What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel David Housewright (shoe dog free ebook TXT) 📖

“During business hours,” the brunette added.

“I haven’t even told you my name,” Schroeder said.

“Mr. Reinfeld would have told us your name…” the brunette said.

“If you had an appointment,” the blonde said.

“Nonetheless, I’m sure he would agree to see me if you would be kind enough to inform him that I’m here.”

“So many people say that who are soon briskly escorted by security out of the building. Some kicking and screaming.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The brunette smiled almost gleefully as if she was looking forward to watching the scenario unfold.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Riley Muehlenhaus.”

Schroeder had been standing near the windows and gazing more or less at U.S. Bank Stadium. He had attempted to locate his own office but failed because it was too close to the ground. The ding of a bell caused him to spin around. Turned out there was a second elevator that Schroeder hadn’t realized was there until a wall slid open. A fiftyish-year-old man wearing Nikes, blue jeans, a white shirt with button-down collar, and a goatee that made him look like a villain in a superhero comic book stepped out. He looked around, saw nothing that interested him, and moved quickly toward the reception desk.

“Mr. Reinfeld,” the brunette said.

“Where is she?” he asked.

The two models glanced at each other.

“She?” the blonde asked.

“Riley Muehlenhaus.”

They both gestured at Schroeder who was making his way toward the desk.

“He’s not Riley goddamn Muehlenhaus,” the man said. “Didn’t you at least check his ID?”

The brunette grabbed a phone, hit a button, and spoke loudly.

“Security,” she said.

“Mr. Reinfeld,” Schroeder said.

Reinfeld averted his gaze as if Schroeder was a particularly gruesome accident he didn’t want to witness and headed back toward the hidden elevator.

Schroeder pulled his cell from his pocket, tapped a couple of links, and held it up for everyone to see and hear. The screen was filled with the image of a young woman with brown hair and a face liberally sprinkled with freckles. She was smiling when she spoke.

“Justus, I just want you to know how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to help my friends…”

Reinfeld stopped and stared.

“I am aware, of course, of the unfortunate dealings you’ve had with my family in the past. My grandfather was not kind to you…”

Two well-dressed security guards stepped off the public elevator. Another two appeared from around the corner. They both looked to the brunette for instructions. She pointed at Schroeder.

“So for you to make an effort to help the authorities—and me—discover who shot my dear friend McKenzie, that is an act of kindness and generosity that I simply cannot help but acknowledge…”

Reinfeld held up his hand like a traffic cop; stalling the four guards in their tracks.

“You must know how important McKenzie is to me. He literally saved my life and I would do anything for him in return…”

Reinfeld waved at the guards; dismissing them. They vacated the reception area without a word even as Reinfeld moved slowly forward until he was standing directly in front of Schroeder and staring at the image on the phone.

“I will be in attendance at the Ordway Saturday evening in St. Paul when you accept your award. I hope to express my gratitude to you in person. Again, Justus, thank you.”

Schroeder tapped a few more icons and slipped the cell back into his pocket.

“McKenzie really did save Riley’s life,” he said. “Her grandfather tried to keep the story out of the papers, away from the media, because of his disdain for publicity. But then you know Mr. Muehlenhaus personally, don’t you? You know the power he wields. Still, the story got out anyway, how Riley was kidnapped and what McKenzie did to save her. You should know that Riley has been searching for ways to reward him ever since. Only McKenzie keeps blowing her off, saying that her smile and her thank-you are more than sufficient. Riley is determined, though. Were you invited to her wedding?”

“No one was invited to her wedding,” Reinfeld said. “It was a very private affair.”

“McKenzie was there. You’ve met McKenzie, if I’m not mistaken.”

Reinfeld glanced over his shoulder at the models manning the reception desk. Both were pretending to be interested in something else.

“Dammit,” he said.

Emma King had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. Now she was having difficulty concentrating in class, something that rarely happened to her. She had been a terrific student her entire academic life, better than her mother even and her mother, Emma’s uncles had often assured her, was the smartest person either of them had ever met. ’Course, that was then. Now …

Now, Emma wasn’t sure where to turn. It was clear that her family could no longer be trusted. At least not about this. And Elliot, sweet, caring Elliot, the kindest person she knew, had been paralyzed by her kindness, unable to make a decision.

“We should just wait and see what happens,” Elliot had said over breakfast.

Which wasn’t necessarily bad advice, Emma decided. “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time,” she remembered Leo Tolstoy writing in War and Peace.

On the other hand, Benjamin Franklin said, “You may delay, but time will not,” and for the past few weeks Emma had felt as if she had been living in the top half of an hourglass; the sand slowly disappearing beneath her feet. There couldn’t be more than a couple weeks of it left.

Instead of listening to the lecture, she fingered the business card that Detective Jean Shipman had given to her the evening before. Only she didn’t trust the police officer, either. Shipman, Emma decided, was only interested in finding someone to lock up and that wouldn’t solve her problem.

It was only after the lecture had concluded and her fellow students were filing out of the classroom that Emma decided to visit her uncle.

Schroeder was shocked at how dark Reinfeld’s office was. There was an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with what must have been a spectacular view of the city, except the drapes