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

had been tightly drawn. The only lights in the large room came from a small lamp with a green shade sitting on a table near the door and three flat-screen computer monitors arranged in a semicircle on a mahogany desk shaped like a half-moon. One of the screens was devoted to the constantly updated stock prices listed on the Dow, S&P 500, Russell 2000, NASDAQ, and Euronext.

Reinfeld stood in the middle of the office and glanced around as if he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. He glared at Schroeder.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Schroeder recited his name and occupation. He produced his credentials as if to prove he was telling the truth, only Reinfeld ignored them. He made his way to the large windows and opened the drapes just far enough to allow a narrow shaft of bright sunlight to divide the room in half. Reinfeld stood on one side; Schroeder on the other.

“Are you working for the police?” Reinfeld asked.

“I’m working for Ms. Muehlenhaus.”

“I heard that Riley doesn’t like that name; that she insists on being called Brodin-Mulally, her married name,” Reinfeld said.

“She’s trying to project a kinder, more caring image than her grandfather had. I wouldn’t trust it, though.”

“Did she tell you what her grandfather did to me?”

“No.”

Reinfeld stepped into the shaft of sunshine and gazed out the window. For a moment, Schroeder thought he was going to tell him the story, only he didn’t. Instead, he backed out of the light and spun to face Schroeder.

“What I tell you can’t go any farther than this office,” he said.

“I can’t promise that.”

“What can you promise?”

“Very little.”

“I get that you’ll report to Riley…”

“Yes.”

“Tell her everything I say.”

“Word for word.”

“What about the police?” Reinfeld asked.

Schroeder lifted his hand the way he does and let it fall.

“I don’t work for the police,” he said.

Reinfeld nodded as if he was satisfied with the answer.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“No one says that you did.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“McKenzie,” Schroeder said.

“McKenzie is a…”

“Yes?”

“McKenzie is a friend of Riley Muehlenhaus. I didn’t know that at the time.”

“What do you know?”

Reinfeld told him:

He had seen it before, the bridled excitement of shareholders about to attend a meeting where they would be told how much money they were going to make—or lose. It had always reminded him of gamblers waiting for the ball to drop into the roulette wheel or the dice to stop rolling on a craps table. Normally, Reinfeld would have disregarded the meeting and what was said there. He had attended more than his share in the past and had even conducted a few himself. He knew marketing when he saw it. Except this was different. The disappearance of Charles King had disrupted his plans. He didn’t know if he should accelerate them, put them on hold, discard them altogether, or dump his KTech stock and run like hell. Reinfeld had been hoping that the shareholders’ meeting would help him decide.

While the other shareholders congregated near the entrances to the auditorium, anxious to get a seat near the front, Reinfeld stood off, content to remain in the back, hopefully unnoticed. While they were comparatively well-dressed, he looked as if he were preparing to clean his basement. While they seemed both surprised and delighted by the delicacies distributed by the waiters and waitresses on behalf of KTech’s marketing department, he sipped what he considered to be a mediocre white wine with quiet disdain. The contrast was intentional and carefully cultivated; it gave Reinfeld a sense not so much of superiority as personal pride. He wasn’t like the other shareholders after all, he told himself. He had built a multibillion-dollar investment fund. What had they done?

Except for his black sports jacket, one man who caught Reinfeld’s eye seemed to have purposely dressed down almost as much as he had. Reinfeld watched him devour first a caramel and Chinese five-spice snickerdoodle and then follow it with a hazelnut chocolate mousse. He didn’t have a napkin, however, and since he was holding a craft beer with his other hand, he appeared confused as to how to wipe his fingers. Reinfeld offered his paper napkin.

“Thank you,” the man said. He used the napkin to wipe his mouth and clean his fingers before depositing it in a wastebasket.

“Did you enjoy the desserts?” Reinfeld asked.

“Yes, I did, and since I’m pretty sure that our dividends are paying for them, I’m thinking of hijacking the bakery truck and taking it to my house. Want in?”

Reinfeld thought that was awfully funny and nearly laughed. Instead, he stifled a smile and offered his hand.

“Justus Reinfeld.”

He spoke as if he had fully expected his fellow shareholder to recognize his name. The fact that he displayed no reaction whatsoever suggested to Reinfeld that the man knew exactly who he was and was pretending not to.

“I’m McKenzie,” the shareholder said. “So, you come here often?”

Reinfeld thought that was funny, too, yet again refrained from laughing.

“No,” he said. “Like everyone else I’m here to see if Charles King rises miraculously from the dead like Lazarus.”

“If he does, I’d sure like to chat with him.”

“You and me both, brother. How many shares do you own?”

“I have about four-point-seven percent in KTech, give or take.”

Like a high-stakes poker player, Reinfeld had taught himself to keep his tells in check; to not give too much of himself away, only McKenzie’s answer had tripped all of the alarm bells in his head. He took a long pull of his cheap wine to hide his emotions even while telling himself that this man might actually be a brother.

“So, you’ve been losing money, too, since King Charles disappeared,” Reinfeld said.

“Haven’t you heard?” McKenzie said. “KTech’s stock price has been going up. Seems someone has been acquiring shares during these troubling times. I wonder why.”

Reinfeld again turned to his wineglass for support, only it was empty. He glanced around for another tray loaded with drinks, saw a waitress, waved her over, and switched his empty glass for a full one while