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

reason why you won’t promise me that McKenzie is going to walk out of here all in one piece, his brain undamaged. You say he will, except you won’t promise because it’s a promise you might not be able to keep.”

Nina turned toward the figure lying on the bed on the other side of the glass wall. Lilly took her arm and spun her back around.

“Nina,” she said. “Nina, look at me.”

“What?” Nina snapped.

“I promise,” Lilly said.

Nina fell into the doctor’s arms and wept for all she was worth.

THIRTEEN

Detective Jean Shipman yawned. Brian, the tech from FSU, saw her do it.

“Long night?” he asked.

“It had its moments.”

Shipman didn’t return to the Cities until about six A.M. She showered off all remnants of Kyle Cordova, took a thirty-minute power nap, dressed in jeans, shirt, Glock, and blazer, ate a bagel with blueberry cream cheese, grabbed a Starbucks, and was sitting at her desk by eight. She sipped what was left of her coffee and studied Brian. He was younger than she was, although not nearly as young as Cordova, and smart. Shipman liked smart. Only she had been in an office romance once before and while it had been fun if not downright exciting, it had affected her work and she vowed never to allow that to happen again. Besides, she reasoned, if she wanted unencumbered and uncommitted sex, she now knew exactly where to find it.

“What?” Brian said.

“What?” Shipman repeated.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m just wondering what you’re doing here.”

Brian held up a sheet of paper.

“I put names to the telephone numbers on McKenzie’s cell,” he said. “As you requested.”

“They have this wonderful new invention you might have heard of. It’s called email.”

“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see your beautiful smiling face.”

“As my father would say, you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, Brian.”

“Would you put me in handcuffs, first?”

Shipman made a gimme gesture with the fingers of her hand. Brian handed over the sheet of paper.

“I did send you an email,” he said. “There’s nothing like a hard copy, though, don’t you think?”

“Thank you.”

Brian moved around Shipman’s desk so he could hover over her shoulder. There were four names on the list. Shipman recognized two of them. The others meant nothing to her. She decided to take them in order, thinking that one call might have led to another.

“Now, about that lunch.” Brian spoke quietly. His soft breath tickled Shipman’s neck.

Shipman’s desk chair was on wheels. She pushed it back, putting space between the two of them.

“Do I need to give you a very long list of reasons why you and I are not going to happen?” she asked.

“That’s today. What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow the list will be longer.”

“Audentes fortuna juvat.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fortune favors the bold. I’ll see you around, Detective.”

Shipman watched the tech move toward the door and felt compelled to call out to him.

“Hey, Brian.” He turned to look back at her, only Shipman couldn’t think of what she wanted to say. “Never mind.”

Brian smiled as if that was exactly what he had wanted to hear.

According to FSU, I had spoken to Justus Reinfeld on the phone for all of six minutes late in the afternoon of the day I was shot. Yet what piqued Shipman’s immediate interest wasn’t that his name appeared first on the list. It was the fact that I didn’t call him. He had called me.

Shipman did some quick research on Reinfeld, which was a lot more than I had done. She discovered that he was what my old man would have described as a wheeler-dealer. One website labeled him an American investor and philanthropist. Another said Reinfeld was a hedge fund manager, entrepreneur, and company advisor. They both agreed that he was the proprietor of All Uppercase Investments, a venture capital fund with $3.8 billion in assets under management that specialized in investing in early-stage technology companies such as Twitter, Lyft, Netflix, Instagram, Kickstarter, and KTech. Prior to founding All Uppercase, Reinfeld had worked on mergers and acquisitions for a multinational investment bank with offices on Wall Street.

Shipman punched his number into her phone. It was answered after the fifth ring.

“Who is this?” a male voice asked.

“Mr. Reinfeld? My name is Detective Jean Shipman. I’m with the St. Paul Police Department.”

“Goddammit.”

“Excuse me?”

The phone went silent. At first Shipman thought Reinfeld had hung up on her. A few moments later, however, a female voice repeated the question “Who is this?”

“Like I said, I’m Detective Jean Shipman of the St. Paul Police Department.”

“How dare you call Mr. Reinfeld’s private number?”

“If I might be allowed to speak with Mr. Reinfeld…”

“Concerning what matter?”

“I could explain that his private number was on the cell phone of a man who was shot Tuesday evening just minutes after Mr. Reinfeld called him.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Reinfeld?”

“Good question,” Shipman said. “If we could arrange a time for me to speak with—”

“Absolutely not.”

“It would save a lot of time and trouble.”

“Mr. Reinfeld is under no legal obligation to answer your questions. However, if you wish to submit your questions in writing I will ask him if he cares to respond. Under no circumstances, however, will you be allowed to subject him to a police interrogation.”

“You are?”

The voice identified herself as an attorney in the employ of AUI—that’s how she identified the company.

“One of many,” she said.

“We are not accusing Mr. Reinfeld of anything…” Shipman said.

“I should hope not.”

“We merely wish to learn if he can help us investigate—”

“As I said, you may forward your questions via email.”

“I understand your desire to protect Mr. Reinfeld’s reputation…” Shipman said.

“What does that mean?”

“According to my research, he’s scheduled to receive a plaque at the Ordway Center Saturday evening commemorating his many philanthropic endeavors.”

“How dare you?”

“You keep asking that,” Shipman said. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“By making scurrilous accusations?”

“I’m not accusing him of anything.”

“You’d be happy to drag Justus Reinfeld into a police station in front of every TV camera crew and newspaper vulture that you can find, though, wouldn’t