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

I’m saying is that a lot of different issues can influence the patient’s outcome.”

“What else?” Shipman asked.

“He asked how long it took. I told McKenzie that typically, a liver donor spends approximately seven days in the hospital, and will have an additional six to eight weeks of recovery time. After all, we are taking a piece of his liver and giving it to someone else; it’ll take time for the donor’s liver to regenerate, to return to normal size. I also told him that there were risks involved, such as the possibility of infection, blood clots, pneumonia, and bile leakage. Only he wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted to know how much time before the procedure could take place. I told him that usually the process takes from four to six weeks including consultations with an independent living donor advocate and psychiatrist, although in rare emergency situations, it could be completed in as little as forty-eight hours.”

“What did McKenzie say to that?”

“He said, ‘Good to know.’”

“What else?”

“That was it. That was the extent of our conversation.”

“You didn’t ask for a name? You didn’t demand to know who he was calling about?”

“We don’t push, Detective,” Barsness said. “We guide. We explain.”

Harry and Schroeder had driven separately, yet their cars were parked close enough in Charles King’s driveway that they could walk to them together.

“I like the King boys,” Harry said. “You wouldn’t think that anyone that rich would be that unpretentious. More to the point, I believe them.”

“So do I.”

“Too bad about the scotch, though. Can you imagine?”

“Jenna King seemed upset when her brother started talking about his illness; the way she left the room,” Schroeder said.

“Do you blame her?”

“McKenzie said that Reinfeld said that one of the Kings might vote his way in a takeover attempt. Do you think he meant Jenna?”

“Could be. Could also be a bit of tradecraft; Jenna pretending to be on Reinfeld’s side when in actuality she’s setting him up for her brothers.”

“I’d like to interview her.”

“She lives in St. Paul,” Harry said. “It shouldn’t be hard to get an address.”

“You’re going to stay on the case?”

“I play poker with McKenzie once a month. What do you think he’ll say if I blew him off to go back to work?”

“I hear you,” Schroeder said.

“Except that I have to go back to work. There are a few things that I need to take care of first.”

“What things?”

“Government things.” Harry glanced at his watch. “How ’bout we meet in a couple of hours.”

“Where?”

SIXTEEN

Club Versailles took up a large chunk of a peninsula more or less in the center of Lake Minnetonka, about five miles from the King estate by land. It appeared as if the builders had insisted that it closely resemble Sun King Louis XIV’s palace, only more luxurious. I had been there twice. Both times I expected to see a troop of Musketeers patrolling the grounds.

The club had private docks, a golf course, numerous tennis courts, two swimming pools, sauna, steam room, whirlpool, 2,400-square-foot fitness facility, formal dining room, and a grand ballroom. Only it was the bar that interested Shelby most because that’s where Justus Reinfeld’s model/receptionists said he would be. He was sitting alone at the far end and sipping what looked to her like straight whiskey and munching from a bowl of trail mix—trail mix! At Club Versailles. Swear to God.

Shelby was too smart to walk right up to him, though. Instead, she mounted a tall, walnut stool with a leather cushion and a high back that she was convinced cost more than her entire dining-room set. She swiveled to face the bartender, her skirt riding dangerously up her thighs.

Her dress was black, contrasting nicely with her strawberry hair, low-cut, inexplicably tight, and ended a half dozen inches above her knees when she was standing straight. It had originally belonged to Nina. Shelby had borrowed it three years ago because she said she was on a mission and claimed there was nothing in her own closet that would do. “I’m the mother of two teenage daughters,” she complained at the time. Later she said that the dress had been so well received that she didn’t want to give it back. I didn’t know what that meant and I didn’t ask. Nina, on the other hand, said, “Keep it, honey. I have more if you need them.”

The dress was only slightly inappropriate for Club Versailles at that time of day. The bar was about half-filled. A third of the patrons were dressed for golf or tennis; another third looked as if they had ducked out of the office early. The final group, well, they looked as if they were on a mission, too.

The bartender leaned in and Shelby ordered a martini. Give her credit, she didn’t say “vodka” and she didn’t say “shaken not stirred.” Also give her credit; she stared straight ahead until the martini was served. It was only after she took a sip of the drink that she tilted her head just so to look at Reinfeld and found that he was staring at her. She smiled, yet said nothing.

“I like your outfit,” Reinfeld said.

“This old thing?”

“I appreciate a woman who dresses for cocktail hour.”

“You never know what a cocktail hour might lead to.”

Reinfeld gestured at the empty stool closest to Shelby.

“May I?” he asked.

“Be my guest.”

Reinfeld moved himself and his drink, but not the trail mix, down the bar and cozied up next to her.

“I’m Justus Reinfeld,” he said.

“Justus Reinfeld the investor?” Shelby smiled like she was meeting her favorite celebrity.

“You heard of me?”

“I read the business section.”

“You are?”

“Shelby Mullin,” she said, which was only partially a lie; Mullin being her maiden name.

“I like the name, Shelby. Is it yours or did you make it up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Shelby, I can’t help but notice that you have an indentation at the base of your third finger left hand where your wedding ring would be if you were wearing your wedding ring.”

Give her credit some more, she didn’t panic.