My aching shoulder woke me enough times during the night that I was reconsidering my position on the pain pills. I finally slid out of bed when the clock read 7:25. In my philosophy, 7:25 on a Saturday morning is like the crack of dawn—emphasis on crack. I crept from the bedroom into a huge walk-in closet complete with shelves and drawers and carefully closed the door behind me. The closet led to a bathroom with double sinks and a glass-enclosed shower big enough for two people to play tag in. Beyond that there was a storage area with enough room to park a car.
I showered, dressed, and put my arm into the sling without benefit of the radio. It was my habit to listen to NPR in the morning to learn if the world was still spinning on its axis—to learn if it was worth getting out of bed—only I wanted to avoid waking Nina. Instead, after closing the bedroom door, moving into the living room area, and sitting on the sofa, I turned on CNN, keeping the volume low. As expected, the world was still spinning, but if you believed the pundits, it had picked up a serious wobble. When I was a child, I was devoted to a weekly TV program called Horror Incorporated that introduced classic horror, science fiction, and cult movies, even though it scared the beejesus out of me. These guys were worse.
Or maybe it was just my poor mood. Not only was I in pain, I discovered that it was snowing. The middle of April and it was snowing. Granted, most of the flakes were melting as they hit the ground. Still …
I found refuge in the NHL Channel. Forget the Twins, at least for now. My Minnesota Wild, which was projected to go deep into the Stanley Cup playoffs, were down two games to nothing in a best-of-seven series with the St. Louis Blues that began—last Wednesday? How did I miss that? Oh, yeah—I was being blown up at the time.
I grabbed my smartphone with the intention of calling Salsa Girl but changed my mind when I noted the time. Eight fifteen was way too early to call someone with anything but bad news. Besides, there was a chance that she and Ian Gotz were canoodling after their date, and I was never one to get in the way of a good canoodle.
After getting my fill of hockey, I switched to the MLB Channel and discovered that the Twins had lost to the Red Sox in eleven innings. I remember leaning back against the sofa and sighing. The next thing I remember is the sound of someone rummaging in the kitchen area. I turned to find Nina pouring herself a healthy glass of orange juice. She was wearing her silver nightgown and nothing else that I could see.
“How long have you been up?” she asked.
I glanced at my watch—9:55.
“Hours,” I said.
Nina moved to the sofa and sat with her legs tucked beneath her. God, she looked good, even with bed hair.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asked.
“Fine.”
Nina reached out and gave it a nudge. I winced at the contact.
“I thought it was getting better,” she said.
I explained why it wasn’t, carefully downplaying Dyson’s near-suicidal blowup.
“Do you want me to kiss it and make it all better?” Nina asked.
“You’re welcome to try.”
She nudged me again. I winced some more.
“Pity,” she said.
“I’m sure there’s a medically sound procedure that we can—wait.”
Nina had left the sofa and was headed for the bedroom. She spoke to me over her shoulder. “I need to get dressed.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer.
Dammit!
I grabbed my smartphone and called Erin Peterson. My thinking was selfish at best: If I couldn’t canoodle because of her, why should she? Only she didn’t answer. Instead, I was kicked to voice mail.
I identified myself and said, “Call me. Your life has become more complicated, I’m afraid.”
Or not. Despite the pain it caused me, I believed my altercation with Alejandro Reyes and his hombre had the desired outcome. They had to realize that attempting to use Salsa Girl Salsa to move their dope was no longer a viable option. Which meant Erin was off the hook with them. But what about the man from Chicago?
I left the sofa and moved to the glass door that led onto the balcony. The snow had stopped while I was asleep, yet there was a thin white glaze over everything that wasn’t made of asphalt. I slid open the door and was immediately assaulted by a gush of cold fresh air. Most people would have found it exhilarating. I found it frightening. See, I suffer from acrophobia, an irrational fear of heights. Usually when I stepped onto the balcony, which wasn’t often, I stayed close to the glass wall and as far from the railing as possible. I rarely looked down but instead nearly always looked out. This time, though, I forced myself to move to the railing and gaze over the edge, which was hard to do. For one thing, I had to balance my weight so I could do it without actually leaning on the railing, because my phobia convinced me that it would break off at the slightest provocation and I would tumble to my doom. Looking down didn’t do me any good anyway. There were plenty of black cars parked on the streets around the building, but there was no way I could identify any of them as an Acura.
