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  “You said you don’t know who hit you, either,” Nina said.

  “No, but I’ll find out who he is, too. I have his license plate number.”

  “If it was the man in the Camry. If it was a man. You don’t even know that for sure.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Then what?”

  “That depends on what I find out. I might decide to crawl back under the covers and never leave my bedroom again.”

  “There’s a thought.”

  “I noticed you haven’t dressed yet.”

  Nina ate another sausage.

  “Why would I?” she said. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  I reached for her. She caught my hands.

  “What do the commercials say, ‘Ask your doctor if you’re healthy enough for sex’?”

  “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

  * * *

  It turned out that Nina was lying when she said she had nowhere to go. There was Rickie’s, always Rickie’s.

  After she left, I put myself back together and dressed in gym shoes, shorts, and a shirt. I sat at my desk and used my landline to call Sergeant Billy Turner, who ran the SPPD’s Missing Persons Unit. He worked out of the James S. Griffin Building, named after the African-American deputy chief who helped desegregate the department back in the day. Turner, who was also black, played hockey, didn’t hold it against me that I exchanged my badge for the reward, and wasn’t afraid of Bobby Dunston, which made him a true minority in my book.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and he asked, “what do you need, McKenzie?”

  “Can you run a license plate for me?”

  “Not now, but if you give it to me, I can get back to you later this afternoon.”

  I recited the number.

  “Is this going to get me in trouble with the bosses upstairs?” Turner asked. “Bobby D gonna come down here and give me shit about what we can do and can’t do for civvies like you?”

  “Not if you don’t tell ’im.”

  “You guys still playing?” Turner asked.

  “Nah. Our season ended the final week of March. You?”

  “We have games till the last week of April, and I’m thinking that’s too long, man. I know guys who play hockey all year round, but when summer comes, I just can’t do it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “It seems abnormal to play puck when it’s eighty degrees outside. There’s a time for everything, you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  * * *

  I decided to head down to the second-floor gym and get in an hour’s work. I don’t exercise just to look fit, although I do—a fine figure of a man, trust me on this. Occasionally, though, I’ve been required to perform vigorous activities, like those I had planned for the driver of the Toyota Camry, and taking a brisk walk around the park wasn’t going to cut it. Especially at my advanced age. I was also a member of a martial arts academy in St. Paul where I’d go from time to time to spar, but my headache had disappeared at about the same time Nina had removed the tray from our bed and I didn’t want to risk a recurrence.

  First I took the elevator to the ground floor and approached the security desk. The guards were wearing blue suits with name tags that read SMITH and JONES.

  “Gentlemen,” I said.

  “McKenzie,” said Jones.

  “What’s going on? Anything exciting?”

  “No, it’s been very quiet.”

  “We wouldn’t mind changing that, though,” Smith said.

  They had both made it clear when Nina and I first moved in that they knew who I was and wouldn’t mind at all if I found ways to alleviate their boredom.

  “I’ve got two things for you,” I said. “First, keep an eye out for a blue Toyota Camry.” I recited the license plate number. “Let me know if you see it on the street.”

  They both glanced down at the monitors on their desk that gave them a clear view of the perimeter of the building as if they expected it to appear right then and there.

  “Something else,” I said. “You guys don’t actually work for the owners of the building, do you?”

  “No,” Smith said. “We’re employees of the security firm that works for the owners of the building.”

  “Your firm supplies security for a lot of places in downtown Minneapolis.”

  “It does.”

  “What about the apartment building on Second Street on the far side of the Guthrie? I noticed the guys over there were wearing the same kind of jackets as you do.”

  “Yeah, that’s us.”

  “I’m hoping you can do a favor for me on the down low.”

  They both smiled.

  “I know it’s against the rules,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to get you guys in trouble.”

  They kept smiling.

  “If you could reach out to your colleagues,” I said.

  “We can do that,” Smith said.

  “There was a woman, five-six, one-twenty, blond, blue eyes, dressed in a white shirt and dark blue jacket and skirt. She entered the building at about ten fifteen last night. Ask your colleagues who she went over there to see.”

  Smith and Jones glanced at each other. They seemed disappointed.

  “Is that all?” Jones said.

  “Don’t you want to know who the woman is?” Smith said. “What she was driving?”

  “I already have that.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah, we can make a call.”

  “I appreciate that. It’s too bad your firm has a policy that forbids you from accepting gratuities.”

  “We’ve always thought so,” said Smith.

  “Tell me, though—did you ever find out who left that case of Irish whiskey in the hallway that I turned in to the lost and found awhile back?”

  “We didn’t,” Jones said. “But the night shift must have, because you know what? It disappeared right after.”

  “Hmm.”

  * * *

  I didn’t hit the gym as hard as I had intended. I just didn’t have the energy. I blamed Nina and not the events of the previous evening. Afterward, I showered again and dressed. I finished off what was left of the breakfast sausages Nina had made and went to my TV. It was Wednesday afternoon, and the MLB Network was broadcasting a get-away day game out of Camden Yards in Baltimore. I got in two innings before my landline rang.

