What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

to stop moving and take a deep breath,” Jenness said. “She wasn’t her usual pleasant self, either. Normally, she’s like the nicest boss on the planet. She gives orders as if they’re suggestions. ‘I was thinking this would be a good idea,’ she’d say or ‘You know what I’d like to see?’ and we’d all jump to it. Only when you were in the coma, it was like ‘Hey, dummy.’ Well, not dummy. She never actually said that or anything like that. It was just the tone of her voice, you know?”

Actually, I didn’t know and I never asked Nina about it because once I had recovered enough that Nina felt comfortable raising her voice at me, we had plenty of other subjects to deal with, mostly regarding what she deemed to be my reckless and ultimately selfish behavior, even though none of what happened was actually my fault.

Among the many things that knocked her emotions out of whack were the phone calls. The shooting was mentioned in the papers and on the radio and TV and that aroused the curiosity of a lot of friends and acquaintances. Most of the people that called Nina for an update were men, including the guys I played puck with. There were also a lot of women, though, including Perrin Stewart, who was executive director of the City of Lakes Art Museum. And Erin Peterson-Gotz, who presided over Salsa Girl Salsa. And Vanessa Szerto, who owned the Szerto Corporation. And Maryanne Altavilla, who was the chief investigator in Midwest Farmers Insurance Company’s Special Investigations Unit. And Genevieve Bonalay who became my lawyer after I helped her get a client off on a murder charge.

“So many women,” she told me. She wasn’t particularly upset about it, though, because she had met most of them at one time or another and understood our relationships were, as a man once said, strictly business. Unfortunately, one name did cause her to stop and say, “What?” Penelope Glass, a songwriter I knew before Nina and I had officially committed to each other.

“Did you sleep with her?” Nina asked.

“She was the wife of an FBI agent,” I said.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, of course not.”

“Was she pretty?”

“She had blue eyes. Not as blue as yours…”

“She was very concerned about your health.”

“I hadn’t seen her in seven years,” I said.

“Then why would she be so concerned?”

“I saved her once from some New York mob guys.”

“Saving women seems to be a common occurrence with you.”

“The only woman who ever saved me was you.”

“I think that’s a non sequitur, but I like the sound of it.”

It was while Nina was bouncing off the club’s furniture that Greg Schroeder entered Rickie’s. He moved to the downstairs bar, sat on a stool, and ordered a Jameson, neat. The bartender set the straight whiskey in front of him.

“Ms. Truhler.”

Schroeder spoke soft and low in a voice that demanded action, something he had perfected while watching black-and-white Robert Mitchum movies. The bartender hesitated only for a moment before taking the hint and going off to find the boss.

Nina was not happy to see Schroeder. I don’t think she had anything against the man. The worst thing she had ever said about him was, “He’s all right.” Yet seeing him sitting in her place caused her already high level of frustration to edge upward a few notches.

“Am I in danger?” Nina wanted to know.

The question and the blunt way she asked it caused Schroeder to flinch.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“Every time I’ve seen you here it was because McKenzie hired you to protect me from some hooligans that he had unnerved.”

“Hooligans?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Nina. You’re not in any danger that I’m aware of. I’ll be happy to post a few guys around if it’ll make you comfortable, though.”

“It would not.”

“It’d be no trouble. No trouble at all.”

“What are you doing here, Greg?”

“I like Rickie’s. I like the food, the music…”

“Don’t banter with me. I’m not in the mood.”

“I want to help find out who shot McKenzie.”

“Bobby Dunston is already working on it.”

“How far has he gotten?”

“He hasn’t said.”

“If he tells you anything, I want you to feel free to call me. Maybe I can help.”

“Who are you working for?”

“If all you do is watch crime shows on TV, you’d think that the police and private investigators don’t get along. That’s not necessarily true. Most PIs used to be cops or worked in some other branch of law enforcement; that’s where they received their training and the six thousand hours of experience required before they can get a license. I used to be a cop in Minneapolis, myself. Twenty years. So, there’s a kind of loose camaraderie between the groups. I have a lot of friends who carry badges and vice versa. We help each other out all the time.”

“Stop changing the subject, Greg,” Nina said. “Who are you working for?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Then I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Nina…”

“It’s not me and it’s not McKenzie and it sure as hell isn’t Bobby Dunston, so … There’s the door.”

“Nina.”

“Do I need to raise my voice? I ask because I’ve been wanting to scream at someone all day.”

“I don’t suppose my client would mind me telling you. I know you’re friends.”

“Who?”

“Riley Muehlenhaus.”

Nina shook her head as if she was surprised, yet just barely.

“Riley doesn’t call herself that,” she said. “Her father’s name is Brodin; her name, too. Brodin-Mulally since she’s been married. Muehlenhaus is Riley’s grandfather’s name. She doesn’t care for it.”

“No, but she’ll use it if it’ll help her get what she wants.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants to know who shot McKenzie.”

“She can’t wait for the police to do their job like the rest of us?”

Schroeder made a production out of lifting his glass off the bar and taking a sip. Nina watched him do it.

“You’re kidding,” she said.

Schroeder didn’t smile or grin or make any facial expression at all as he slowly set the glass back on the bar.

Nina muttered under her breath.

“Riley,