“Leave it to the police.”
Herzog didn’t speak but he made a mouth noise that suggested he didn’t hold the police department in high regard. Bobby didn’t appreciate the mouth noise, but he had heard worse.
“Give it to him,” Chopper said.
“Fuck ’im,” Herzog said.
“Go on.”
“Give me what?” Bobby asked.
Herzog reached into his pocket.
Bobby’s grip tightened on the butt of his Glock, yet he did not pull it.
Herzog reached out his hand.
There was a flash drive in his palm.
“What is it?” Bobby asked.
“Thumb drive,” Herzog said.
“I can see that.”
“It’s footage taken from a security camera at RT’s Basement,” Chopper said. “It shows McKenzie getting shot.”
“The owner told my people he didn’t have a security camera.”
“Maybe it was how the question was phrased,” Chopper said.
“Or who did the phrasin’,” Herzog added.
Bobby took the flash drive from Herzog’s hand and slipped it into his own pocket.
“Thank you,” he said.
“There are many things we can do that the police can’t,” Chopper said. “Folks we can talk to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Who knows? Next time we talk you might even take your hand off of your piece.”
“Like I said, Mr. Coleman, Mr. Herzog—I remember you.”
FOUR
Nina was accustomed to late nights: running a jazz joint for the past couple of decades, she rarely went to bed before two A.M. Yet when she did go to bed, she fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. I’d joke, tell her that the zombie apocalypse could break out and she’d still get in a solid eight hours. Only not that night. That night she didn’t sleep, she dozed, waking, nodding off, and waking again, usually with a start just a few minutes later, like an unrepentant sinner listening to a sermon in the back of a church. Still, she remained in bed, telling herself that her body needed the rest, even if her brain wasn’t getting any.
After a few hours, she rose and began wandering through the darkened condominium, wearing a flowing red silk nightgown and nothing else. Normally, Nina was a gym shorts and T-shirt girl, but the nightgown had always been one of my favorites, so …
Our condo had a master bedroom and guest room with en suites, plus a bathroom for visitors. Beyond that, we didn’t have rooms so much as areas—dining area, living area, music area where Nina’s Steinway stood, office area with a desk and computer, and a kitchen area that was elevated three steps above the rest. The entire north wall was made of tinted floor-to-ceiling glass with a dramatic view of the Mississippi River where it tumbled down St. Anthony Falls. She could barely see the falls at night, though. Only the lights of Minneapolis. They easily reached the seventh floor and illuminated the bookcases on our south wall and the fireplace on the east and all the furniture in between.
Nina stood in the center of the large room and spun slowly; taking in all the familiar shapes, yet found comfort in none of them. She mounted the steps and made her way to the kitchen area. She opened the refrigerator door, looked inside, found nothing that she wanted, and closed the door. She opened and closed cabinets without knowing what she was searching for. Finally, Nina descended the steps and moved toward the north wall. She leaned against it and stared at the lights spreading away from her like stars in galaxies far, far away.
I had not wanted to move to Minneapolis. I was a St. Paul boy, born and raised. You’d think that wouldn’t have made much difference, the cities lying directly across the river from each other. Unless you lived here. If you lived here, you’d know that it made a helluva difference which side of the Mississippi you called home. Still, I listened to her arguments while gazing into those astonishing silver-blue eyes of hers and what was it that e. e. cummings wrote? Love is a place. My place was with her, wherever that might be. So that was that.
Only that’s not what Nina was thinking as she watched the cityscape as it slowly evolved from black night to gray dawn with the rising of the sun. She was thinking how she’d have to move from that place if I died.
“I couldn’t live there without you,” she told me later. “I’d have to move.”
Her words made me feel warm. Loved. Only that wasn’t her intention. She meant them as an accusation—see what you almost made me do?
Eventually, she returned to the kitchen area. We had one of those single-cup coffeemakers that used reusable pods that I filled with a variety of coffee blends, mostly from local suppliers like Dunn Brothers, Caribou, and Spyhouse. Only she didn’t know which was which. She grabbed a maroon pod at random and shoved it into the machine—it was a light roast called Highlanders Grog from Cameron’s Coffee, by the way—and waited. Nina wasn’t waiting for the coffee so much as for time to pass.
At exactly seven thirty she tapped an icon on her cell phone. A young woman’s sleepy voice answered.
“What?”
“Erica, it’s Mom.”
Getting a call from her mother was not unexpected. If anything Nina called Erica entirely too much. Really, neither of their lives was so dramatic that daily briefings were required. But at seven thirty in the morning?
Erica was jolted into wakefulness.
“What happened?” she asked.
“It’s McKenzie. He’s been shot.”
“Is he—”
“No. No, no, he’s fine. Lilly said he’ll be fine.”
“Lilly?”
“Lillian Linder. She’s a doctor at Regions Hospital. Emergency specialist.”
“You know her personally?”
Nina laughed at the question. She didn’t know why she thought it was funny, but she did.
“McKenzie,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“What happened?” Erica asked.
“He was shot in the back. The bullet lodged in his chest near his heart…”
“Oh, God…”
“But Lilly, Dr. Linder says he’ll be fine. He’s not going to die or anything. He’s in a coma now—”
“A coma?”
“Induced coma. They’re letting his brain heal. His heart, too.”
“His brain?”
“It’s complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Honey, he’s going to be fine. They’ll be bringing him out of the coma sometime today. Maybe even right
