The Devil May Care (11 page)

The chief spoke to his officer like a teacher lecturing a student who hadn't been paying attention in class. “Because he's currently in Two Twelve Medical Center with a shattered leg and a concussion, the result of a car accident on Highway 7.”

I might have told the chief that Nunez had plenty of help—the drivers of the red Sentra and black Cadillac DTS I saw at Navarre's house came to mind. I became distracted when he pressed a beefy index finger against my shoulder and said, “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, McKenzie? A pile-up on Highway 7?”

“No, why would I?”

The chief stared at me as if he expected the steely glare in his eyes and the scowl on his face would be enough to cause me to break down and confess. When that didn't work, he said, “I think we'll have a talk with Mr. Nunez.”

“I'd like to be there,” I said.

“This is police business,” Tschida told me. “You police?”

I returned the phone to my pocket. “See you guys around,” I said and resumed my walk to the patio. I half expected the cops to call me back. They didn't.

*   *   *

The three women were sitting so that they faced the burnt-out restaurant, their backs to the patio table. Mary Pat Mulally sensed my approach. She turned her head expectantly, yet when she saw that it was I her expression became disappointed. Riley Brodin recognized Mary Pat's frustration and rubbed the back of her shoulder.

“He'll be here soon,” she said.

The third women didn't speak, although she clutched Mary Pat's hand as if she feared the consequences of letting go. Up close I recognized her as the young maître d' who greeted me when I came to Casa del Lago the day before—Maria.

“I'm so sorry about what happened,” I said.

“Who would do such a thing?” Mary Pat wanted to know. “Why?”

I caught Riley's face. Her expression gave nothing away.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Was it the people who were watching, the kid in the Chevy Impala you talked to?” Mary Pat asked.

“The police are checking it out.”

“I told the police about the people watching the restaurant,” Mary Pat said, “and the private investigator looking for Juan Carlos. I told them about you, McKenzie. They didn't believe me, the police. They wanted this to be an accident, a wire shorting out, a grease fire. When the fire marshal told them it was arson, they seemed disappointed, like it was a big inconvenience to them.

“McKenzie, I don't know what to do. What if the insurance company denies my claim because—I think they call it the arson defense. If they suspect the fire was deliberately set, they won't pay off even if I didn't set it.”

“We don't know that yet,” Riley said. “My father will be here any minute.”

“If they don't pay…” Mary Pat ceased speaking as if it were too painful to finish the sentence. After a few moments she said, “Look at my place.”

It seemed like a really bad time to ask if anyone had seen Navarre, so I didn't. Instead, I waited. I tried to lure Riley away with head gestures so I could speak to her privately, only she would have none of it. Finally a man approached.

“He's here,” Riley said.

Alex Brodin had a round face that didn't like the sun and a round body that was wrapped in a crisp blue suit expertly tailored to accommodate his girth. The suit dripped of money, and so did the platinum watch around his wrist. I didn't know what Sheila Brodin had seen in him. I suppose he might have been an athlete once; he might even have been handsome. Now he looked to me like a man who made his living selling tips at Canterbury Park racetrack.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” he announced to the group.

“Good morning, Dad,” Riley said.

The way Brodin looked at her—I should say the way he didn't look at her—there was something workmanlike about it. As if he were a painter and she were the side of a house. His feelings toward his daughter were all business.

“Good morning,” he said. He moved to the table and stood in front of Mary Pat. “I spoke to the insurance company. There will be an investigation just as I told you over the phone. They will be looking for motive and what they call opportunity evidence that implicates you in setting the fire.”

Mary Pat cried out in pain and sorrow. Brodin continued speaking as if she hadn't made a sound.

“You must be prepared to produce your business records and answer questions,” he said. “And make your key employees available to answer questions as well.”

“You mean me?” Maria asked. She released Mary Pat's hand as if she had suddenly learned it was radioactive.

“Everyone,” Brodin said.

“How long will it take?” Mary Pat asked.

“The company refuses to commit to a timetable. You can expect that their investigators will be thorough. The company has a fiduciary responsibility to its shareholders, after all.”

Mary Pat barely had enough voice to get the words out. “What about my place?”

Even the birds that flew in the clear blue sky above knew she was hanging by an emotional thread.

“This is why we insisted that you buy business interruption insurance.” Brodin seemed pleased with himself when he said it. “You'll have enough money to make your mortgage payments and compensate your vital employees for six months.”

“That won't fix my restaurant. I need the money to rebuild before winter sets in, before my repeat customers forget about me, or I could lose everything.”

“It's doubtful the insurance company will make a determination anytime soon. Nor can we be confident that its decision will go in your favor.”

“What about you? You can loan me what I need to rebuild, and when I settle with the insurance company, I can pay you back.”

“I'm afraid my hands are tied.”

“What does that mean?” Riley asked.

Brodin didn't answer his daughter. Instead, he spoke directly to Mary Pat. “Minnetonka Community is already carrying a sizable loan on the business…”

“I was paying it off,” Mary Pat insisted. “I was ahead of schedule. The restaurant was making good money.”

“I appreciate that. Unfortunately, it's a matter of collateral.” Brodin gestured toward the burnt-out restaurant. “You no longer have much.”

“Are you saying you won't help me?”

“There's only so much that I can do.”

“I'll sign for the loan,” Riley said. “I have plenty of collateral.”

Brodin studied his daughter the way a parent does when he feels his authority is being challenged.

“If that doesn't satisfy your … bank, then I'll make the loan myself,” she added.

“You don't understand,” Brodin said.

