right on the edge of Tonka Bay Marina. Easy in, easy out. Hadda pay a pretty penny extra for it, too, that slip. Itâs worth the rent, though, sure it is. People forever maneuverinâ in and out of the marina, always riskinâ collisions, they see my spot, they gotta be jealous, gotta say, âDamn, ainât that sweet.â How âbout you? Where did you keep your boat?â
âIn my garage.â
He didnât say another word. Didnât even look at me as he picked up his Glenlivet and retreated across the restaurant, putting as much distance between him and me as possible without actually leaving the building.
Damn, my inner voice told me. The rich really are different.
A few minutes later I was joined by a pretty woman with a thin face, pale eyes, and fine blond hair with auburn highlights. She was older than Riley yet still below my lust threshold, although she was close enough to it that I was willing to make an exception.
âMay I help you?â she asked.
âNo, thank you. Iâm waiting for the owner.â
âIâm the owner.â
Her response caught me by surprise, and I hesitated for a few beats. âIâm looking for Juan Carlos Navarre,â I said at last.
âIâll tell you what I told the other guy. Heâs not the owner. Heâs not here. I havenât heard from him in a week. Is there anything else?â
She looked as if she were going to walk away whether I had anything more to say or not, so I thrust my paw toward her.
âMy nameâs McKenzie,â I said.
She hesitated for a moment before shaking my hand.
âMary Pat Mulally,â she replied.
I considered making a clever remark about a woman with an Irish surname owning a Spanish-style restaurant but thought better of it. Instead, I asked, âMay I have a minute of your time, Ms. Mulally?â
I continued to hold her hand so she couldnât slip away. She looked at my hand holding hers and then into my eyes. She sighed heavily and said, âOnly a minute.â
I released her hand, and Mary Pat led me through the restaurant, moving vigilantly as if she wanted to make sure that no one tried to steal it from her. Instead of a table overlooking Lake Minnetonka, she brought me to a booth with a splendid view of the parking lot, and I thought, smart businesswoman, sheâs leaving the best tables for her paying customers. I sat across from her. She waited for me to speak.
âApparently Iâve been misinformed,â I told her.
âDid Juan Carlos tell you he owned Casa del Lago?â
âNo. It was Riley Brodin.â
The way her eyes narrowed, I got the impression that she recognized the name and hearing it made her sad. Still, Mary Pat nodded her head as if it made perfect sense.
âJuan Carlos isnât the first man who tried to impress a woman with ⦠letâs just say itâs not the entire truth,â she said.
âWhat is the entire truth?â
âWhom do you work for?â
âDo I need to be working for someone?â
âDonât fence with me, McKenzie. Iâm not in the mood.â
âRiley Brodin. Her boyfriend disappeared. Sheâs anxious that I find him.â
âSheâs the granddaughter of Mr. Muehlenhaus.â
âThatâs what Iâve been told.â
âTechnically, you work for him, then.â
âNo. Not even a little bit.â
Mary Pat must have heard the outrage I purposely put in my voice, because she smiled slightly.
âNot Mr. Muehlenhaus?â she said.
âNo, not Mr. Muehlenhaus. Why do you ask?â
âI think heâs looking for Juan Carlos, too.â
âWhat makes you think that?â
âA private investigator came by the other day. He flashed his ID at me like it was a badge and started asking all kinds of questions that were none of his business. Iâm from the north side of Minneapolis, McKenzie. Real cops
Learning to Kill: Stories