality TV. Colleen said, “Tell me about Todd Rabinowitz and how you got involved with the case.”

  I said, “Todd’s widow, Robin, called us after she found him. Right after she called the police. She knows Ellegaard’s wife, Molly. Robin was having an affair and rightly assumed she and her lover—do people still use that word? I hope not. Anyway, she assumed they’d be suspects and wanted me to help find Todd’s killer.”

  “So, her motivation in hiring you is selfish.”

  “Everyone’s motivations are selfish. Even altruistic do-gooders. They wouldn’t do good if it made them feel bad. But to answer your real question, even though Robin and Todd’s marriage was ending, I get the sense she cared for him as a person. Just not as a husband.”

  “And Todd’s life insurance and will?”

  “Seventy-five percent of it goes to children from his first marriage. Twenty-five percent to Robin.”

  Milton stood up and paced behind her desk like a courtroom lawyer. There was a knock on the door, then it opened. A young woman said, “Sorry to interrupt, but The New York Times is calling.”

  Colleen said, “Not available for comment at this time.”

  The young woman looked at her phone. “What about Politico, Fox News, and MSNBC?”

  “Same for any and all of them. Thank you.” The young woman left. Colleen resumed her pacing. “What’s your gut on Todd Rabinowitz having some piece of evidence at the office that could incriminate Robin or Arndt Kjellgren for his murder?”

  “If they wanted to kill Todd but knew there was a piece of incriminating evidence at Todd’s office they wouldn’t have killed him. At least not until they had that evidence in their hands.”

  “What if,” said Milton, “they realized the incriminating evidence existed after they killed him?”

  “I don’t think so. Neither Robin nor Arndt Kjellgren seem to think in what I’d call strategic paranoia.”

  “What’s strategic paranoia?”

  I wished I hadn’t used that term. The language I use to explain the world to myself is best kept internal. Once it’s out, I have to justify how I think, and that’s an invasion of privacy. I said, “I’ve observed that people who scheme to get ahead, who take shortcuts, what most people would call cheating, often assume that’s what everyone does. It comes from a combination of entitlement and laziness. The strategic paranoids are the kind of people who are often guilty of doing things where the cover-up is as bad as the crime. Which is what bombing a law firm would be for Robin Rabinowitz and Arndt Kjellgren. But they don’t strike me as strategic paranoids. That’s my gut anyway.”

  Milton ran that through her logic sieve. I could tell she didn’t buy my theory, but didn’t want to ruin our little playdate. She said, “Okay. That’s interesting. Let’s put Robin Rabinowitz and Arndt Kjellgren aside for a moment. Did you arrive at Halferin Silver before or after Karin Tressler and her colleagues?”

  “Before. I was in the reception area when they entered.”

  “Were any of them carrying a package?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Did any of them appear nervous or agitated?”

  “Well, the three suits with her weren’t all that jovial, but my guess is they were born that way.”

  “Did any of them frequently check their cell phones?”

  “I honestly didn’t pay close attention.”

  “Did any of them leave the reception area?”

  “While I was in it? No. But I left the reception area before them. To meet with Ian Halferin and Susan Silver.”

  Colleen Milton sat down on the edge of her desk. “Karin Tressler said you told her the government should stop interfering with our traffic intersections. Were you being sarcastic?”

  “Very.”

  She smiled then said, “Do you know why Karin Tressler was meeting with Halferin Silver?”

  This wasn’t an interrogation—it was a conversation. A cordial chat. The bombing of Halferin Silver had somehow given Colleen Milton and the FBI an opportunity, not a crisis. I said, “Come on, Agent Milton. You’ve already talked to Karin Tressler and Halferin Silver. I think they have a better idea of what they met about than I do.”

  “That’s not why I asked. I asked because if you knew why they were meeting, maybe someone else did, too.”

  I said, “Because there’s no way in hell Karin Tressler’s presence during the bomb blast was a coincidence.”

  Special Agent Colleen Milton moved from the edge of her desk to her chair. “I think it’s unlikely to be a coincidence.”

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s think that through. If someone wanted to kill Karin Tressler by planting a bomb in a place they’d know she’d be, why call in a threat so she can evacuate before the blast?”

  Colleen Milton nodded. Her new hair did not move.

  I said, “What kind of bomb was it?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  I smiled and said, “You know if it contained nails or BBs. You know if it was homemade or military grade.”

  Colleen Milton returned my smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shapiro,” she said, “you’re right. I do know what kind of bomb it was. But I can’t tell you. Thank you for your time. Think we can stay on good terms?”

  “I hope so. I’ve been a big fan of the FBI since J. Edgar left to slip into something more comfortable.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  We parted amicably, though both of us knew we could be headed for another head-butting. I hoped not. If that happened, I’d no doubt come out on the losing end. I snuck up on the FBI last time. They wouldn’t let it happen a second time.

