NINETEEN

In the language of Minnesota, “a place on the lake up north” could be damn near anywhere. Start with “a place.” That suggested anything from a clearing where you pitched your tent or parked your trailer to a rustic cabin or palatial lake home. “The lake” was whichever one of our eleven-thousand-plus bodies of water where you owned or had access to “a place.” And the phrase “up north” referred more or less to the entire region a half-hour’s drive beyond the Cities—roughly two-thirds of the state. To the Muehlenhaus clan, it was a family compound consisting of a large main house surrounded by six small cabins located on the north shore of the lake—Lake Superior—near Lutsen, about four hours away by car assuming you obeyed the speed limit, which I seldom did.

8:34 P.M. and I was already on my way when I called to tell Nina about it.

“You’re not going to swing by and pick me up, are you?” she asked.

“No, I’m not.”

“Is it because you’re afraid I’ll get hurt or because you think I’ll be in the way?”

“Yes.”

“Here I thought you’d be happy I was showing an interest in your work.”

“Next time I need to drive two hundred and forty miles in search of a crazed killer, I’ll save you a seat.”

“You say that, but you don’t really mean it. Can you at least do me a favor? Stop at Betty’s Pies and get me a blackberry peach crunch.”

“Are you serious?”

“You might as well. Driving along the north shore, it’s on your way.”

“Nina, I’m not stopping to buy a pie.”

“Ohhhh,” she moaned.

“What?”

“Where Baird hit me with the gun—it’s really starting to ache. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ll just take an aspirin.”

“Fine. Blackberry crunch.”

“Blackberry peach crunch. Oh, while you’re at it, get a five-layer chocolate pie, too.”

“This is why I didn’t take you with me. You don’t have the right mindset for this sort of thing.”

*   *   *

10:17 P.M. and I was fast approaching the bright lights of Duluth when it occurred to me that instead of worrying, I should reach out to the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. I thumbed 9-1-1 into my cell phone keypad and asked the operator to transfer my call to the county’s nonemergency line. From there I was connected to dispatch. I gave the woman my name and requested a “welfare check” on Ms. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin.

“Is there an issue we should be aware of?” she asked.

I explained that Riley had been linked to a murder that took place in Hennepin County and I was concerned for her safety. I gave the woman the names of Lieutenant Pelzer and Collin Baird, as well as Riley’s address and the license plate number of her Infiniti sports car.

Dispatch told me Cook County had a deputy patrolling near the area and would request that he knock on Riley’s door. I thanked her and hung up the smartphone.

I didn’t stop worrying, though.

*   *   *

10:52 P.M. and I was driving at speeds that invited arrest. I-35 was all torn up in downtown Duluth, and I had a helluva time working my way through the construction area before connecting with Highway 61 and following it north along the shore of the big lake. I nearly cracked up while dialing Riley’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up then anymore than she had the first three times I called.

*   *   *

11:25 P.M. and I was a few miles north of Two Harbors and rolling past Betty’s Pies, the iconic tourist stop located midway between Duluth and my destination. It was closed.

“Gee, sorry about that, Nina,” I said.

I still had an hour’s drive in front of me.

*   *   *

Lutsen was a small tourist town built on a high bluff overlooking Lake Superior and flanked by four mountains and a dozen ski resorts. Some people liked it better than Aspen. Since I had never spent time in either place, I was happy to go along with their assessment.

I slowed before I reached the edge of town and began scanning the shoulder of the highway for the unmarked road Sheila told me about. I found it at 12:17 A.M. and followed it downward toward the lake. I stopped near the bottom when my headlamps illuminated the rear bumper of a Cook County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. It was parked directly behind a Honda Civic. I put the Jeep Cherokee in park and engaged the emergency brake, yet I did not turn off the engine or the lights. I slowly walked to the cruiser and looked inside. It was empty. I rested a hand on the hood. It was still warm.

Next I proceeded to the Civic. Its engine was cold. I looked inside. There was a copy of Minnesota Monthly on the front seat.

“Dammit,” I said,

From where I stood, I could look down the rest of the driveway. It led to the main house and the six cabins. The buildings were huddled together beneath the slanting bluff as if for protection from the enormous, temperamental lake, although it was calm enough when I arrived, the tide out. There were no other vehicles that I could see. All the cabins were dark, but there were lights shining through the windows on the ground floor of the main house.

