Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 2

Immediately, I could detect a soft, pleasant hum—the noise of many people performing complicated tasks with the efficiency of a Maytag. Voices rose and fell as I passed small offices and cubicles and there was an occasional peal of laughter. I wondered what would happen if I suddenly shouted, “Help! I’m being kidnapped!” Would anyone come to my rescue? Would someone tell my escort, “Unhand that man”? I was tempted to give it a try, but the woman turned abruptly, leading us down a narrow corridor.

There was a large double door at the end of the corridor made from wood I didn’t recognize. The woman rapped twice and opened one side. My escort nudged me forward into a large, richly appointed conference room. It looked as if the decorator had been admonished to fill the room with an air of grandeur, which he accomplished with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with leather-bound books and drawings by Picasso that could have been originals for all I knew. The far wall was entirely glass and provided a panoramic view of downtown Minneapolis with the Mississippi River beyond. In front of the window was a gleaming wood table long enough for a dozen English lords to have sat around while discussing the colonial tea tax two hundred and fifty years ago. A handful of men sat at the table, four at the end farthest from the door, a clear pitcher of water and several long-stemmed glasses arranged on a sterling silver tray in front of them. A much older fifth man was seated alone at the near end of the table, his ancient hands folded on top of a black leather file folder. Like the room, the inhabitants also were richly appointed, each in a suit that cost more than season tickets to the Vikings. Truth be told, I would have been impressed with both the room and the men if not for a persistent odor that for some reason reminded me of the inside of a shoe store.

My escort said, “Here he is,” and shoved me again.

“Thank you, Norman,” the older man said.

Enough is enough, I decided.

I pivoted swiftly on my left foot and drove my right fist just as hard as I could into Norman’s solar plexus. The shock and pain doubled him over. I stepped behind him, yanked down the top of his trench coat, pinning his arms against his body, reached into his pocket and pulled out the .38. I shoved him toward the table. He lost his balance, fell against the table, hitting his face on the gleaming top, and slid to the floor.

I pointed the .38 more or less at the table. The four men at the far end were on their feet now and looking helpless. The fifth man never stirred from his chair. He looked at me with an expression of quiet curiosity.

Norman managed to free himself from his trench coat and struggled to his feet. He didn’t want to take me on, but he would have if he were told to. The old man shook his head, and my escort made his way to a chair against the far wall and sat down. He fingered his nose, apparently relieved that it wasn’t broken.

I held up the gun for everyone to see. The four men at the end of the table were obviously frightened. I liked that. I broke open the wheel gun and dumped the five cartridges on the carpet one at a time, making a production of it, then flicked the gun shut and tossed it on the table. I arranged myself in a nonthreatening posture in a chair opposite the old man, right elbow resting on the arm, my chin cupped in my palm, adopting an expression that I hoped said, “Bored.”

“Mister Muehlenhaus, I presume.”

Muehlenhaus was elderly-looking but fit—or at least as fit as someone on the far side of eighty years could be. His face was the color of old paper and framed by wisps of silver hair. He had the strong eyes of a man who knew what he wanted and usually got it, yet when he smiled—which he was doing now—he became the kindly uncle who always had toys and candy hidden in his pockets for the kids.

He said, “Was that necessary?”

“Given the nature of our relationship, I thought it was prudent to make a statement early.”

The other four were sitting again, but they didn’t seem comfortable. Three of them were in their sixties and looked like the only exercise they ever engaged in was walking to their limousines. The fourth was younger—I guessed late forties.

One of the older men was wearing a politician’s uniform—dark blue suit, white shirt, and solid red tie. He said, “What statement?”

The old man answered for me.

“He’s not afraid of us.”

“He should be,” the politician said.

I grabbed the .38 and skipped it hard across the table. It bounced twice before smashing into the pitcher and two of the glasses. Water and glass shards spilled over the tray, table, and the four men. They jumped to their feet and brushed at the debris like it was acid.

“I’m sorry,” I told Muehlenhaus. “Was that crystal?”

“Your behavior is inappropriate, Mr. McKenzie.”