FOUR

I drove only 4.7 miles, yet it took me nearly twenty minutes to reach Casa del Lago—such are the driving conditions on the narrow roads surrounding Lake Minnetonka. The restaurant had a large patio overlooking Gideon Bay with a low railing that kept patrons from falling over the edge into the water. A couple of dozen tables were strategically placed across the colorful bricks, each with a large blue and white umbrella that promoted Corona Extra when opened. The lunch crowd sitting at the tables was divided into two groups. Half were dressed like they had just stepped off the deck of one of the cabin cruisers and speedboats tied at the pier jutting into the lake. Half were dressed as if they had arrived in one of the luxury cars parked in the asphalt lot. There were a few cars that looked like they were driven by what my old man would have called “just folks.” Most of those were parked in the back of the lot, though, so I figured they belonged to the worker bees that managed the restaurant. I parked in the front row because, well, what did I have to be embarrassed about?

I stepped inside the restaurant. Someone had tried hard to make it appear like a Hollywood version of a Mexican hacienda, yet the all-white clientele and the neon Miller Lite and Dos Equis signs gave it away. The only thing that seemed authentic was the young woman who intercepted me at the door. She had long black hair and dark eyes and spoke with the soft accent of a woman who learned English in a house filled with people who spoke Spanish. Her name tag read MARIA.

“Table for one, or will you be joining other guests?” she asked.

“I’d like to speak to the owner, if he’s available,” I answered. She cocked her head at me as if unsure what to make of my question. “It’s a personal matter,” I added.

“If you care to wait at the bar,” she said.

Maria directed me toward the stick. I crawled up onto the stool while she disappeared behind a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The bartender hurried over, and I ordered a Summit Pale Ale. He was quick in drawing it for me.

A few moments later, an older man dressed for yachting—not boating, yachting—joined me. He climbed the stool two down from mine and nodded. “Hey,” I said, just to be polite. He ordered Glenlivet with one nice ice cube, whatever that meant. After he was served, he rolled up his sleeves as if drinking were serious work.

“Not many warm days left like this one,” he said.

“No, not many,” I agreed. In Minnesota, September and October are the best months of the year. Unfortunately, November and December soon follow.

“Yeah, that’s why I gotta start thinkin’ about gettin’ my boat outta the water. Once it gets cold it can be such a bitch.”

“I suppose.”

“You have a boat?”

“Used to. I took it out only twice in the past three years, so I sold it.”

“I hear ya. I think I took mine out three, four times, and that includes when I put ’er in the water. Only brought ’er out t’day to burn some gas outta the tanks. She’s just a money pit, but what are you going to do? Gotta have a boat.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“I got a slip right on the edge of Tonka Bay Marina. Easy in, easy out. Hadda pay a pretty penny extra for it, too, that slip. It’s worth the rent, though, sure it is. People forever maneuverin’ in and out of the marina, always riskin’ collisions, they see my spot, they gotta be jealous, gotta say, ‘Damn, ain’t that sweet.’ How ’bout you? Where did you keep your boat?”

“In my garage.”

He didn’t say another word. Didn’t even look at me as he picked up his Glenlivet and retreated across the restaurant, putting as much distance between him and me as possible without actually leaving the building.

Damn, my inner voice told me. The rich really are different.

A few minutes later I was joined by a pretty woman with a thin face, pale eyes, and fine blond hair with auburn highlights. She was older than Riley yet still below my lust threshold, although she was close enough to it that I was willing to make an exception.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I’m waiting for the owner.”

“I’m the owner.”

Her response caught me by surprise, and I hesitated for a few beats. “I’m looking for Juan Carlos Navarre,” I said at last.

“I’ll tell you what I told the other guy. He’s not the owner. He’s not here. I haven’t heard from him in a week. Is there anything else?”

She looked as if she were going to walk away whether I had anything more to say or not, so I thrust my paw toward her.

“My name’s McKenzie,” I said.

She hesitated for a moment before shaking my hand.

“Mary Pat Mulally,” she replied.

I considered making a clever remark about a woman with an Irish surname owning a Spanish-style restaurant but thought better of it. Instead, I asked, “May I have a minute of your time, Ms. Mulally?”

I continued to hold her hand so she couldn’t slip away. She looked at my hand holding hers and then into my eyes. She sighed heavily and said, “Only a minute.”

I released her hand, and Mary Pat led me through the restaurant, moving vigilantly as if she wanted to make sure that no one tried to steal it from her. Instead of a table overlooking Lake Minnetonka, she brought me to a booth with a splendid view of the parking lot, and I thought, smart businesswoman, she’s leaving the best tables for her paying customers. I sat across from her. She waited for me to speak.

“Apparently I’ve been misinformed,” I told her.

“Did Juan Carlos tell you he owned Casa del Lago?”

“No. It was Riley Brodin.”

The way her eyes narrowed, I got the impression that she recognized the name and hearing it made her sad. Still, Mary Pat nodded her head as if it made perfect sense.