I watched them for a moment from a distance. A bright moon shone overhead, and the sky was filled with a billion stars. I quickly returned to the Cherokee, extinguished the headlamps, and shut off the engine. I was alarmed by how quiet the world became. I could hear no noise at all, not even the sound of surf rolling up on the shore of the lake.

I pulled the SIG Sauer and moved toward the lights, a moth to a flame.

It was just a few degrees above freezing and I could see my breath as I negotiated the driveway and crossed the lawn; I could feel the cold air nipping at my bare hands as I gripped the gun.

There was movement in the back of the house. I squatted in the shadows and watched. It was Collin Baird—I recognized him immediately. He was standing in a well-appointed kitchen and eating ice cream directly from the carton, not a care in the world.

I edged closer.

The lights inside were bright enough that I knew they were reflecting off the glass in the kitchen windows like a mirror. Baird would be unable to see me, I was sure, yet I zealously avoided the shafts of light pouring from the windows onto the grounds anyway as I closed on the house and began moving along its walls.

The windows were high up, so I was forced to stand on my toes. Through one I could see a handsome living room with arched doorways and beamed ceiling. I grabbed hold of the windowsill and hoisted myself up. The furniture was elegant; a baby grand piano like the one I had vowed to buy Nina stood in the corner.

I went to another window and pulled myself up again. This time I saw a body on the floor, a man dressed in what I assumed was the uniform of the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. He was lying on his stomach, his head turned away from me. I figured he must still be alive because Baird had cuffed his hands behind his back. If he were dead, why would he have bothered?

I didn’t see Riley until I moved to a different window. The sight of her was like a sucker punch to the stomach. She was naked. Her hands were fastened to a chain. The chain was wrapped around a ceiling beam above her. She was suspended from the beam, her feet well off the floor, like a side of beef in a slaughterhouse. Her mouth was gagged.

I dashed to the front door. It was locked. My right brain told me to kick it open. The cooler left brain couldn’t believe that Mr. Muehlenhaus would have invested in cheap locks and argued that nothing good would come from letting Baird hear me failing to get inside.

I circled the large house again, searching for an entry point. While I did, I saw Baird in the kitchen. He set his ice cream down and picked up something else—I couldn’t see what. He passed from one window to the next as he made his way into the living room where Riley was hanging.

I didn’t like shooting through windows. Glass has a way of deflecting bullets. I would have tried it anyway except for the angle. The windows were so high I could only see Baird’s head and shoulders. If I missed …

I kept moving around the house, wondering how Baird got inside. Then I saw it—the back door was slightly ajar. I moved toward it. Baird had smashed the window and simply reached in to turn the lock.

Muehlenhaus, how careless can you be? my inner voice wanted to know.

I slipped past the door into the kitchen. Broken glass crunched beneath my feet. I hesitated for a moment, then moved forward, holding the SIG with both hands. As I approached the living room I could hear Baird’s voice.

“Where should we begin?” he said. “Your tits? Nah, I’m gonna want to play with those later. How ’bout…”

I heard Riley’s muffled cry.

“Or how ’bout here,” Baird said. “Right behind your knee. I injured a knee playing football in high school once. It really hurt.”

I came around the corner into the living room, the SIG leading the way. Baird was turned at an angle and didn’t see me. He was holding a kitchen torch, one of those butane gas jobs that are used to melt the sugar on the top of crème brûlée. He seemed to be having a problem getting it to flame.

“Hey,” I said.

He spun toward me. His eyes blinked as if they were adjusting to a bright light. Beyond that, he didn’t seem frightened at all.

“You again,” Baird said. “Fucking McKenzie, right?”

I moved deeper into the living room. I wanted to get close. Yet not too close.

“Ruining everything again,” he said. “Who are you, anyway?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I gestured with the muzzle of the gun for him to move away from Riley. He moved a foot. I gestured again. He moved another foot. And again. Baird sighed as if bored, yet he took a third step. Riley was no longer in the line of fire. I gestured some more, just the same.

“What do you want?” Baird asked. His head turned in the direction of where I was driving him. He saw his gun sitting on the table. “Are you a friend of Navarre? He’s not who he says he is, you know.”

He moved closer to the table.

“His real name is Dave Maurell. He stole millions. Millions. I’m just trying to get my share.”

He was still holding the kitchen torch, and I knew what he was thinking; I could read it in his face. He was wondering if he dared throw the torch at me and try diving for the gun while I was distracted.

