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

the math—just a sec—that’s two hundred and eighty thousand, three hundred thirty-eight dollars, and forty cents.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“About four-point-seven percent of your portfolio. Read the goddamn statements.”

“I will, I will, from now on, I promise.”

“Let me know what they say about King Charles, the sooner the better.”

The meeting was held at the KTech Tower, a ten-story building located just off I-394 near the Ridgedale Shopping Mall. Over four million people lived in the greater Twin Cities area and apparently a large percentage of them seemed to be at the event. I was surprised by the crowd. After all, the meeting had been scheduled during midafternoon, making it as inconvenient as possible for shareholders who had full-time jobs to attend.

The marketing staff of KTech made it clear from the moment I walked through the door that this would not be a typical shareholders’ meeting where directors would be elected, financial records would be reviewed, business practices would be debated, and corporate policy would be evaluated. Instead, it was labeled as “an informal get-together.” They even set up several bars that served free wine and beer and directed a waitstaff to move among the shareholders with trays loaded down with an enticing selection of desserts. The caramel and Chinese five-spice snickerdoodle and hazelnut chocolate mousse were both amazing. Okay, I had two desserts. I owned eighteen hundred shares, so …

Informal or not, the place vibrated with anxious energy. Standing in the reception area outside the auditorium with my fellow shareholders and members of the media, waiting for the doors to open, reminded me of attending the world premiere of a play with Nina and wondering what kind of show we were in for.

I have to admit, the meeting was nothing like I had expected. More about that later. First, I need to speak to some people …

Shipman thought there should be another page of notes, only there wasn’t. She scrolled up and down the document looking for something, anything that she might have missed and found, “Nothing. What again? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She scrolled some more.

“Is that it, McKenzie?” Shipman asked even though I wasn’t there to answer. “Is that’s all you’ve got? You are so lazy.”

The detective slumped in her chair and stared at the screen of her computer. She studied my last line scrupulously.

“You need to speak to what people?” Shipman said aloud. “Did you speak to them and just didn’t have enough time to transcribe your conversations into your notes before you were shot? Is that what happened?”

Shipman reached for her phone and punched the numbers that connected her with the Forensic Services Unit. Most of its members were covering the shooting on the Green Line. She ended up speaking to the same tech that she had spoken to earlier that day; the one who enjoyed flirting with her.

“Brian, the numbers on McKenzie’s cell phone, I need to know the names of the people he spoke to,” Shipman said.

“Yeah, about that, Detective…”

Shipman glanced at her watch and did the math.

“You’ve had almost six and a half hours since I gave you the phone,” she said.

“Oh, wow. Six and a half hours. That’s a long time.”

“Brian, I know you’re busy. So am I. Hell, we’re always busy. I need those names.”

“All right, I’ll squeeze it in. Speaking of squeezing…”

“Don’t go there, Brian.”

“What a dirty mind you have. I was going to ask about lunch. Again.”

“Tell you what—if those numbers give me what I need to close this lousy case, I’ll let you take me to lunch.”

“Actually, I was hoping you would take me to lunch.”

“Brian, I would like to see the names first thing in the morning, if not sooner.”

“I’ll do my best, Detective.”

“Thank you, Brian.”

Chopper studied the young African-American man sitting on the edge of his seat, both hands on top of the square table in front of him as if he was preparing to leap up and dash out of the bar at the least provocation. Herzog sat close beside him to make sure he didn’t.

“You seem nervous,” Chopper said.

“Herzog says you want to talk to me, how am I supposed to feel?”

“I’m not tryin’ t’ fuck with you, Jamal.”

“You fucked the Red Dragons, killed most of ’em.”

“Did I?”

“You maybe didn’t pull the trigger, but you pointed the gun, fuckin’ machine guns, two of ’em.”

Chopper found himself rubbing his face at the memory. The massacre Jamal was referring to was the result of a brief but bloody war between two rival gangs fighting over the heroin and OxyContin trade in Minnesota and he had nothing to do with it, although he might have nudged it along a bit and later celebrated the outcome. He would have corrected the young man’s assumption but reasoned long ago that possessing a reputation for terrible revenge might have its advantages down the road.

“You a Dragon?” Chopper asked.

“Not anymore.”

“You’re still dealin’ Oxy.”

“Man’s gotta make a livin’.”

Truth was Chopper looked more like a drug dealer than Jamal Brown. So did Herzog. Hell, so did I. For one thing, despite Jamal’s slender frame, he had the appearance of good health, like someone who included plenty of fruits and vegetables in his diet; who was accustomed to running and not just to catch a bus. For another, he dressed like a lawyer working for the ACLU, pleated dress slacks, starched shirt, suit jacket, black-rimmed glasses. But then Jamal catered to a mostly white, upper-middle-class clientele, the soccer moms living in Edina and the investment bankers in Golden Valley, and he needed to look presentable.

For a couple of decades, pharmaceutical companies had been bribing and otherwise convincing doctors and health clinics to overprescribe what they claimed were “nonaddictive pain medicines” but what were really the exact opposite. Perfectly legal drugs like Vicodin, OxyContin, Percocet, and others hooked over two million Americans on opioids; one hundred and thirty of them overdosed and died every day. A member of the Centers for Disease Control claimed that Big Pharma had addicted an entire generation.

After about