  The information flowed more freely from Gabriella Núñez. We talked in her office, which hadn’t changed in the six months since I’d last sat in it. Neither had Gabriella. Her shiny black hair, smooth brown skin, and clear brown eyes made her look ten years younger than the thirty-nine years I knew she was. I walked over to a photograph hanging on the wall. It was of our Minneapolis Police Academy Class. Ellegaard and I looked like boys. Hell, we were boys. Gabriella looked younger than she did now, but the youth expressed itself in her eyes and smile rather than in more common physical markers of age. Her expression in the photograph radiated more hope than resignation.

  I said, “Why does our time at the academy feel so special now but it didn’t then?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “No. I want an answer. Rhetorical questions are a waste of time, don’t you think?”

  She smiled, walked over, and stood next to me. I turned my head to watch her study the picture. Gabriella Núñez gleamed and said, “Maybe it’s nostalgia.”

  No. It wasn’t nostalgia. Not for me, anyway. I answered my own question as soon as I’d asked it. But I couldn’t share the answer with Gabriella. She knew how I felt about Ellegaard. She might think that’s how I felt about her.

  We walked away from the photo and sat down. Gabriella told me the bomb had been delivered in a package. It detonated in the mail room before it was opened. It was homemade with peroxide and had been packed with dry ice to keep it cold and more stable. A burner phone had been wired to detonate the bomb, which contained no shrapnel. It was apparently intended as an incendiary device. And it worked. Everything in the mail room burned
.

  I said, “You don’t need a bomb to start a fire.”

  “That’s true,” said Gabriella. “The bomb was intended to send a message.”

  “Like tying a murder victim to his dock by a fishing stringer through his jaw.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriella. “We also made that connection. If the murder and bombing were committed by the same party, someone out there is angry about something. We’re working with the FBI to stop them from showing that anger again.”

  Gabriella Núñez and I talked for a few more minutes, then I thanked her for the information and walked out of her office weighted with an inexplicable sadness. I checked my phone and saw seven messages from reporters, three messages from Robin Rabinowitz, and a reminder to visit Micaela.

  15

  I took a cold shower and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt but they didn’t feel all that fresh by the time I stepped outside. We needed a thunderstorm to wash away the stagnation. I called Robin on the drive to Micaela’s. She answered before I heard a ring.

  “Nils, I can’t find him.”

  “Arndt?”

  “Yes. I’ve called, texted, stopped by his place, tried friends. No one knows where he is.”

  My still-new Volvo exhaled a blast of Swedish winter. I said, “Did you ever think he might be avoiding you?”

  “The FBI came to the house today. They had all sorts of questions about Arndt and Todd. Oh God. This whole mess is my fault.”

  “Which whole mess are you referring to?”

  “I knew our marriage was over five years ago. But I didn’t do anything about it. I just let it rot. Staying with Todd was a lie that turned into a thousand lies. Now Todd’s dead and Arndt’s missing and someone blew up Halferin Silver.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but there might be bigger forces at play than your and Todd’s marriage.” She didn’t respond. I said, “Arndt knows you slept at my place last night. He doesn’t know you slept on the couch. You not finding him might have something to do with that.” I approached the Walker Art Center. It looked like the head of a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robot. I doubt that’s what the Swiss architecture firm had in mind when they designed it. But the resemblance was uncanny, and it made me smile every time I saw it.

  Robin said, “Will you help me look for him?”

  “Let’s see if he turns up tonight, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “I need you to help me look for him tonight.”

  “I can’t tonight. I’m sorry. Have you had any more contact with the police?”

  “No. Haven’t heard a word.”

  “What about Nellie, your lawyer? Has she said anything?”

  “Not since yesterday. Nils, I can’t sleep alone tonight. I don’t feel safe.”

  I clicked the Volvo’s fan down a couple notches. My world got quiet. I said, “Call a friend. Or check in to a hotel. I have a personal thing to deal with right now. I’ll check in with you later and we’ll take it from there.”

  “I’m so fucking scared right now,” said Robin. “There’s a crazy person out there. They got Todd. They got Todd’s office. I could be next.”

  “I can send someone out there.” She didn’t respond. I let her think a few moments then said, “Robin?”

  “I’m here. Just … just call me later, okay?”

  I said good-bye, turned left on the southeast corner of Bde Maka Ska, then drove the half-mile connecting road to Lake Harriet. Traffic was backed up thanks to a concert at the band shell. I rolled down my window but couldn’t identify the music makers. It was some sort of soft jazz, which is the last kind of music I associate with my hometown. I was expecting to hear a string quartet, a Semisonic reunion, The Suburbs, or a band of octogenarians playing John Phillip Sousa marches.

  I turned off Lake Harriet Parkway, found a parking spot, and walked a half block to Micaela’s building. I rarely came empty-handed, but the thought of stopping for a bottle of wine or whiskey hadn’t crossed my mind. Maybe it was because Micaela hadn’t come clean when I asked her about New York. Maybe it was the sorrow in her voice when we spoke. Maybe I just didn’t feel like it.