I went back inside the condominium, closing the glass door behind me. I found my smartphone. I had called Herzog the previous evening, but he hadn’t picked up. I was convinced he swiped left because he didn’t want to talk to me. I couldn’t say I blamed him. I left a message, but he didn’t text or return my call to tell me that he had heard it.
I called him again.
“What?” Herzog said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Whaddya want, McKenzie?”
“I called last night—”
“Yeah.”
“Left you a message.”
“Black Acura.”
“Uh-huh.”
Herzog recited the license plate number.
“Okay, you got the message,” I said. “I was afraid—”
“You know who this dude is?”
I said that I didn’t, but that I was sure the Acura driver wasn’t connected to our meeting with Alejandro Reyes and explained why.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he’s law enforcement either,” I said.
“You’re assumin’ the po-lice officer told you the truth last night.”
“I am.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“The po-lice, they ain’t got no reason to lie, do they?” Herzog said.
“If they do, I don’t know what it is.”
“How you stay alive this long as trusting as you are? McKenzie, I expect you to figure this out.”
“I will.”
“Cuz I’m on parole like I said. I can’t walk up to the man, shove a piece in his ear, and start askin’ questions, you know?”
“You shouldn’t do that even when you’re not on parole.”
“I can’t go all Nick Dyson on his ass—”
Is that going to be a thing now? my inner voice asked.
“—cuz he just might be law enforcement no matter what you say,” Herzog said.
“I understand.”
“’Kay. I’ll watch for ’im, but McKenzie, there ain’t never just one, you know that right?”
I hadn’t actually considered that there would be more than one person following me. I said, “Right,” anyway because there probably was more than one person following me.
“Call when you got it figured out,” Herzog said.
“I will.”
Herzog hung up without saying good-bye.
I stared at the cell phone for a few beats.
What the hell are you going to do? I asked myself.
My inner voice answered with a question. Why do you follow someone?
To find out where they’re going and who they meet when they get there.
They know where you live; they knew from the beginning.
So?
So it’s not necessarily about you.
Who, then?
How many possibilities are there?
I called Erin Peterson again. She didn’t answer her phone, and I declined to leave a message. Instead, I called Ian Gotz. He answered on the third ring.
“McKenzie.” His voice suggested that he was annoyed.
“Hey, Ian. How’s it going?”
“What do you want, McKenzie?”
“I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but do you know where Salsa Girl is?”
“I told you, she doesn’t like it when you call her that.”
“Ian, please, this is important.”
“Yes, I know exactly where Erin is. Hang on.”
I heard him speaking, but his voice sounded far away as if he had lowered the phone.
“McKenzie wants to talk to you,” he said.
“Tell him I’ll call him back,” Erin said.
“McKenzie? Erin said—”
“You think this is a goddamn game?” I said. “Put her on the fucking phone.”
Ian’s voice became distant again.
“McKenzie’s a lot like you,” he said. “He hardly ever yells. You should talk to him.”
I heard a muffling sound followed by Erin’s cheerful voice.
“Good morning, McKenzie,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. I received your message.”
“Then why didn’t you return my call? I’ve been worried.”
“That’s kind of you, being worried about me. But there’s no need.”
“Erin, I don’t think you appreciate what’s happening.”
“I spoke to Alice Pfeifer late yesterday afternoon. She told me about Randy and his drug-smuggling activities, so yes, I do appreciate what’s happening.”
“I knew Alice wouldn’t be able to keep a secret like this.”
“She was very upset about betraying me. Of course, I had to punish her.”
“Erin, you didn’t fire her?”
“No. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Alice has to buy donuts for the coming week. McKenzie, this drug business—what have you done about it?”
“What makes you think I’ve done anything?”
I heard the smile in her voice when she answered. “Because you’re you and a girl can never have a better friend.”
“Yeah, well…”
“And because when you drove off, Alice said she was reminded of Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans. You know that scene where he tells Madeleine Stowe to stay alive no matter what occurs, where he says he will find her no matter how long it takes?”
“She couldn’t think of a more modern movie? God, I am so old.”
“No, you’re not. Tell me what you did.”
I gave her an abbreviated version of my day, starting with removing the heroin from her premises and ending with my belief that Alejandro Reyes would no longer be a problem.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Erin said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t believe that’s the end of it.” I explained why.
