NINE

They put me in handcuffs and locked me into the back of a South Lake Minnetonka Police Department cruiser that was parked a couple of rows from the front of the building where Irene Rogers had lived. I didn’t blame them.

From my seat, I was able to watch the comings and goings of deputies from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department as they swarmed to the crime scene. The lead investigator, crime scene photographer, photographic log recorder, evidence man, and all the rest—some came in plainclothes, some carried equipment, all wore firm expressions. Soon the assistant county medical examiner appeared, with a face that seemed carved in granite. He was followed by a large man dressed in the tan-on-brown uniform of the sheriff’s department, except that his shirt was white, which made him an administrator, and he had gold insignia on his collar, which made him a major. No one smiled except Officer Tschida, who was manning the door. An arson in the morning and a killing in the afternoon—he was having a helluva day.

Sarah Neamy sat on a bench outside the building with a deputy and stared at her hands. She had discovered the body just moments before the deputies arrived; I was the one who sent her to Mrs. R’s condominium. I longed to speak to her, but my current situation forbade it. Served me right for losing my temper. While I watched, the deputy received a call on his radio. A moment later, he led Sarah inside the building. Her face was pale and tear-stained when she returned. She was having difficulty walking, and the deputy had to hold her upright as they moved toward the club’s main entrance.

I didn’t realize the building had a name until the media arrived, until a long-legged TV reporter named Kelly Bressandes did her standup in front of a sign—the Villas of Club Versailles. I had no doubt she would lead the evening news. Millionaire socialite raped and murdered in an exclusive playground of the rich—of course she would lead.

Would Kelly mention that wonderful old broad once danced with Gene Kelly? my inner voice wondered.

Probably not, I told myself. Her name no longer identified a living, breathing woman with a rich and exciting biography. Mrs. Irene Rogers—Reney to her friends—was a victim now. That is how she’ll be catalogued in the big book. Her history, her accomplishments, her recipe for gin martinis, all of that would soon be replaced in the memories of the people who knew her. Instead, she would now and always be defined by one of the most terrible things that could happen to a woman. Worse, she would also be forever linked to her killer. People would say, “Remember poor Reney Rogers?” “Isn’t it awful what happened to her?” “Did they ever get the guy who did it?” Murder does that.

Inevitably, Mrs. R’s body was enclosed in a black vinyl body bag and hoisted onto a gurney. The gurney was rolled down the corridor from the door of her condo to the elevator, taken to the ground floor, rolled out into the parking lot, and loaded into an ambulance for transport to the Office of the Hennepin County Medical Examiner on Park Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. Right after the TV crews got the shot, they packed their equipment into sparkling vans with their logos painted on the doors and departed.

Bressandes was the last to leave. She had waited to get a comment from the major. When he declined, she turned to Chief John Rock of the South Lake Minnetonka Police Department, who took a moment to straighten his tie and wave Officer Tschida out of the shot before agreeing to be interviewed on camera. I knew Bressandes personally and liked her, yet I was glad she didn’t notice me locked in the back of the squad car, glad I didn’t have to speak to her.

I had spent enough time in harness to be leery of police department administrators. As I watched the major through the car window giving instructions to his deputies, though, it occurred to me that he didn’t seem to be your run-of-the-mill politician. I used to have season tickets for the St. Paul Saints minor league baseball team. You could always tell which of the players had game, which of them had a chance to make the Show, simply by the way they moved, the way they carried themselves on the field. The major carried himself like a cop.

Soon he was moving toward me; a tall man wearing a suit and tie and carrying a notebook was at his side. When they reached the car they both opened a door and slid inside, the major on the rear passenger side and the plainclothes in the front. They left the doors open, which I appreciated. It was a pleasant seventy-one degrees outside, yet with the windows closed the inside of the car was starting to heat up.

“Rushmore McKenzie?” the major said. “Is that right? I’m Major Kampa. I’m in charge of the Investigative Division in Hennepin County.” He pointed at the front seat. “Lieutenant Pelzer. He runs our detective unit.”

Nothing but the best for Mrs. R, my inner voice said.

“Gentlemen,” I said aloud. “Listen, can you do something about this?”

I leaned forward on the seat so they could get a good look at the cuffs that secured my hands behind my back.

“You punch a cop, you take your chances,” Kampa said. There was no compromise in his voice.

“He’s not a cop,” I said. “He’s a grade school hall monitor with delusions of grandeur.”

When I spoke, they both looked toward Officer Tschida, still standing at the door of the Villas, still smiling as if this was the most fun he’s ever had. I noticed that neither of them disagreed with me.

“Nothing we can do about it,” Kampa said.