At the same time, I could see Riley out of the corner of my eye. She was hanging perfectly still. Whatever terror, whatever discomfort she was feeling had been momentarily forgotten while she watched the scene unfold.

“I’ll split it with you. There’s enough for everyone. If Dave hadn’t been so greedy…”

Baird’s knee hit the table. He looked down at it. The gun was only a few inches from his hand, no more.

My body was so tense that my hands began to tremble. I deliberately took a deep breath and let half out, forcing myself to relax. My hands became still.

Baird smiled.

“Fuck that,” he said. “I know what you’re trying to make me do.” He dropped the torch to the floor and raised his hands above his head. “You’re just gonna have to try to take me in like that asshole deputy—”

I shot him in the center of the chest.

The first bullet was probably enough to kill him.

I added four more to make sure.

*   *   *

The Cook County attorney was furious. The deputy had died of gunshot wounds on the way to the hospital, and he wanted to prosecute someone, anyone, and I was the anyone closest at hand. He was especially determined since the ME was willing to testify that the bullet wounds in Baird’s chest were inconsistent with my official statement that he was reaching for the gun on the table when I shot him.

Once the other evidence started rolling in, though, he changed his mind. Anne Rehmann picked Baird’s photo out of a six-pack, identifying him as the man who assaulted her in her office—it took her all of two seconds. DNA tests proved that it was Baird who raped and murdered Mrs. Rogers. Ballistics confirmed that the bullets that killed both Mrs. Baird and the Cook County deputy were fired from Baird’s gun. (The deputy’s colleagues wanted to throw me a parade for putting his killer in the ground.) The clincher was Ms. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin, who assured the county attorney that she would not only testify on my behalf, she would spend a million dollars for my defense and another million dollars to guarantee that he never held public office again.

All that came much later, though.

Immediately after Baird’s body hit the floor, I turned to the deputy. After I uncuffed his hands, I used his radio to call it in—“Officer down, officer down”—and recited the address of the Muehlenhaus estate. A flood of questions followed, but I was too busy to deal with them. The deputy’s skin was a ghastly ashen color, and his breathing was so shallow that for a moment I thought he was already dead. Yet he was warm to my touch and I could detect a rapid, thready pulse. When I gently rolled him on his back he opened his eyes. They were filled with terror and confusion. I said something to him. I don’t remember what. “You’ll be all right.” Something like that.

“I totally messed up,” he said.

He closed his eyes while I examined his wound—he was shot in the left side and losing a lot of blood. I applied a tourniquet using a kitchen towel and my belt. All the while, I spoke to Riley.

“I got you, sweetie. I’ll be just a few minutes. I know it’s hard. You’ll be all right. Hang in there.”

When I said that last sentence, I turned to look up at her. I swear to God she was laughing behind her gag.

After caring for the deputy, I found a chair and used it to stand on while I freed Riley. The air was filled with sirens as I lowered her to the floor. I grabbed an afghan off the back of one of the living room sofas and wrapped her in it—I didn’t want the deputies and paramedics to see her nude like that.

Riley grasped my hand and wouldn’t let it go. “He was going to…”

“Don’t think about it.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

So many things I couldn’t even begin to tell her. I hugged her close to me and whispered into her ear.

“Just go with the flow,” I said.

Riley hugged me back.

“You told me that once before,” she said. “This time I’ll listen.”

*   *   *

They immediately transported the wounded deputy to Cook County North Shore Hospital in Grand Marais, about twenty minutes away. Grand Marais was one of my favorite towns, yet up until that moment I didn’t know it even had a hospital. The deputies wanted to send Riley, too. She announced she wouldn’t go anywhere unless I went with her. They wanted to question us both separately. She refused to let go of my hand. They tried to be considerate—Riley was the victim, after all—yet it became clear the county cops were becoming frustrated.

“Miss, this would all go so much easier if you would cooperate,” the lead investigator told her.

“Give me a phone and I’ll show you cooperation you won’t believe,” Riley said.

“This is not going with the flow,” I told her. Yet I was glad to see the combative woman I had come to know and love.

She’s going to survive this, my inner voice said. She’s going to be fine.

Still, when we had a private moment I told her, “Soon as you get home, I want you to talk to someone. A professional. I can give you a name, if you like. I know you think you’re okay now, but people rarely come through something like this unscathed.”