“The driver of the Acura, Levi Chandler, you say he’s from Chicago?” Erin said.
“That’s what the police officer said.”
Erin’s voice remained relaxed and calm, as usual, yet coming from her the word sounded like an explosion: “Fuck.”
“Does that have some significance to you, Chicago?” I asked.
“Not necessarily. I was just wondering who we know who has a presence in that city.”
The name came to me without my having to think about it very hard. “The Bignells. Isn’t that where Brian Sax flew off to just the other day?”
Erin sighed as if it were exactly the answer she wanted to hear. “I wonder what Randy told his family about the gash on his cheek,” she added.
“Why don’t I ask them?”
“I’m going back to bed.”
“Aren’t you at Ian’s—never mind.”
“I’ll be home later this afternoon. Please call me.”
“Have fun,” I said.
“That is my intention.”
* * *
I spent fifteen minutes taking advantage of the one-way streets in and around downtown Minneapolis to make sure I wasn’t being followed before jumping on the freeway that took me to Highway 65. Forty minutes later I was in Cambridge. I stopped on the shoulder near the private road leading to the Bignell estate and waited. Nothing happened.
Huh, my inner voice said. That was easy.
I steered the Mustang down the lane and parked in the driveway near the immense garage. I followed the sidewalk to the house, making sure my leather jacket was zipped to my throat. After climbing the steps to the portico, I crossed to the front door and rang the bell. Randy Bignell-Sax answered.
“Shit,” he said.
“Good to see you, too.”
“What are you doing here, McKenzie?”
His hand flew to the bandage on the side of his face as if that provided part of the answer.
“I’d like to speak to your mother,” I said.
“No.”
“Relax, kid. You probably don’t know it or believe it, but I might have saved your ass yesterday.”
“I want you to leave.”
“After I speak to Marilyn.”
“Get out.”
“Do you want me to raise my voice? Do you want me to make a scene? Forget your mother. Let me speak to your grandfather instead.”
“Every time things start going my way, someone messes it up.”
“Things are going your way?”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“It may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Randy.”
“What’s not about Randy?”
I looked over his shoulder to see Marilyn moving toward us. She was wearing tight jeans and a baggy sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Her sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor the way they do when you play basketball. For a moment I was reminded of a teacher I had a crush on when I was a freshman in high school. I shook the thought away quickly, though; the teacher gave me such a poor grade in algebra that I nearly wasn’t allowed to play JV hockey.
“Mrs. Bignell-Sax,” I said.
“Ms. Bignell is fine,” she said.
“I take it from the new moniker that you dropped the hammer on Brian.”
“That’s what the hammer was for.”
“I don’t need to listen to this,” Randy said.
“Wait,” Marilyn said. “Randy…”
Only Randy wasn’t listening. He turned and retreated into the bowels of the enormous house. I don’t know what kind of shoes he was wearing, but they didn’t make a sound. Marilyn watched him go.
“The way he’s behaving, you’d think I was divorcing him,” she said.
“I don’t suppose it matters how old you are; if your parents divorce, it has to hurt.”
Marilyn grabbed a coat hanging on a rack near the door and stepped out of the house onto the portico, closing the door behind her. She pulled on the coat, pressed a hand against my shoulder, and nudged me along the porch.
“Twenty people live in this house,” she said. “Privacy is an illusion.”
We found some rattan furniture and sat on two chairs that were facing each other. The view was very nice if you like huge, open fields.
“Do you believe this weather?” Marilyn asked. “It shouldn’t be this cold in April, should it?”
“Minnesota,” I said. “What are you going to do?”
“How’s your shoulder?”
I lied and told Marilyn it was feeling much better.
“I heard my father and Randy screaming at each other after we left Salsa Girl Thursday afternoon,” she said. “I know it was Randy who planted the bomb in Erin’s truck.”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but—you’re not going to…”
“Shoot Randy?”
“Call the authorities.”
“Probably not to either thought, and believe me, I’ve had both.”
“It’s because of her, isn’t it—Erin Peterson? That’s why he hasn’t been arrested.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I should be grateful to her or not.”
“I’d pick grateful, but that’s just me.”
“Why have you come here, McKenzie?”
“I have questions.”
“About Randy?”
