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  “I’d like to tell him where to go,” Jones said.

  “It’s bullshit,” the officer said. “No law against that, though. I shooed him away, but that don’t mean he’s going to stay away.”

  “We were thinking the same thing,” Smith said.

  “Keep an eye out. What else can I say?”

  “We will,” said Jones. “Thanks, Officer.”

  “Have a beer on me.”

  Smith took a Summit out from behind the desk and saluted the officer with it. Jones and I did the same as the officer left the building and returned to his vehicle. We watched him drive away through the big windows.

  Now what? my inner voice asked yet again.

  If I see Chandler again, I’ll attempt to have a conversation with him, I told myself. Hopefully, it will be as uneventful as the one he had with the officer. In the meantime …

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, guys,” I said.

  “We appreciate the beer,” Smith said.

  “If I find anything lying around in the corridor, I’ll be sure to bring it to the lost and found.”

  “You know,” Jones said, “Billy Joel is coming to town.”

  “As it turns out, I know a guy.”

  I left them after that and took the elevator to my condominium. On the way my inner voice asked, Who did you piss off in Chicago?

  ELEVEN

  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.”
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br />   “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?”