“Juan Carlos isn’t the first man who tried to impress a woman with … let’s just say it’s not the entire truth,” she said.

“What is the entire truth?”

“Whom do you work for?”

“Do I need to be working for someone?”

“Don’t fence with me, McKenzie. I’m not in the mood.”

“Riley Brodin. Her boyfriend disappeared. She’s anxious that I find him.”

“She’s the granddaughter of Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Technically, you work for him, then.”

“No. Not even a little bit.”

Mary Pat must have heard the outrage I purposely put in my voice, because she smiled slightly.

“Not Mr. Muehlenhaus?” she said.

“No, not Mr. Muehlenhaus. Why do you ask?”

“I think he’s looking for Juan Carlos, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“A private investigator came by the other day. He flashed his ID at me like it was a badge and started asking all kinds of questions that were none of his business. I’m from the north side of Minneapolis, McKenzie. Real cops don’t bother me any; I’m sure not going to be intimidated by a PI. When I refused to answer, he said his employer could make life on Lake Minnetonka impossible for me. I threw him out. I’ve been waiting for someone to knock on my door with bad news ever since. I thought that someone might be you.”

“No.”

Mary Pat shrugged her shoulders as if she were willing to take my word for it—for now.

“Then you have nothing to do with the Chevy Impala in the back row of the parking lot,” she said.

“What Impala?”

She tilted her head at the window, and I took a look.

“See it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Inside is a man who has been watching my restaurant all day. Yesterday there was a different man in a Sentra.”

“A red Sentra?”

“How did you know?”

“For what it’s worth, Mary Pat, I don’t think they’re interested in you or your restaurant. I think they’re waiting for Navarre.”

“Why?”

“The PI. Did he tell you why he was looking for him?”

“No.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. That’s one reason why I threw him out. He was acting all big and emphatic, but he wouldn’t tell me who he was or whom he was working for.”

“You’re only guessing that Mr. Muehlenhaus sent him.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“No, I think it’s a pretty good guess. Although … I’ve had dealings with Mr. Muehlenhaus in the past. He’s usually more subtle than this.”

“If you say so.”

“What is your relationship with Navarre?”

“Juan Carlos is an investor. He lent the restaurant a sizable amount of money, for which he now receives a percentage of the profits until principal and interest are paid.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. I was undercapitalized. The business was failing. The infusion of money allowed me to enlarge the patio, expand the pier, improve my menu, and provide my clientele with the kind of service it demanded. Truth be told, I was fortunate that Juan Carlos came along when he did. It’s like I said, though—he is not an owner. Nor is he involved in the day-to-day operation of the restaurant.”

“What I meant was, why did he invest in Casa del Lago? Did you advertise for investors?”

Mary Pat spoke carefully, weighing each word on her tongue like a politician—or someone else with plenty of secrets.

“What I was told,” she said, “Juan Carlos began looking for business opportunities immediately after he settled on Lake Minnetonka. A banker suggested that I might be interested in a silent partner. Juan Carlos turned out to be less silent than I would have preferred. Other than that, I have no complaints.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last Thursday during the dinner rush. Dinner and lunch is when he usually comes by. Juan Carlos will walk through the restaurant, hang out on the patio, meet and greet customers. He’s very good at making friends. Sometimes he’ll pick up a tab. It’s never on the house, though. He always pays it out of his own pocket. He likes to be seen here. He likes to play the patrón. I don’t mind too much because the customers seem to love the guy. Seatings are higher than ever. So are check averages. I was surprised when he didn’t show up Friday and Saturday.”

That started me thinking devious thoughts about the criminal behavior of unscrupulous characters. I zoned out for a few moments, forgetting completely that Mary Pat was sitting in the booth with me. She called me back.

“Hey,” she said.

“Sorry. I was just … How much did Navarre invest in your restaurant?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, McKenzie.”

“You’re right, you’re right … I was just wondering, did he give you cash?”

“Of course not. Who makes loans like that in cash? Drug dealers, maybe. Gangsters. Do you think I’d be involved with someone like that?”

“No, no, I was just—”

“The transaction was handled through my bank. Lake Minnetonka Community.”

“I was just wondering—”

“The paperwork was all properly signed, notarized and filed.”

“Did anything seem out of whack to you?”

The question slowed her down. Mary Pat’s mouth twisted into a kind of confused smile when she answered. “The interest rate on the loan. Juan Carlos could have done better with a government-backed CD.”

I flashed on something Sarah Neamy told me earlier.

“Except then he wouldn’t be able to walk around like he owned the place,” I said.

“I suppose. Look, McKenzie. Whatever Juan Carlos is into has nothing to do with me. All I want is to be left alone. I have a good month or so left before the weather starts to turn nasty and I lose my lake traffic. When you find him, you might want to tell him that. This is a business.”