“What did he say happened to his face?”
“He claimed he was injured while trying to protect a woman from her abusive boyfriend—a woman named Alice Pfeifer who works for Salsa Girl Salsa. Of course he was lying. I love my son, McKenzie, but he would never put himself at risk to help someone else. Part of that is because of how he was raised—this house, the people who live in it. We should never have raised him in this house. We should have … There’s a lot of things I should have done for that boy that we didn’t. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I’m not sure that I ever did. What kind of mother does that make me?”
I didn’t answer. Marilyn hadn’t expected me to.
“Do you know how Randy really was hurt?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me?”
“His story sounds better.”
“His grandfather certainly likes it. So does Brian.”
“Where is Brian?”
“He was told to stay in Chicago.”
“By whom?”
“My father. For the record, when I told him about Brian’s affair, my father blamed me. He said that Brian would never have committed such a grievous sin against God and man if I had been a better wife to him. Do you know what I mean by a better wife?”
“I can guess.”
“My father has called an emergency meeting of his executive staff to decide how best to deal with the Brian Problem. That’s what he calls it—the Brian Problem. He wants to oust him from the company with the minimum impact on business. He’s also meeting with a divorce attorney.”
“He’s meeting with a divorce attorney.”
“Apparently he doesn’t believe that I’m capable of dealing with such a delicate matter as my own divorce. Besides, he said there’s Bignell property and Bignell money involved. Before he left for Minneapolis this morning, he also made it official. He was so impressed by Randy’s tale of selfless courage, coupled with the initiative he took in trying to take over Erin’s company, that with Brian gone, Randy now becomes his heir apparent.”
“I wonder what the Carlson School of Management would say to that.”
“Randy draws a salary from Minnesota Foods starting Monday.”
“Not what you planned at all,” I said.
“We’ll see. Time is on my side, not my father’s. You haven’t answered my question, though—why are you here?”
“I wanted to ask, are you still having Erin followed?”
“No, why would I?”
“Are you having me followed?”
“Again no, why would I? Mr. Schroeder and his investigators have already given me everything that I needed.”
“When did you tell Brian that you knew that he was sleeping with another man?”
“Thursday evening. Why does it matter to you?”
Thursday, my inner voice told me. And the talent from Chicago began following you the next day. That works.
“What did Brian say when you told him that you had proof that he violated the infidelity clause in your prenuptial agreement?” I asked aloud.
“He said the clause works both ways. But McKenzie, I’ve never cheated on my husband. Not once in thirty-two years, and believe me, I’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
“Brian saw us speaking the night of the party. It’s possible that he’s having me followed because he hopes that we’re having an affair, that he can use it against you.”
Marilyn stared silently at me long enough for it to become uncomfortable.
“About Randy,” I said.
“McKenzie, are you married?”
“No, but—”
“Give me your cell phone.”
“Marilyn…”
“Please.”
I drew a diagram of a home plate to unlock the phone and handed it to her. Marilyn tapped the face about fifteen times and paused. I heard the cell phone that she carried in her pocket ring. She tapped the face again, and the ringing stopped. She handed back the phone.
“If you’re interested, call me in a couple of months,” she said.
I didn’t say if I would or wouldn’t, just nodded my head and slipped the phone into my own pocket.
“What about Randy?” Marilyn asked.
“Nothing.”
“The people who hurt him—how much trouble is he in?”
“He’s not in trouble anymore. At least I don’t think so.”
“Did you help him?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You helped her, Salsa Girl. By helping her, you inadvertently helped Randy, too. That must have been what happened. You wouldn’t have bothered otherwise, would you?”
I slipped a hand beneath the sling and caressed my bandage.
“No, probably not. But Marilyn, keep an eye on him. If you notice him freaking out for some reason, if he’s hurt again, give me a call.”
“Thank you. I will.”
I took my leave after that. Marilyn walked me to my car yet didn’t say a word until we reached the Mustang.
“About Salsa Girl,” she said. “Tell her … tell her that I am grateful. Tell her that I’ll remember.”
“I will.”
“By the way, did you ever find out who she really is?”
“I told you. She’s my friend.”
* * *
I drove the Mustang down the long, narrow private road until it intersected a county thoroughfare that led me around the city of Cambridge. That’s when I picked him up in my rearview mirror—the black Acura.
