“Someone might say that your behavior is even more—what’s the word—indecorous? I’m not suggesting for a moment that you gentlemen are above kidnapping and assault, but to do it so openly? To bring it into your office? In front of witnesses? Someone with experience in these matters might think you were putting him to some sort of test. Or playing a practical joke, although none of you look like you have much of a sense of humor. So, which is it? Why did you bring me here?”
Muehlenhaus carefully opened the leather folder in front of him. He looked down on the white sheets of typed paper therein as he slipped a silver fountain pen from his pocket and prepared it to write. I couldn’t recall the last time I had seen one. When I was a kid at St. Mark’s Elementary School the nuns made us use fountain pens thinking it would help us learn to write with a graceful hand, except I kept breaking off the nibs.
Muehlenhaus said, “You were a member of the St. Paul Police Department, respected, decorated, poised for promotion, until you killed a perpetrator—”
“Suspect,” I corrected him. “They only say perpetrator on television.”
“Suspect, thank you. You killed an armed suspect in a convenience store robbery. There was some trouble concerning the use of unnecessary force—you killed him with a shotgun. You have, in fact, killed several men . . .”
“None of this is answering my question, Muehlenhaus. Why am I here?”
A lightning hit of anger flared in his eyes, but passed quickly. I don’t know if he disliked being interrupted or if he expected to hear a “mister” in front of his name, probably both. He continued reciting the details of my life.
“You quit the police force in order to collect a reward for recovering money stolen by a rather industrious embezzler named Thomas Teach-well. I knew Thomas. I remain astonished by his audacity. The finder’s fee amounted to several million dollars, which you have since doubled due to some rather insightful investments. Very impressive.”
I tilted my head at the compliment, even though it was misplaced. For practical purposes, I was financially illiterate. All my so-called insightful investments had been made by a twenty-seven-year-old former homecoming queen living in a houseboat on the St. Croix who played the market the way some people played Texas Hold ’Em.
“You are known for doing favors for friends,” Muehlenhaus continued. “We are aware of your dealings with the so-called Entrepreneur’s Club, for example, and with the Federal Bureau of Investigation last spring.”
“Do you have a point, Mr. Muehlenhaus?” I don’t know why I used the “mister.” Maybe it was because, bravado aside, he was starting to frighten me.
Muehlenhaus carefully screwed his fountain pen back together and returned it to his pocket. He hadn’t written a word. He closed the leather folder and folded his hands on top of it. It was a clever ploy, making me wait, playing off my insecurities. I was beginning to think he was clever in other ways, too.
“You are currently performing a favor for the first lady,” he said.
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer.
“You met with her this afternoon.”
I had no reason to deny it.
“You are friends.” Muehlenhaus made the word sound like an accusation.
I stood slowly, trying to maintain the same bored expression. Norman did the same. Despite the bloodstained handkerchief he held to his nose, he looked like he was perfectly willing to go another round. I gestured toward the Picassos on the wall.
“Gentlemen, do I need to break more stuff?”
“Mr. McKenzie, please.” The youngest of the four men at the end of the table moved toward me. “Please.” He gestured toward my chair. I took a seat.
“First, allow me to apologize for the clumsy manner in which we brought you here today,” he said, but there was neither remorse nor regret in his voice. “We were all quite anxious to speak with you and to judge for ourselves your capabilities.”
“Capabilities?”
“Indeed,” Muehlenhaus said.
“I’m Troy Donovan. Allow me to introduce my colleagues.”