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

business ain’t my business. Tenant, let’s say. Lodger. Look. What if I put you and my tenant together? Don’t know what that would get you, but maybe you can figure it out without disrupting business.”

“Business being the main thing,” Herzog said.

“Isn’t it always?”

“All right, see what you can do,” Chopper said. “Long as you set the meeting someplace we can get a decent beer.”

Shipman agreed to have a drink with Kyle Cordova because she thought she needed one. They were both seated in the back of a basement pub called the Contented Cow as far away from the stage as they could get even though Shipman liked the acoustic music the Jugsluggers played. Cordova had slipped a windbreaker over his uniform, yet it didn’t provide much camouflage. The bar’s other patrons still glanced cautiously at them.

He was sipping tap beer; Shipman was drinking vodka. Cordova was flirting hard but she was too deep in thought for him to get much traction out of it.

“Tough case?” he asked.

“I can’t discuss it.”

“I understand. It must be fun, though.”

“Fun?”

“You get to work a lot of stuff in the Cities that we just don’t get down here in Northfield. I think the last murder we had was when Jesse James rode into town.”

“Yeah, lots of fun. Those girls—they’re protecting someone. Take them up to St. Paul for some intense Q and A; I’d probably scare it out of them. Unless they lawyer up. Their family has major connections. No, it’s better to leave them down here. Right now they’re freaking out. Probably making phone calls. Demanding explanations. What is it that people say—this ain’t my first rodeo? Well, it’s their first and they’re scared to death. Especially Elliot. So, I’ll sit back for a while and wait to see which way they jump. They have my number. If they call, great. If someone else calls, that might even be better. In any case, I can always scoop them up later.” Shipman chuckled. “But like I said, I can’t discuss it.”

Cordova smiled at her. Shipman liked the smile. She liked the way he lightly brushed one finger over the knuckles of her left hand.

“No rings,” he said.

“That’s very observant of you.”

“Perhaps I should be a detective.”

“Let’s see if you qualify. College degree?”

“Magna cum laude,” Cordova said.

“Police academy?”

“Top of my class.”

“Excellent physical and mental health; good stamina?”

Cordova curled his arms like a professional wrestler and kissed both biceps.

“Well then it’s just a matter of gaining work experience, building a resume; scoring high on a few exams,” Shipman said.

“That’s where I could use some help. If only I had a mentor to guide me.”

“Why do so many women do so many things that aren’t necessarily in their best interests?”

“You’re asking me?”

“No. I already know the answer. Kyle, I’m in a mood.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want you to take me back to the NPD so I can retrieve my car.”

Cordova’s smile went away.

“Then I want you to lead me to your place.”

And the smile returned.

“Try not to talk too much,” Shipman said.

The staff at the SICU in Regions Hospital seemed more concerned about the health and well-being of a man who was shot in the head on the Green Line than they were with me, which Nina found irritating. After all, she reasoned, I was there first.

She still wasn’t allowed to enter the room where they were keeping me in the coma. Instead, she leaned her forehead against the glass wall and watched the multicolored numbers and wavy lines on the monitor above me. After a few moments, she felt a hand on her shoulder. The hand made her flinch and spin around abruptly.

“Sorry,” Dr. Lillian Linder said.

“Good evening,” Nina said.

“Closer to good morning.”

Nina glanced at her watch.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Have you been here long?”

“Just a few minutes.”

Lilly noticed Nina’s swollen knuckles and the Ace bandage wrapped around her hand and wrist.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I hit something hard.”

“I know that waiting is difficult, frustrating, especially when you’re waiting for news about someone you care desperately about…”

“Lilly, I didn’t punch a wall or do anything stupid like that because I was upset. I hit a man in the face when he called me a bitch.”

“That’s different then.”

“You think so?”

“There are a lot of men I want to hit in the face, too. Nina, McKenzie’s going to be fine. The swelling’s down; his vitals are strong.”

“Strong enough to bring him out of the coma?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe?”

“It’s only been one day since he was shot.”

“Seems longer.”

“Give it time,” Lilly said. “Time is our friend. That isn’t always true in medicine, yet it is in this case.”

“You say that…”

“It’s true.”

“I believe you. It’s just … You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing by now.”

“If McKenzie was my husband, I’d kill him.”

Nina didn’t know why she thought that was funny, yet she laughed just the same.

“The thing about the hours I keep,” the doctor said, “I know where all the best late-night coffeehouses are. Have a cup with me?”

“No, Lilly, thank you, but I—I’ve been angry all day. Snapping at people. Snapping at my employees, at the friends who call to find out how McKenzie is doing; snapping at my daughter just a couple of hours ago even while I was trying to convince her that everything was going to be just fine; snapping at people who are trying to protect me, Jesus. Snapping at you this morning. Probably snapping at you again if we go out together. I’m afraid if I stop snapping I’ll cry and that’s not allowed.”

“Why is it not allowed?”

“A deal I made with McKenzie a long time ago, a promise. I’m not allowed to cry because of him, because of something that he says or does, because of anything that might happen to him. Become angry, furious—that’s acceptable. But not cry, not even tears of joy, although I’ve never cried tears of joy. Have you?”

“Once in a while, not often.”

“Anyway, I made a promise and I always keep my promises. I guess that’s the same