“So that’s where you were,” I said aloud. “Staking out Marilyn.”
His sudden presence so close to the Bignell estate more or less convinced me that I had guessed right, that Brian Sax had hired him. I thought of stopping the Mustang, letting the driver come up on my bumper, and asking him about it. But where was the fun in that? I wondered. Besides, what if I was mistaken?
I led the Acura to Highway 65 and drove south. The driver stayed a quarter mile behind me and on my right. Very professional.
As much as I hated to use my cell phone when I was driving, I put in a call to Herzog.
“What now?” he said.
“I’m being followed.”
“The black Acura or someone else?”
“It’s the Acura again.”
“You got a plan?”
“Yeah, I have a plan, but you’re not going like it.”
“Is this plan anything like what we did yesterday?”
“Pretty close.”
“’Kay, but here’s the thing. It’s gonna cost you ’nother five grand and you’re gonna do all the heavy lifting.”
“That works for me.”
“I don’t wanna see no fuckin’ Dyson this time, neither.”
“Amen to that.”
* * *
Exactly thirty minutes later I drove into the same parking lot near Chopper’s building as the evening before. Herzog had picked the spot because he figured it would make the driver less anxious than being led out of the city to some isolated location and because he already knew there were no cameras anywhere nearby; that was the kind of thing Herzog paid attention to. There were plenty of high-rise condos and apartment buildings, of course, but we were far enough away from them that anyone who bothered to look outside their windows would only see a couple of indistinguishable figures in the distance.
Herzog was already parked in the lot. I drove past his SUV and stopped my Mustang about thirty spaces away and at a right angle to him. The black Acura slowed and came to a halt on the street. I don’t know if he had ID’d Herzog’s vehicle or not. I removed the sling for the same reason that I had when I met with Reyes the day before and slipped out of the Mustang. I leaned against it while giving the Acura what Victoria Dunston called a microwave, holding my gloved hand still while slightly wagging my fingers.
I half expected the car to drive away. Instead, it pulled in to the lot and slowly proceeded to a spot about three car lengths away from where I was standing. The car stopped again, its driver’s side door was opened, and a man slid out; I noticed that he kept the motor running.
It was the first time I got a good look at the man who had been identified as Levi Chandler. He was about my age and dressed in a wool overcoat that made him look like he worked in one of the tall buildings that made up the Minneapolis skyline. He threw a glance over his shoulder to where Herzog’s SUV was parked.
“Is your friend going to join us?” he asked.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Chandler closed the door and circled the Acura. I folded my arms over my chest as he approached even though it caused my shoulder to throb.
“You’ve been following me,” I said. “Why? Were you too shy to just walk up and say hello?”
“My boss wanted to know everything about you before we talked.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Carson Brazill.”
Not Brian Sax, my inner voice said. Although it could be his lover, I suppose.
“I don’t know him,” I said aloud.
“He knows you.”
“What does he know?”
“He knows where you live. He knows some of your friends. He knows about your woman and the club she owns in St. Paul. It’s a nice club. I’ve been there.”
“Do you know which way is east?”
“East? What?”
“Do you know which direction is east from where you’re standing?”
Chandler glanced around as if looking for a sign. He found the sun over his left shoulder and pointed to the right.
“Turn that way,” I said.
He looked at me as if he were unsure whether I was pranking him or not. I gestured with my chin. He turned to his right. I flicked my hand at Herzog’s SUV, and a red dot of light from a laser sight centered on Chandler’s chest. He brought his hand up as if he wanted to brush the dot away, just as Reyes had done, but then let it drop. He actually straightened up, his hands at his side, as if bravely facing a firing squad.
“Is this supposed to frighten me?” he asked.
“It frightens me, and I’m not the one who’s going to be shot.”
“What do you want?”
“You’re the guy who’s been following me around. You’re the guy who’s threatening the people I care about.”
“I didn’t threaten—”
“What do you want, Levi?” I deliberately used Chandler’s first name. It’s an old cop trick designed to make the suspect feel inferior.
“My boss wants to speak with you, Rushmore.”
So he knows the tricks of the trade, too, my inner voice said.
“Fine,” I said aloud. “Get him on the phone.”
“He wants to meet with you in person.”
“Oh? Somewhere we can have each other shot with high-powered rifles?”