  I rung Micaela’s penthouse from the security box. She buzzed the door, and I entered. I had a key, but I never used it if she was there. We didn’t have a “honey I’m home” kind of relationship. Since we’d picked up again, the boundaries were clear. We never discussed them, but we both knew what they were. We didn’t make plans more than a day in advance. We didn’t say “I love you.” We didn’t talk about our social lives. It was as if we’d created another dimension in which we could hide from reality. Or at least hide from each other’s reality. It wasn’t a safe place—it was a make-believe place.

  I walked toward the trio of elevators off a lobby filled with furniture upholstered in white leather on a floor of four-inch-wide-planks of oak, stained a medium brown and sealed in something shiny. A few area rugs defined the seating areas in case the couches and chairs weren’t a strong enough clue. The elevator on the far right dinged then opened. It was Micaela’s elevator. Only Micaela’s. I stepped inside.

  It reopened in the foyer of her penthouse. White walls lit with candlelight. Always candles. The Catholic Church was probably pissed at Micaela for what she did to the supply-and-demand curve. The candles flickered in the currents of air-conditioned air. Micaela Stahl’s residence was one beautiful fire hazard. She stood in the kitchen plating sautéed spinach from a pan. I smelled garlic, mushrooms, and greens. She looked at me with the smallest of smiles, her eyes red and puffy from crying or allergies. But Micaela didn’t suffer from allergies.

  She said in soft, tired voice, “Thanks for coming, Nils.”

  Sadness wafted over with the aroma of food. Or maybe it wasn’t sadness but a heap of emotion that presented like sadness. I said, “I’m always up for free food and good company.”

  Micaela said, “I guarantee at least one of those. We’re having wild trout, mushrooms, and spinach. White, red, or brown?”

  “Brown if it’s open.”

  “If it’s open,” she said with a mock scoff. She walked to a cabinet and removed a bottle of Yellow Spot. She uncorked it and poured two fingers into a lowball. She had already poured herself a glass of white. “Are you ready to eat?”

  I helped her carry the plates and drinks over to the bistro table by the window overlooking the lake. We arrived at place settings, water glasses, a full pitcher, and a lit oil lamp. Dinner started with an exchange of facts about our day, mostly from me, since I’d had a newsworthy one. Then I stopped talking and let it get quiet. For over a minute I heard only flatware on ceramics, glassware on the mosaic-tiled table, and the constant exhale of air-conditioning.

  Micaela looked at me with round, swollen gray eyes and said, “I have something to tell you, Nils. It’s not easy.” She lifted her water glass, took a sip, then set it back down. “So please be patient with me.” Another sip. She bowed her head. I had never seen her pause to gather her strength. She always seemed invincible. “I’ve been keeping something from you for the past few weeks.”

  I pictured Micaela in the elevator bay of the Medical Arts Building. All those doctors on one of the four floors where her elevator stopped. All those doctors trying to treat all those diseases. Glitches in the human body. Glitches that could end life.

  She said, “I haven’t been feeling like my normal self. I’ve been tired. And I’ve noticed some swelling…” She trailed off and lifted her water glass but it was empty. She refilled it with the pitcher. The air-conditioning stopped, and the silence gave voice to the tiniest sounds like breathing and, I feared, my squishing ventricles. I sniffled, and that caught Micaela’s attention. She said, “What?”

  The question confused me. “What do you mean, what?”

  She looked at me with curiosity and tilted her head. “Do you know what I’m going to tell you?”

  “No. But…” I couldn’t finish my thought.

  Her sadness morphed into a curious indignation. She said,
“What do you think I’m going to tell you?”

  I got up and walked to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Yellow Spot. On my way back I said, “That you’re sick.”

  She said, “What are you talking about?”

  “After my meeting at Halferin Silver yesterday, I stopped at Starbucks in the Crystal Court. I saw you walk out of that souvenir store on the first floor. But you told me you were going to New York for the day. Two wrongs don’t make a whatever and all that, but I followed you.”

  “Oh, Nils.”

  “Just to the lobby of the Medical Arts Building. I know you went to one of four floors, but then I ran out of detective skills.”

  Her tiny smile returned. “I didn’t lie about New York. I was headed for the airport but changed my mind.”

  I sighed. “God dammit, Micaela.”

  “I am telling you the truth.”

  “Like fuck you are,” I said. I poured more Irish into my empty glass. “There is no value in hiding shit from me at this point. Regardless of what we’ve been doing, you—”

  “Stop.”

  I stopped and recorked the bottle. Micaela stood from the bistro table, walked to an antique credenza that had layers of paint partially removed or added. I couldn’t tell which. She opened a drawer and pulled out a paper bag, returned to the table, and handed it to me. It was from the Minnesota souvenir store and whatever she’d purchased was still inside. “Open it.”

  I opened the bag and removed a tiny green knit hat with the Minnesota Wild logo on it. I didn’t understand. I looked at her.

  Micaela smiled. “Nils,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”

  “What?”

  “I took a home test a few weeks ago and on my way to the airport yesterday thought wow, I should really see a doctor. So, I canceled my New York meetings and saw an O.B. instead.”