  “McKenzie,” Sergeant Billy Turner said.

  “Billy,” I said in reply.

  “The guy you’re looking at, his name is Darren Coyle.” Billy added an address in Columbia Heights. “You could’ve found that out by yourself, though.”

  “Yeah, but it would have required a little work, and you know how much I like to avoid that. What can you tell me about him?”

  Over the phone line I heard a sudden chill followed by a cheerful “Not a damned thing.”

  “Is he in the system?”

  “Nope.”

  I might have believed him, yet Billy answered so quickly that I was sure he was lying. He didn’t say he anticipated my question and ran Coyle after learning his name and address, for example. That told me Billy knew exactly who Coyle was. There were only three reasons why he wouldn’t say so.

  Coyle was the target of an investigation.

  Coyle was an asset, a CI perhaps.

  Coyle was a cop.

  Why would a cop whack me on the head? I asked myself.

  Why wouldn’t he? my inner voice answered.

  “Thanks, Billy,” I said. “I owe you.”

  “Take care, man.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at my watch, which, in addition to telling time, counted the steps I took, the miles I walked, the calories I burned, and the beats of my heart. Right then my heart rate was higher than usual.

  I was convinced Billy only told me Coyle’s name and address because he knew I could find them on my own. In Minnesota, civilians are no longer allowed to run the license plate of someone else’s vehicle,
but there are ways even if you don’t have friends with legal access who are willing to bend the rules.

  The question was—why were the police watching Salsa Girl?

  If they’re watching Erin, my inner voice said.

  I figured I’d find out soon enough. If the cops now knew that I knew what they were doing, I estimated it would take about two hours before someone reached out and told me to back off.

  Unless whoever is running Coyle is smart enough not to confirm Coyle’s status by calling you.

  Unless Billy is telling the truth and Coyle really isn’t in the system, which means he isn’t a cop, which means he’s working for someone else.

  Unless Coyle knocked a screw loose when he hit you and now you’re jumping to conclusions.

  “We’ll see,” I said aloud.

  * * *

  I returned to the ball game and settled in to wait. My landline rang during the seventh-inning stretch. I glanced at my watch.

  That didn’t take long at all, my inner voice said.

  I answered the phone. However, instead of a menacing voice threatening my life unless I listened to reason, I heard a far more chipper voice say, “McKenzie, it’s Smith from downstairs.”

  I was actually disappointed.

  “Hey, Smith,” I said.

  “I have what you wanted. At exactly ten seventeen—the guys over there are sticklers about noting when people come and go. So are we. Anyway, at ten seventeen Ms. Christine Olson arrived to see Mr. John Ripley—”

  “Wait. Christine Olson?”

  “That’s the name she used. I thought you knew who she was.”

  “I thought I did, too. Also, Ripley?”

  Not Brian Sax like Nina thought, my inner voice said.

  “John Ripley, yeah. A company based in California called Central Valley International owns the apartment. It’s used by its executives whenever they’re in town on business. I guess it’s a lot of business if the company is willing to spring for a luxury apartment with a view of the river.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “McKenzie, we’ve been talking it over…”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “We hate to be presumptuous, but the Red Sox are coming to Target Field this weekend, and if you were to find some tickets lying around…”

  “You never know.”

  * * *

  I went to my computer and Googled Central Valley International. It was a ninety-seven-year-old consumer goods and farm products company located in one of the most productive agricultural regions in the world, California’s Central Valley. It packaged and distributed mostly freshly prepared food products made from the fruits, vegetables, and nuts grown in the valley to restaurants, stores, and other customers worldwide through three separate divisions. It was credited with helping to establish the California avocado industry in the mid-1920s, as well as markets for limes, coconuts, kiwis, mangos, persimmons, and papayas. Two different investment research groups ranked the company’s stock as “a great value pick.”

  John Ripley was listed as an executive vice president for fresh products sales.

  * * *

  When I finished with Central Valley, I went to the Minnesota Twins website, bought four tickets for Saturday’s Red Sox game, and printed them out. I folded the sheets neatly and slipped them into my pocket. I promised myself I’d stop at the security desk while on my way to the underground parking garage to deliver the tickets to Smith and Jones, keeping up the charade by telling them that I found the tickets in the elevator and asking that they be placed in the building’s lost and found. That’s what you’re supposed to do with recovered property, right? And I’m a guy who always does what you’re supposed to do.

  Before I left the condo, I went to my secret room. Yes, I said secret room. It was hidden behind a bookcase between the fireplace and the south wall and was the major reason why I let Nina talk me into moving to a high-rise condominium in Minneapolis (and haven’t my friends across the river in St. Paul been giving me grief about it ever since).