“Somewhere public. Somewhere where we can all feel safe. How about Rickie’s?”
I took a step toward him and raised my left hand. I made sure Chandler saw me do it.
“If you go anywhere near that place again I’ll kill you,” I said. “Do you understand?”
He stared at my hand as if I were the one holding the rifle.
“Do you understand?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t go anywhere near Rickie’s again,” Chandler said.
“You claim you know all about me. Then you know I’m not fucking with you. Not about this.”
“This doesn’t need to be a thing.”
“Then don’t make it one.”
I stepped backward and slowly lowered my arm until my hand was resting against my thigh. I didn’t feel the pain the gesture had caused my shoulder until I heard Chandler sigh.
“Look, McKenzie,” he said. “It really doesn’t need to be a thing. Talk to the man. He’s not going away until you do, and then afterward we can all go home.”
My inner voice repeated what it had said the evening before. Who did you piss off in Chicago?
“Mall of America,” I said aloud. “Are you familiar?”
“Near the airport. What about it?”
“Third floor, south food court, across from Panda Express. Have Brazill meet me there in thirty minutes. In thirty-one minutes, I’ll be gone.”
“Panda Express? Are you kidding me?”
“You don’t need to eat it. Now get out of here.”
Chandler moved cautiously to the driver’s side of his Acura. The fact that the red dot stayed with him each step of the way made him nervous. Eventually he drove off. I went to the back of the Mustang and popped the trunk. Inside the trunk were the gym bag still filled with the $15,000, the Taurus nine-millimeter, Nick Dyson’s IDs, and Randy’s flip-phone. I took out $5,000 and closed the bag and the trunk. By then Herzog had driven up. He unrolled the window, and I handed him the cash. He handed it to whoever was sitting behind him. I didn’t bother to look for a face.
“So, what?” Herzog asked.
I told him.
“Mall of America,” Herzog said. “Want me to go with you?”
“I’d like that very much, but you know those people. Black man like you—security would be watching every step you took from the moment you entered the mall until you left. I want to be safe, but I also want to move about unnoticed.”
“They have metal detectors everywhere, McKenzie. You’ll never get a piece inside the building.”
“Neither will Brazill and his people.”
“Yeah, I gitcha. ’Kay. Give me a call later. Let me know if I should be worried.”
I said I would.
* * *
The Mall of America, just south of the Twin Cities in Bloomington, might have been the most secure building in Minnesota. It had its own on-site police precinct, K-9 units including bomb-sniffing dogs, 150 security guards, many in plainclothes, bicycle patrols around the perimeter, holding cells in the basement, and a dispatch center that monitored God knew how many cameras in the mall itself plus its various parking ramps. It wasn’t only that it wanted to protect its 520 stores, 50 restaurants, half-dozen museums and theme parks, 12,000 employees, and 35 million-plus yearly visitors. Apparently it also feared African Americans, Hispanics, anyone who looked Somali or Muslim, shoppers who wore apparel that was likely to cause a disturbance, whatever that meant, and teenagers. Teenagers were forbidden to enter the MOA after 4:00 P.M. unless accompanied by an adult.
I had only been in the place a half-dozen times in the past twenty-five years and never as a result of my own free will. I remembered the Panda Express from the last visit, though; don’t ask me why. I was seated at a small round table in the food court opposite the fast food joint, my leather coat draped over the back of the chair, and sipping a root beer from the A&W. I had the distinct impression that I was being watched, although I couldn’t tell with any certainty who was doing the watching. I attempted to observe the people around me without being obvious about it. There were many dozens. They all seemed suspicious to me.
I once dated the woman who created the MOA’s original theme line—There’s a place for fun in your life … Mall of America. Only I couldn’t imagine anyone having fun in what was ostensibly a colossal shopping center. At least I didn’t.
My all-purpose watch told me that Brazill was tardy. I was tempted to blow him off, see how much he liked it, when I saw Chandler approaching with a deliberate gait. There was a man walking with him, only not as fast; Chandler needed to slow down so he could catch up. I placed him at about sixty, with white hair and a three-piece Tom Ford suit. He looked like a guy whose idea of fast food was a four-course meal at the Commodore, a bar and restaurant where F. Scott Fitzgerald once hung out.
When they reached my table, Chandler said, “Mr. Brazill, this is—”
“McKenzie,” Brazill said.