“I used to be police myself.”

“We know who you are, McKenzie,” Pelzer said.

“At least…” I leaned forward again. “Can you at least take the gun? It’s kinda uncomfortable.”

Kampa reached behind me and removed the SIG Sauer from the holster beneath my jacket. He showed it to Pelzer.

“That dumb ass didn’t even…” The lieutenant never finished his thought. Instead, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Tell me you have a permit,” Kampa said.

“I have a permit,” I said.

Kampa balanced the gun on his thigh. “Nothing I can do.”

“Don’t worry about it, Major. My problem, not yours. Tell me how I can help.”

Kampa gestured at Pelzer, and the detective started asking questions. I liked that—the major deferring to his lieutenant.

It was clear from what Pelzer asked that they had already spoken at length with Anne Rehmann, as well as the deputies that had responded to her office. Now they wanted to hear my side. I told them everything, starting with Riley Brodin accosting me in Nina’s bar. I had no doubt that Mr. Muehlenhaus and probably Riley, too, would be extremely upset that I spilled their secrets to the sheriff’s department. I was past caring. The sight of Mrs. R …

After the deputies arrived at the real estate office in response to my 911 call, I told them that the man who attacked Anne might have also attacked Mrs. R, and I begged them to send deputies to her condominium. They did, too, without much prompting at all. At the same time, I called Sarah Neamy and told her to check on Mrs. R, told her that I was worried. The deputies wanted me to remain at the office and answer their questions. Anne wanted me to remain, too, even though she was also concerned about her employer. Yet I was desperate to get to Club Versailles, so I blew them off, after first telling the deputies how to get hold of me and then telling Anne I would call later.

Even so, from the moment the deputies had arrived at the real estate office to the instant I pulled into the parking lot of the club, at least forty-five minutes had passed. Members of the sheriff’s department and the South Lake Minnesota Police Department were already on the scene. Officer Tschida was at the door to Mrs. R’s building. He tried to keep me from going inside, which was bad enough. Calling me an asshole and saying “The bitch is dead, there’s nothing you can do”—I lost my temper, something I hardly ever do. I smacked him in the mouth and tossed him off the stoop.

I found Mrs. R’s condominium on the fourth floor. The door was opened. I stepped across the threshold. Several investigators were already processing the crime scene. That’s when I saw her. Mrs. Rogers was lying naked on the floor, her body bearing signs of terrible abuse. Her wrists were bound with an electrical cord and tied to the leg of a heavy chair. Her ankles were also lashed together and attached to her sofa. A clear plastic bag had been pulled over her head and fixed in place with a thick rubber band. Her eyes were open and so was her mouth—she had died fighting for breath.

Tschida caught up to me then. He cuffed my hands and dragged me outside—although I don’t remember much about that.

Major Kampa didn’t speak a word while I gave my account, and Lieutenant Pelzer only interrupted to ask a few pertinent questions.

“What do you know about this ETA that was supposedly stalking Navarre?”

“I never heard of it,” I said.

“Do you think Navarre is a fraud?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“Navarre’s boat—the Soñadora—is it on the lake?”

“Anne Rehmann said he left her dock early that morning. Other than that…”

I had a few questions of my own, starting with how the killer managed to get inside a secured building.

“Suspect gained entry through an unlocked balcony door of an unoccupied condominium on the ground floor,” Pelzer said. “After that he just walked up to her place. There was no forced entry, so she must have let him in.”

“I was on the phone with Mrs. Rogers last night,” I said. “She said she had to hang up because someone was knocking on her door.”

“What time last night?”

“Nine.”

Pelzer closed his notebook. “The ME gave us a preliminary estimate of the time of death. Set it at about nine this morning.”

We both knew what that meant.

He had her for twelve hours, my inner voice said.

“Sonuvabitch,” I said aloud.

“Where can we reach you if we have more questions?” Pelzer asked.

“South Lake Minnetonka jail, I guess. Assuming it has a jail. They might transfer me to your pretrial lockup in downtown Minneapolis.”

Kampa examined the SIG balanced on his thigh.

“Fuck that,” he said.

I was surprised. The way his head whipped around to look at the major, Pelzer was downright astonished.

Kampa slid out of the car and walked purposely toward Tschida, my SIG Sauer still in his hand. He saw Chief John Rock and waved him over. They reached Tschida at the same time. Kampa showed my gun to both of them. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his words prompted Chief Rock to reach behind Tschida and smack him on the back of the head—an idiot slap. More words were exchanged, and Tschida half walked, half ran to the squad car. He opened the car door, pulled me out, unlocked the cuffs, and said, “Please, McKenzie, would you just get the hell outta here and don’t come back?”