  I do like my gadgets, and you have to admit, this one was pretty cool. To access the room, you needed to nudge the corner of the bookcase just so until you heard a click and then swing it outward to reveal an eight-by-ten carpeted chamber. I tripped a sensor when I entered, and a ceiling light flicked on. There was hockey equipment in there, plus golf clubs, bats, balls, and a baseball glove I hadn’t used in over a decade. A safe was filled with $40,000 worth of tens and twenties, credit cards, and a driver’s license and passport with my picture and someone else’s name. A few years ago I had to disappear for a while, and it was difficult because I wasn’t prepared; now I am.

  There was also a gun cabinet with six weapons, four of them registered. I retrieved a nine-millimeter SIG Sauer and holster, made sure it was loaded, and positioned the gun and holster off my right hip beneath my sports jacket. I knew it wouldn’t have done me any good the night before when Darren Coyle attacked me from behind. I promised myself the next time I met the man, it would be face-to-face.

  * * *

  I left my Mustang in the underground garage. Instead I drove a beaten-up Jeep Cherokee that I had owned since long before I became a millionaire; Coyle hadn’t seen the Cherokee. I drove to Salsa Girl Salsa. This time, though, I tried to be clever about it. I entered from the east side of the industrial park and wandered up and down the various side streets searching for a blue Toyota Camry and didn’t find one. Nor was Coyle parked on Pelham Boulevard. I left the Cherokee in the back lot, used the Salsa Girl loading dock entrance, and made my way to the office.

  Alice must have been getting used to seeing me around, because she gave me a wave when I marched down the corridor, followed by a “Good afternoon, McKenzie.” A woman I hadn’t seen before, another part-timer, I decided, looked up when I passed her desk and smiled, too. Erin was less charitable.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  I sat in a chair in front of her desk without being asked.

  “John Ripley, executive vice president in charge of fresh products sales for Central Valley International,” I said.

  She responded with the same calm, unruffled voice that I had come to admire, yet I could tell by the way she leaned forward and fixed her eyes on me that the woman was furious.

  “You followed me last night,” she said.

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was following the blue Toyota Camry that was following you last night.”

  Erin leaned back in her chair.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “It picked you up when you left the parking lot.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I’m usually pretty observant about those kinds of things.”

  You are? my inner voice asked.

  “Perhaps you were too preoccupied with your late-night meeting,” I said aloud.

  “I don’t suppose you know who was driving the blue Toyota Camry?”

  “Mr. Darren Coyle. He has an address in Columbia Heights. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “He was either very upset that I made him or very protective of you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He hit me in the head with something hard and heavy, left me on the sidewalk along Second Street.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better. Erin, tell me about John Ripley, executive vice president—”

  “Close the door, please.”

  I did. By the time I returned to the desk, Erin had her Woodford Reserve out and two glasses. She filled half of one glass with the bourbon and glanced up at me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She filled the second glass to the same depth and slid it across the desk. I took a sip. I felt it in both my head and my toes.

  “You’ve asked me a question, McKenzie,” Erin said. “Knowing you, though, I presume you already have the answer.”
/>   “I didn’t investigate as thoroughly as I’d like, but based solely on its website and Wikipedia page, I’d say Central Valley International must be three or four times larger than Minnesota Foods.”

  “Closer to ten, but go ’head.”

  “You’re looking to change distributors. You told me that you wanted to screw over the Bignell family before they did it to you. This is what you had in mind.”

  “More than that. Salsa Girl was never a hobby with me, McKenzie. I never meant for it to be a boutique. I wanted a national presence and all that it entailed. Central Valley can deliver it to me. Minnesota Foods can’t. It’s as simple as that.

  “More and more, people are buying healthy, they’re buying fresh. There are chains like Whole Foods that exist solely to tap into that market. Even so, it’s very difficult to get into the stores when you only have one product to sell. The big retailers don’t want to buy from you. They want to buy from distributors—one delivery, one bill, one payment, easy administration. That’s why I needed Randy. Otherwise, Minnesota Foods probably wouldn’t have even bothered to take a meeting with me. My success there opened the door to Central Valley. Not only do they have a national presence, they sell a wider range of complementary products such as guacamole, pico de gallo, cheeses like queso fresco and asadero, panela…”

  “You can dump Minnesota Foods just like that?”

  “It’s their own fault. When they negotiated our contract, the Bignells insisted on a clause that would allow them to opt out anytime they chose for any reason. I insisted on the same option, and they agreed. They could think of a hundred reasons to part company with the inexperienced little girl, yet couldn’t imagine that I would cut ties with them. I would tell you that it’s just business, McKenzie, only it’s not. I’ve had it with those sanctimonious, self-aggrandizing, misogynist bitches. I put up with them while they were useful to me. Now they’re not. At least they won’t be.”

  “What’s the deal with Central Valley?”

  “If it goes through, they’ll buy sixty-five percent of the company. I’ll retain thirty-five percent and management responsibilities for three years. After three years, Central Valley has the option to buy me out entirely.”