He made no attempt to shake my hand, so I didn’t try to shake his. Instead, I sucked the rest of the root beer through the straw until I hit the bottom of my paper cup and started making a loud slurping sound.
“You’re late,” I said.
Chandler rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe I was behaving like such a putz.
Clearly he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does, my inner voice said.
Brazill glared at me as if he were trying to melt my face with his X-ray vision. I made a production out of looking at my watch.
“So, you want to talk, what?” I said.
Chandler grabbed a plastic chair and held it for Brazill. Brazill glared at him, too, as he sat at the table. Neither of them removed his winter coat.
“I don’t like being followed,” I said. “It makes me uneasy.”
“I don’t care,” Brazill said. “I have some questions to ask, and you’re going to answer them. Make no mistake about that, McKenzie. You’re going to answer them. We can do it the easy way or we can do it the hard way, but you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”
“Wow, that was impressive.”
It really was, my inner voice said.
“I might have been frightened, too,” I said aloud. “If I knew who you were.”
“If you were from Chicago, you would know Mr. Brazill,” Chandler said.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t Chicago. Fellas, there’s a thing we call Minnesota Nice. It’s all about being polite and courteous even to people we dislike intensely, like minorities. If you act nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Or not. You never know. Give it a try, see what happens.”
Chandler rolled his eyes some more. Brazill leaned in close to me.
“Where’s Christine Olson?” he said.
I tried hard not to react to the name. Apparently I didn’t do a very good job of it, because Chandler said, “What?” I leaned back in my chair and regarded Brazill carefully before glancing up at him.
“Christine Olson, the woman who went missing in Chicago fifteen years ago?” I said. “That Christine Olson?”
“You do know who she is,” Brazill said.
“I don’t. I really don’t. I came across her name while I was searching for someone else.”
“Don’t lie to me, McKenzie.”
I wagged my finger at Brazill.
“I’d be offended by that suggestion,” I told him, “except I have no idea what you’re talking about. How would you know what research I’m doing? Why would you care?”
“I’ve been searching for this woman for fifteen years. You’re going to tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know. Who is this woman, anyway? Who is she to you? A relative? A friend?”
“She has something that belongs to me, and I want it back. Now, where is she?”
The food court grew quiet; heads turned toward us.
“Hey, pal,” I said. “This is the Mall of America. You’re not allowed to raise your voice here.”
Brazill glared some more but said nothing.
“McKenzie,” Chandler said, “you told us that you came across Christine’s name while searching for someone else. Who?”
“I saw Christine’s photos on the missing persons website. It’s not the same woman.”
Chandler and Brazill exchanged glances as if I had told them something important. This time I was the one who asked, “What?”
“Who were you looking for?” Chandler asked.
“I told you, it’s not the same person.”
Brazill slapped the tabletop. “Who?”
Brazill’s outburst caused more silence and more head-turning. A security guard with a white shirt, gold badge, and blue patch on his shoulder approached from the right. A plainclothes guard moved on us from the left. Two other men, both wearing suits, rose from their tables. They didn’t look like they worked for the MOA, though. They looked like they worked for Brazill.
“Now see what you’ve done,” I said.
The plainclothes man was the first to reach us. He showed a gold badge, flashing it with pride just the way I used to when I was with the cops.
“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” he asked.
“It’s none of your goddamned business,” Brazill said.
“Sir, you will lower your voice.”
“Fuck you.”
Brazill’s two henchmen closed on the table. Counting Chandler, he now had three associates surrounding the two fifteen-dollar-an-hour security guards who were flanking him and me.
The security guard remained calm, probably because he knew reinforcements were on the way. “What is your business in the mall?” he asked.
Brazill glared at him.
I had a terrible feeling that this was about to become a Dyson moment, so I stood slowly. I smiled, making sure everyone could see the smile, while I slipped my jacket off the back of the chair.
“I ask you,” I said. “If a man can’t have a quiet root beer in the Mall of America, where can he? This is all going on my Yelp review.”
Brazill glared some more.
I made my way to the corridor, slowing only long enough to deposit my paper cup in the waste bin and put on my coat. By then more security guards were descending on the food court. I wondered if Brazill was dumb enough to pick a fight with them. I hoped he would. In any case, I didn’t bother to look back.