She squeezed my hand tighter. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m acting like such a bitch. I’m afraid if I think about it, if I…”

It was too late. The tears started to flow and her shoulders began to shake. A moment later her face was pressed against my shoulder and she was weeping loudly and nothing I said or did could console her. After that, the deputies left her alone.

*   *   *

The morning sun flowed through the windows, giving the low white ceiling and the white tile floor of the hospital visiting room a golden hue. The county cops had finished with us—at least for the time being—and Riley and I sat next to each other while waiting for Muehlenhaus and his minions to arrive. She was holding my hand. She had released it only sporadically through the long night and never for very long. The first time was when the paramedics wrapped her damaged wrists in gauze. The second was while the doctors were examining the rest of her after she allowed herself to be taken to the hospital, although she had insisted that I remain in the room—I did so, but I had my back turned at all times. And then again when she dressed in the jeans and sweater she was wearing now.

“Riley,” I said, “where’s Navarre?”

“He left. Borrowed my car about twenty minutes before that Collin Baird character showed up. How did he find us, anyway? Do you know?”

“Through Minnesota Monthly, I think.”

“Comes from being rich and famous, I guess.”

“Why did Navarre leave?”

Riley had recovered her bag as well as her suitcase before leaving the Muehlenhaus estate. She dipped into it and produced a small, square box. She gave it to me, and I opened it.

“Holy—this can’t be real,” I said.

“It’s real, all right. Seven-carat marquise-cut diamond engagement ring.”

“You could carve your name in granite walls with this thing.”

“I’ve never been a diamond girl, McKenzie. I never saw the attraction. You have to admit, though, this is impressive.”

“What happened?”

“When we reached the compound, before we even unpacked, Juan Carlos got down on one knee, gave me the ring, and asked me to marry him.”

Riley paused as if she were reliving the moment. Finally she said, “My grandfather, when I was younger, told me that if I was having trouble making a difficult decision, I should flip a coin. He said that before the coin hit the ground, I would know what the decision should be. This ring—it was like a coin toss for me. The moment I saw it—I mean after I got over the shock of it—I knew exactly where I should be and with whom and it wasn’t Juan Carlos. I told him so.

“What surprised me—well, the whole thing surprised me, but one of the things that surprised me was that Juan Carlos didn’t argue. He didn’t beg; he didn’t try to talk me into it. I didn’t actually want him to debate the issue, yet at the same time I was disappointed that he quit so easily. He simply said it was okay. ‘I understand,’ he said. I told him it was me, not him. I told him he was a great guy and any woman would be lucky to have him. He wasn’t listening. He asked to borrow my car and that was the last I saw of him.”

“You have to understand something, sweetie,” I said. “A girl turns down a ring like this, the guy has to know she’s serious.”

“I suppose.”

“Did he ever tell you his real name?”

“What do you mean? Juan Carlos isn’t his real name?”

“Oh, boy.”

I explained. When I finished, Riley shook her head sadly.

“That is so messed up,” she said. “And you say I met him at Macalester? I don’t remember. I honestly don’t remember him.”

She held up the ring box.

“That’s even more reason why I should give this back. I don’t know where he is, though. Probably somewhere in Canada. That’s where we were going—to escape ETA, he said, that you tell me doesn’t actually exists anymore. Geez.”

“I don’t think Navarre’s in Canada. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I know where to look.”

“Will you find him for me?” Riley asked. “Will you give back the ring?”

I closed the box and stuffed it into my pocket.

She lifted my hand and pressed the back of it against her cheek. “Thank you for the loan of this,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

She released my hand.

By then Muehlenhaus had arrived, accompanied by Greg Schroeder and a small army of people I didn’t recognize—probably lawyers—and I wondered if the old man always traveled with an entourage. He crossed the room in a hurry, stopped in front of us, and pressed his fists against his hips. He didn’t ask his granddaughter if she was okay or how she was feeling; he didn’t address her at all. The first words out of his mouth were “Damn you, McKenzie. You’ve involved yourself with my family for the last time.”

Riley replied in a hard monotone. “Don’t speak foolishly, Grandfather,” she said. “I don’t like it. For future reference, McKenzie is my friend, and not just because he saved my life. When you disrespect him, you disrespect me. You do not want to do that. I have a bad attitude. Ask anyone.”

Muehlenhaus was stunned into silence. I was a little dazed myself, yet I managed to ask the woman, “Who are you?”