I thanked Mary Pat for her time. I hadn’t paid for the Summit Ale, but when I reached into my pocket, she told me it was on the house. I thanked her again and said I would be in touch. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

*   *   *

I left the restaurant and walked toward the Audi, decided what the hell, it’s such a pleasant autumn day in Minnesota, seventy-three degrees and sunny with the wind not blowing, why not risk my life frivolously? I passed the Audi and kept going until I reached the back row of the parking lot. I stopped in front of the Impala, took the smartphone from my pocket, and made a big production of taking a photo of the car’s license plate.

A young man—he couldn’t have been more than eighteen—poked his head out the window.

“What the fuck you doing?” he asked. “You don’t fuckin’ take no pictures.”

I ignored him and took a few more.

“Asshole, I’ll fuck you up.”

He opened the car door and slid out. He wore his jeans low on his hips so that the top three inches of his boxer shorts were visible. Yet it was the image on the front of his tight T-shirt that caused me to rethink my actions—a large blackhand print. In the palm of the hand were the numbers 937 resting on top of the letters eMe. The Black Hand of Death, an image usually associated with Sicilian gangsters, had long ago been appropriated by the Mexican Mafia—eMe spelled out the Spanish pronunciation of the letter M.

“Say cheese,” I said and took his photograph just the same.

“Give that back,” he demanded, as if my camera had stolen something precious from him.

He took a step toward me. When he did, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and took a step toward him, clenching my fists like I was ready to rumble. While he was sitting in the car, he was a machine yelling at a man. When he got out the situation changed. Now he was a man shouting at another man—a man who was bigger than he was. Doubt crept into his voice.

“Who d’ fuck you think y’are?” he asked.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I asked in return.

He didn’t answer. I gave it a beat and began edging away slowly. After a few steps, I turned my back to him and returned to the Audi. I gave him another look before sliding behind the steering wheel. He was talking on his own cell phone. It didn’t look like the conversation was going well.

*   *   *

I drove out of the restaurant’s parking lot and worked my way along a couple of narrow streets to County Road 19. The Impala caught up to me at the intersection. A thrill of fear rippled through my body as I watched the driver in my rearview while waiting for the light. I guessed that he was following someone’s orders—he didn’t look smart enough to be giving them himself. Whose, though? To do what?

Three possibilities came to mind. The first was to shoot me, but c’mon, I told myself, that’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think? Even the Mexican Mafia doesn’t kill without a reason, and I hadn’t done anything to anyone yet. The second was to find out who I was, except the driver could have accomplished that task the same way I intended to learn who he was—by running the license plate number of his car. There was a handful of Web sites more than willing to help for a fee. If they couldn’t, you could always hustle down to the Minnesota Department of Public Safety building in St. Paul and fill out a DVS Records Request Form. It cost all of $9.50.

The third possibility seemed more likely—the driver was told to follow me with the expectation that I might lead him to Navarre.

The light changed and I took a left, heading east along the section of the county highway that was called Smithtown Road into the City of Excelsior. Excelsior was approximately one square mile in size with a population of about 2,400. It was founded in 1853 to serve wealthy visitors from New York and Europe, and its numerous antique shops, specialty stores, restaurants, theaters, and B&Bs suggested that it hadn’t strayed far from its roots.

I stayed on Smithtown until it became Oak Street and hung a left at the Excelsior Elementary School to see if the Impala would follow. It did. So you’re not just being paranoid after all, my inner voice told me. Still, by the time I passed the Bird House Inn I had reached a conclusion. Either the kid was told not to lose me at any cost, which meant he didn’t care that I knew he was following, or he honestly didn’t realize I was onto him, which made him a pitiful amateur.

Either way, you cannot encourage or condone such sinister behavior, my inner voice said.

I turned right and worked my way back to the county road. I eased the Audi out of Excelsior, caught Highway 7, and drove east between St. Albans Bay and Christmas Lake. I found KBEM-FM on the radio, only they were playing a jazz version of Paul McCartney’s “Blackbird.” That would not do at all, I decided, so I fiddled with the MP3 player until I found Billy Idol’s cover of “Mony Mony.”

Now that’s traveling music.

I checked the rearview. The Chevy Impala had fallen back, allowing two other vehicles to come between us. I downshifted and stepped hard on the gas. “Shoot ’em down turn around come on Mony,” I sang aloud. The Audi accelerated so effortlessly that I didn’t know I was topping 90 mph until I glanced down at the speedometer. I checked the rearview again. The Impala had disappeared, yet I kept accelerating anyway, weaving in and around traffic just the way the skills instructor had taught me at the police academy.

I could have slowed down, but why would you own a $65,000 sports car if you can’t wring it out every once in a while? Besides, I was carrying my St. Paul Police Department ID; the word RETIRED was stamped across the face. In case I was stopped, I had it positioned in my wallet so an officer would easily see it if he demanded to look at my driver’s license. That way I wouldn’t be embarrassed by asking for a break—see, Officer, I was on the job for eleven and a half years—and he wouldn’t be embarrassed by giving me one.

I didn’t slow down until I hit I-494, heading north to I-394 and then east again toward Minneapolis. I sang, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”