“If that doesn't work out, I'll loan Mary Pat the money she needs,” I said.

Riley spun to face me, a surprised expression on her freckled face. Brodin stared as if he were estimating my income, subtracting my overhead, and coming up with a balance in the red.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name's McKenzie, and I have five million dollars that I can convert to cash in seventy-two hours.”

“That fucking McKenzie,” Brodin muttered in reply. He glared at Riley as if he couldn't believe that she would allow herself to be seen in public with such a disreputable character.

“I take it you've heard of me,” I said.

“My father-in-law hates your guts.”

“Now you know why.”

“This is all moot.” Brodin's voice became indignant. “First, we must wait to hear what the insurance company has to say. Of course, Ms. Mulally, one way or another Minnetonka Community Bank will find a way to accommodate you.”

Mary Pat reached out and grabbed his hand as if Brodin had just done her a favor.

“Thank you,” she said.

“We must get inspectors in here to provide a detailed analysis of the damage…”

“Yes.”

“And, of course, reliable contractors to estimate the cost of repairs.”

“Yes,” Mary Pat repeated. She stood. The expression on her face went from despair to cheerful just like that. It was as if she could see the future. “I know people. I'll start making calls.”

“I'll speak to my people as well.”

“What people?” Riley asked. “You're president of the bank. You own the damn thing.”

“Riley.” Brodin was unable or unwilling to disguise his anger. “You have no idea how things work.”

He left the patio and walked briskly to his car. Maria watched him go. She looked as if she were wrestling with the question of whether she should stay or leave as well. Mary Pat provided the solution when she took the young woman's arm.

“We must ask the firemen if it's okay to go inside now,” Mary Pat said. “There is much work to be done.”

Before she left the patio, though, Mary Pat turned to me.

“Why did you say what you did?” she asked. “We don't even know each other.”

“Partly to help you and partly to annoy Brodin,” I said.
Which is pretty much the reason you're assisting Riley,
my inner voice reminded me. “Partly because a man all but accused me the other day of doing nothing with my money except buying toys to play with. This was my chance to be a philanthropist.”

She reached out and touched my arm. “Thank you,” she said.

The touch and words somehow closed my throat. I couldn't speak. Instead, I nodded my reply and watched as Mary Pat and Maria left the patio and made their way to the fire truck.

Damn, McKenzie,
my inner voice said.

“That was awfully kind of you,” Riley said.

“I'm a helluva guy,” I told her, and for half a second, I actually believed it. “Besides, it showed me something, the way you stood up for your friend. It made me want to stand up for her, too.”

“I'm a helluva girl.”

You're certainly an interesting girl,
my inner voice said.

I took Riley's arm and gently led her to the railing, where we stood and looked out over Gideon Bay. There was a boat in the center of the bay just bobbing along.

“Have you seen Navarre?” I asked. “Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A couple of hours. I came as soon as I heard.”

“Navarre didn't show?”

“Why would he?”

“I didn't want to say anything in front of Mary Pat or the cops, but I think that's why the fire was set. A lot of people believe Navarre owns Casa del Lago. For some reason he wants them to believe that. I believe the fire was set to draw him out of hiding. Think about it. If someone torched your place, wouldn't you show up?”

“Why, though? Who? The kid in the parking lot that Mary Pat mentioned?”

I figured it was a good time to come clean, so I showed Riley the photos I took with my smartphone and told her what I had learned.

“Mexican Mafia?” she said.

“Not the
actual
Mexican Mafia. A street gang in West St. Paul.”

“What has that to do with Juan Carlos? He's not from Mexico. He's from Spain. He's only been in the U.S. for six months. How could he have anything to do with a gang that doesn't even exist anymore?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know or you don't want to tell me?”

“I've told you everything.” The expression on her face suggested she didn't believe me. “Have you told me everything you know?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Riley asked.

“Mary Pat said it was a banker who told Juan Carlos that she was looking for a silent partner to invest in her restaurant. It wasn't a banker. It was you.”

“My father—”

“It was you.”

“Through my father. Juan Carlos said he was looking for business opportunities, and I knew that Mary Pat was looking for investors, so I had my father hook them up. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I'm just trying to put all the pieces together.”

“Mary Pat is my friend.”

“How did you two meet?”

“What difference does it make?”

“She's a decade older than you are.”

“No, only six and a half years. Besides, what has that to do with anything? You're worse than my family, prying into my life.”

“Is that what I'm doing?”

“What would you call it?”

“Trying really hard to do what you asked me to do—find your boyfriend. You are a moody young lady, you know that?”

She chuckled and said, “I've been called worse.”

“By who?”

“My family. Who else would have the nerve?”

“Tell me about your family.”

“You're prying again.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Look—we don't get along, simple as that, okay?”

“That was my impression. Why don't you get along?”

“Why, why, why—I don't know. Because I'm a Muehlenhaus and he's not. I mean—my father owns a bank. Lake Minnetonka Community. Well, you know that. It's a small bank, caters mostly to the lake crowd. At least that's where his biggest depositors come from. He wouldn't have any depositors at all, though, if he hadn't married into my family, and he knows it. I think he resents it.”

“Your grandfather supports him?”

“His name does. Without it, there would have been no organizing group, no state charter, no shareholders. As for money, I don't think Grandpa has a dime in the bank himself.”

“What about your mother?”

“She doesn't have any money in the bank, either, which shouldn't come as a shock since she and my father separated when I was a child.”

“Separated—not divorced?”

“It's complicated. When it comes to money, everything is complicated.”

“What about Navarre? Does he have cash in your father's bank?”

“Quite a bit, I think.”