“Tell him that Riley Muehlenhaus is waiting. Tell him that I won’t be waiting long.”
Gloria recognized the name. Instead of picking up a phone she smiled slightly, asked Riley to take a seat, and went to Schroeder’s office in person. A moment later she returned, asked Riley to follow her, and led her through the maze of desks and cubicles where the operatives sat, not one looking up to catch Riley’s eye.
Schroeder was waiting for Riley in a corner office with a splendid view of U.S. Bank Stadium in downtown Minneapolis. His tie was neatly knotted and pushed all the way up to his throat and he was wearing his suit coat, something he seldom did when meeting clients for the first time. Greg Schroeder was a trench coat detective; at least he tried hard to maintain the image. He actually wore a gray trench coat over his rumpled suit when the weather permitted. He drank his coffee black and his whiskey neat and liked to sneer while he ran his thumb across his chin like Humphrey Bogart did in his tough-guy movies. Yet now he looked and behaved like a banker.
“Ms. Muehlenhaus,” he said and extended his hand.
Riley shook it as Gloria closed the office door, disappearing behind it.
“Actually, it’s Brodin-Mulally now,” Riley said. “I only use the name Muehlenhaus when I wish to make an impression.”
“Of course. How is your grandfather?”
“Thriving.”
“Excellent.”
Schroeder gestured toward a couple of chairs arranged around a glass table in the corner. Riley took one and he took the other.
“It’s been a while since we’ve last spoken,” Riley said.
“If I recall, we did not part on the best of terms.”
“That’s because you were working for my grandfather against my personal interests.”
Schroeder raised his hand slightly and let it fall again as if it was a subject not worth discussing.
“You are aware that I am now president of Muehlenhaus Industries,” Riley said. “My grandfather retains the title of CEO but serves only as a figurehead.”
“I heard.”
“You performed many tasks for him that I did not approve of at the time. That I don’t think others would approve of if they knew.”
“If I did, I can’t recall what they were.”
“You don’t need to prove your discretion to me, Mr. Schroeder. I’m aware. In fact, I am relying on it.”
“Oh?”
“I wish to hire you.”
“Then know, Ms. Brodin-Mulally, you don’t come here. Not ever.” Schroeder reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card. He slid the card across the table at her. “If you wish to contact me, use any of these cell phone numbers or email addresses. If it’s important that we meet in person, that will be arranged at a secure location. But you don’t come here and I don’t go to your office.”
“Is this a service that you provide to all of your clients?”
“Precious few, if you must know.”
Riley took the card and placed it into her small bag.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What can I do for you?”
“It might be a very small favor or it might be very big. I don’t know yet. It’s one of the things I need you to find out.”
“All right.”
“Are you aware that Rushmore McKenzie was shot last night?”
“No, I wasn’t. How is—”
“If I am not mistaken, you know Mr. McKenzie well.”
“Yes.”
“He’s in a coma in Regions Hospital in St. Paul. Beyond that I’ve heard nothing. It’s entirely possible, Mr. Schroeder, that the police have already identified his assailant and are taking the necessary steps to see that justice is served. If so, please inform me. That’s the small favor. If, however, this does not prove to be the case, if the police are somehow unable to bring Mr. McKenzie’s assailant before the courts, well, that’s where the big favor comes in.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Some words do not need to be spoken. Some words should not be spoken.”
Riley stared at the private investigator for a long time after that; it was like she was trying to see inside his head.
“Mr. Schroeder,” she said. “McKenzie saved both my honor and my life at the risk of his own. I assure you when I speak those words I am not attempting to be fanciful.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Riley stood.
Schroeder stood.
She offered him her hand and he shook it.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Schroeder,” Riley said.
“My best to your grandfather,” Schroeder replied.
Detective Shipman parked her car on a downtown Minneapolis side street and, ignoring the meter, marched into the lobby of the building where my condominium was located. She did not want to be there. She didn’t want to squander valuable St. Paul Police Department resources—meaning herself—on finding out who shot an obnoxious, self-important, unlicensed kibitzer—meaning me—when there was a perfectly good gang-related assault to investigate. If that wasn’t enough, Major Crimes had received a call just after Bobby had finished speaking to Nina Truhler. An armed robbery, no less. But did Shipman get that case? Hell, no. Leave it to Bobby and Mason Gafford to catch whoever shot up a fast-food restaurant while she wasted precious time trying to find out who put a bullet in me, when who gave a shit really? She was convinced the only reason she was there was because Bobby was still annoyed about the surveillance tape screwup. She decided she needed to have a conversation with Dick over at RT’s Basement about that the first chance she got.
Shipman pulled her badge from her pocket when she reached the security desk and held it up for the guards to see.
“Detective Jean Shipman, St. Paul Police Department,” she announced.
The first thing they noticed was that there wasn’t a uniform from the Minneapolis Police Department accompanying her. The uniform would have been a formality, of course. The cops in St. Paul and Minneapolis might labor in separate jurisdictions, yet they’re more than willing to help each other out; happy to search for a suspect or a car, check out an address, gather intel, and report back to the other agency. Only