A few minutes later, both Major Kampa and Lieutenant Pelzer joined me where I had parked my Audi. Kampa returned the SIG to me, handing it over butt first.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Without backup from the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department, the South Lake Minnetonka PD ceases to exist,” Kampa said. “I don’t work with screwups.”

“Thank you.”

“The book says you’re all done, McKenzie. This is a capital offense, and you don’t involve yourself in our investigation even a little bit or I’ll toss your ass for obstruction, ex-cop or no—you’re not even licensed. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“My gut tells me, though, that you might be useful. You can talk to Mr. Muehlenhaus and his daughter, for one. I doubt I can get through the front door. So you keep looking for Navarre if you wish. Just stay away from the murder, and don’t even think of doing anything illegal, not even spitting on the sidewalk if you know what’s good for you, and ’specially don’t go around telling people that you’re working with us, and we should be okay.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“Keep in touch, McKenzie.”

I watched Major Kampa turn and walk away. Lieutenant Pelzer lingered to give me his contact information.

“He’s a real cop, isn’t he?” I said.

“Yep.”

“You don’t often see real cops rise up that high. Usually it’s just the politicians.”

“Sometimes you get lucky.”

*   *   *

I didn’t feel lucky, though. Or talkative. Yet there were debts to be paid, the first to Sarah Neamy. I had sent her to Mrs. Rogers’s condo. She had seen what I had seen.

I found her in the office just behind the reception desk where I had first met her. The door was open, and I saw her sitting very still in a straight-back chair against the wall, her hands folded in her lap, looking down, a penitent schoolgirl in her uniform. She seemed to know who I was without looking up to see.

“How could someone do that to another human being?” Sarah asked. “McKenzie, do you know?”

In my time, I had heard that question answered in so many ways by so many people—psychologists, sociologists, criminologists, even stand-up comedians. Explanations included everything from a chemical imbalance in the brain to childhood abuse and neglect to environmental pressures to an overdose of Twinkies. For a long time, I went along with them. I used to pride myself, especially when I was a cop, on telling people, “I don’t believe in evil, I believe in motive,” as if that somehow proved I had an understanding of the human condition that the average citizen simply couldn’t fathom. I had seen so much over the years, though, that the theories no longer satisfied. I discovered that I preferred the much simpler answer that I gave Sarah.

“Some people are evil.”

She nodded her head as if she believed it, too.

“They’re having an emergency meeting, the board of directors,” Sarah said. “I don’t know exactly what they hope to accomplish. Better security. Armed guards? They kept saying it wasn’t my fault. ‘It’s not your fault, Sarah.’ I don’t know how it could be my fault. I’ll probably be fired within the month, though.”

“Why?”

“It’s all about the morale of the members. Everyone will want to put this behind them as quickly as possible. If I stay, the members, every time they look at me they’ll be reminded of poor Mrs. R because they’ll know I was the one, the one … that I discovered … I saw…”

I rested a hand on her shoulder, and she covered it with her own hand. She looked up at me for the first time.

“I’m sorry I sent you there,” I said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

I said, “I’m sorry,” again, just the same.

“Juan Carlos didn’t do this, did he?”

“No. It’s someone looking for him.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you find Juan Carlos, will that help you find out who … hurt Mrs. R?”

“I hope so.”

“Juan Carlos had to fill out a questionnaire before he could be considered for membership in the club. I can get you the form. Will that help?”

“It might.”

“Come back tomorrow.”

“Sarah, just get me a copy. Keep the originals. The county deputies might want them, and I don’t want to mess with those guys. They did me one favor, I don’t expect another.”

“I will.”

“You should go home.”

“Home?”

She looked at me as if it were the first time she had ever heard the word.

*   *   *

I returned to Anne Rehmann’s office. It was locked up tight. I called her number and was sent to her voice mail. I told her she could return my call—even though I hoped she wouldn’t—otherwise I would try to see her tomorrow. I didn’t want to talk any more, didn’t want to comfort anyone, didn’t want to think. It was Thursday evening in early October, and there were any number of sporting events taking place that could distract me from the day. Baseball was in the first round of playoffs, college football was approaching midseason, the NHL was ramping up—there might even be a game on the NFL Channel. If that failed, I had access to a cabinet stocked with beer, wine, and other assorted alcoholic beverages. All things being equal, drinking myself silly didn’t seem like a bad idea.

Halfway home, though, I broke my cell phone rule again and called Nina.

“Can I come over to your place?” I asked.

“’Course you can, you know that. You don’t have to call first.”

“I thought this time maybe I should.”

“Are you all right, McKenzie?”

“No. No, I’m really not.”