Riley smiled and leaned in close so only I could hear what she whispered.

“Didn’t my mother tell you? I’m the Muehlenhaus Girl.”

*   *   *

I found Navarre exactly where I thought he would be—sitting on the front steps of his mother’s house in West St. Paul. It was late afternoon by the time I arrived. The streets were deserted, yet I felt the weight of a dozen eyes on me as I parked the Jeep Cherokee in front of the house and walked up the battered sidewalk.

Navarre was dressed impeccably—expensive shoes and socks, slacks with a crease that could spread butter, a shirt that looked like it was being worn for the first time, a gold watch that reflected the sunlight. He didn’t move as I approached; he didn’t seem to register my presence at all. It was as if he were one of those living mannequins you sometimes see at the more fashionable department stores.

I stopped in front of him. His eyes focused on me. I reached into my pocket, found the small square box Riley had given me, and tossed it toward him. He snatched it out of the air with a quick hand and set it on the concrete step next to himself without even bothering to give it a look.

“Riley said she’s sorry,” I told him. “She’s going to be all right, by the way.”

“Of course she is,” Navarre said.

“Collin Baird is dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“You’re McKenzie, right?”

“Yes.”

“Collin was my only mistake. I needed someone to front for me, someone with a legitimate Social Security number and a clean passport. I picked Collin because he was a small-town boy who wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was. I didn’t know he enjoyed hurting people, though, especially women, until Laredo, and by then it was too late. A broken toy with no way to fix him. I’m sorry about Mrs. R. And Annie.”

“Jax—”

“Call me Juan Carlos. That’s the person I worked hardest to become. Almost made it, too.”

“Why did you take his identity, of all people?”

“Because he was flawed. I knew Riley’s people would think I was too good to be true. I knew they would check my background, well, Navarre’s background. Instead of a con man, they would find a prodigal son who didn’t get on well with his father—and then stop looking. They wouldn’t like Juan Carlos any better, but they weren’t going to like him anyway. Riley, though. Riley liked him just fine. She just didn’t like him enough.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Who? Navarre? Of course not. I don’t kill people. What do you take me for?”

“How did you get his passport? His identity?”

“I bought it. I met him in a bar in Greece. He sold me his name for half a million euros. Said he hadn’t had any use for it in years.”

Then I asked him the big question. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what? Be specific.”

“Everything.”

“I took the money from the Nine-Thirty-Seven because I wanted a better life. I became David Maurell and tried to get into Macalester College for the same reason. Meeting Riley—meeting Riley told me why I wanted a better life.”

“But you didn’t actually meet, did you?”

“Oh, no,” Navarre said. “Not back then. I wasn’t worthy of her then. She would have dismissed Jax and David out of hand. I had to become someone else first.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“Out shopping. She’s going to cook a feast for her long-lost baby boy.”

“Your sister?”

“At work.”

“Don’t do this, man.”

“I’ve got no moves left.”

“The Department of Justice…”

“And go to prison for thirty years?”

“You have almost fifty million dollars of their money. Make a deal. Buy down your sentence.”

“The money is in Switzerland. The account is set up so that I’d have to appear in person to get at it.”

“So? Take a plane ride on the taxpayer’s dime.”

Navarre shook his head.

“The Nine-Thirty-Seven Mexican Mafia,” I said.

“I know. Cesar’s little brother—last time I saw him he was a little snot-nose punk. Probably still is. I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Don’t do this,” I repeated.

Navarre had nothing to say.

“Offer the money to Arnaldo,” I said. “Buy your way out of this.”

Navarre had nothing to say to that, either. Still, it’s been my experience that a man who’s prepared to dive into a pool will fight tooth and nail to keep from being pushed. At the last moment, Navarre might decide he had plenty of moves left. If the Cook County cops hadn’t confiscated my SIG Sauer, I would have given it to him.

“Good luck, Juan Carlos,” I said.

I turned and walked back to my Jeep Cherokee. Navarre called to me.

“Tell Riley … tell Riley I left her car at the Signal Hill Shopping Center.”

*   *   *

I drove slowly down the street until I spied a black Cadillac DTS with silver wheels parked at the curve. I stopped. Two men were in the front seat. Arnaldo Nunez was in the back. He glanced out the window at me and nodded the way people do when they want to acknowledge your presence without actually speaking to you. I nodded back. There was nothing to be said anyway.

I drove on.