“Ms. Brodin…”

“I need a favor. My grandfather says that’s what you do. Ever since you quit the St. Paul Police Department to collect the reward on that embezzler you tracked down, you do favors for friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“I know, but—”

“And your grandfather—the last time I saw him he was trying to frame me for murder.”

“He could have tried harder, McKenzie. He didn’t because he respects you. Still, you did cause him a great deal of embarrassment giving out the names of the politicians and businessmen involved in that online prostitution ring.”

“He wasn’t on the list, and he didn’t like the men who were any more than I did.”

“Grandpa’s strength comes from the perception that whatever it is, he can fix it, break it, build it, or make it go away. People came to him for help, and he was unable to provide it because of you, and those men remember; they remember that he was unable to help. It diminished him. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I need someone who can stand up to my family.”

“You mean your grandfather,” I said.

“If necessary.”

“That’s not something I’d like to make a habit of.”

Riley nodded as if I had spoken a truth universally accepted and began glancing around the club again. I liked her face despite the freckles—or maybe because of them. Her eyes glistened with intelligence, and her mouth seemed capable of warm and generous smiles. Yet there was something sad about it, too, as if it were well acquainted with sorrow. I had the uncomfortable feeling she wanted to share the sorrow with me and didn’t know quite how to go about it.

“I met him, you know,” Riley said. “Mr. Teachwell. The embezzler you caught. He came to the Pointe when I was a little girl. Some party or something. That’s what we call the house on Lake Minnetonka. The Pointe.”

“Riley,” Nina said. She spoke in a voice I’ve heard her use only when speaking to her daughter. “Do you want a drink? Something to eat? We have a fine bar menu.”

“No, I…”

“You can talk to us when you’re ready.”

“I need McKenzie…”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I need you to find my boyfriend.” Riley was staring into Nina’s silver-blue eyes when she spoke. She spun on her stool to face me. “I need you to find Juan Carlos.”

I don’t know what Nina was expecting, but she said “your boyfriend” the way some people say “bubonic plague” and stepped back from the bar.

“How long has he been missing?” I asked.

“Three days,” Riley said.

“That doesn’t seem like a very long time.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Nina and I have often gone more than three days without seeing or speaking to each other.”

“Yes, but we always knew where the other person was,” Nina said.

She had me there.

“You don’t understand,” Riley repeated. “He’s not at his house. He doesn’t answer his cell. I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to find him,” I said.

Her brow knotted, and her lips formed a thin line that plunged downward at the ends. For a moment she looked ugly.

“I’m not a starry-eyed teenager, McKenzie. I know what it’s like to be dumped by a guy who doesn’t even have the courtesy to call. This is different. Something is terribly wrong.”

“Have you contacted the police?”

“You know who I am. You know I can’t call the police without provoking a scandal.”

“The cops out where you live aim to please. They’re trained to keep secrets of the rich and famous.”

“No,” she said.

“Why would there be a scandal?”

“Not scandal, exactly.”

“What, then?”

“You make every question sound like an accusation.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Listen to yourself.”

I was starting to lose patience. I glanced up at Nina to see if she had an opinion. She shrugged her indifference.

“Ms. Brodin,” I said. “You’re a member of one of the wealthiest families in Minnesota, if not the nation. You have plenty of resources to draw on, and not just the police. Yet you come to a complete stranger for help. Stop hemming and hawing. Tell me what and tell me why or go away.”

She stood, although I don’t think she meant to. It was as if the tension in her body caused it to levitate off the stool.

“People don’t talk to me that way,” Riley said.

“Let me guess—you don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you get a lot of that—people telling you what to do?”

“Yes. At least I did before my trust fund kicked in. Now my family only makes strong suggestions.”

“Strong suggestions involving your boyfriend?”

Usually when people introduce themselves they offer you their hand. She didn’t. I tried to place her in my memory. She was not a classic beauty. So many attractive women tend to look like so many other attractive women, each of them borrowing heavily from the same magazines, TV shows, movies, and whatever else drives what we consider fashion these days. Yet Riley’s face, liberally sprinkled with freckles, was as unique as her name, and startling ivory-colored hair cut close to her scalp emphasized the individuality of her looks. I suspected that half the people she met thought she was pretty; the other half not so much. I was in the first camp. On the other hand, she was maybe twenty years younger than me, so I immediately deposited her into the look-but-don’t-touch category despite the way her skirt slid up to there. If a man knows what’s good for him, he’ll limit his lust to women who are roughly the same age as he is.

“How do you know me?” I asked.

“My grandfather. He speaks of you often, although I’m not sure he likes you very much.”

“Okay…”

“McKenzie, how brave are you?”

“How brave do I need to be?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What exactly do you want, Ms. Brodin?”

Nina saw the exchange from where she was standing at the far end of the bar. She had never seen an attractive woman try to pick me up, either. I’ve known her long enough that I could read the expression on her face as she approached. “Now what?” it said.

“Hi,” she spoke aloud when she reached the end of the bar where we were sitting. I took a deep breath. Her perfume tinged the air with the faint scent of vanilla, and I was reminded of the eclairs you can get at Wuollet Bakery down on Grand Avenue in St. Paul. I love eclairs.

Riley smiled brightly. “You‘re the lovely Ms. Truhler, aren’t you?” she said.

Nina’s eyes flitted to my face and then back to the girl’s. I was curious as to what her response would be, but Riley cut her off before she could speak.

“I apologize,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Nina told her.

“That’s how my grandfather refers to you. The lovely Ms. Truhler. He likes to hang labels on people, using adjectives to describe them. I’m his clever granddaughter. My father is that deadbeat son-in-law. My mother is—well, that doesn’t matter.”

“Who is your grandfather?” I asked.

“Walter Muehlenhaus.”

I stopped breathing. Nina did, too, but not before gasping a mouthful of air to tide her over while we digested the news. Walter Muehlenhaus—I knew him as Mr. Muehlenhaus—was rich, powerful, and connected in the way you’d expect the old robber barons like J. P. Morgan and James J. Hill to be connected. Those conspiracy movies Hollywood makes where the hero follows the clues all the way to the top? That’s where Muehlenhaus sat. He’s the reason the state legislature voted to build a billion-dollar football stadium for the Minnesota Vikings on the exact location of the old stadium even though it would have been cheaper and far more convenient to move it to any of the other sites that were proposed.

After regaining my composure, I said, “Mr. Muehlenhaus sent you?”

“Oh, no,” Riley said. “He’d be furious if he knew I was here.”

“Why are you here, then?” Nina asked.

“I’m embarrassed that I’ve never been to Rickie’s before.” Riley turned on her stool to examine the neighborhood bar-slash-restaurant-slash-jazz-club that Nina had named after her daughter, Erica. Most of the tables, booths, comfy chairs, and sofas arranged downstairs were filled, as was usually the case on a Tuesday evening, and half of the tables in the upstairs dining room/performance area were occupied as well, even though the music wouldn’t begin for another two hours yet. “I don’t get across the river very often,” she added.

That didn’t surprise me. Folks in St. Paul and the eastern suburbs, if you gave them a good enough reason they might be induced to cross the Mississippi into Minneapolis. However, the people who live there rarely, if ever, travel to this side of the river. Most natives will tell you that whoever invented the label “Twin Cities” was being ironic. We aren’t twins. We aren’t brothers. Hell, most of the time we aren’t even friends. Which made the question that more imperative.

“What do you want, Ms. Brodin?” I asked again.

“My BFFs call me Riles.”

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Quill has lived on the Red Pine reservation in Minnesota her whole life. She knows what happens to women who look like her. Just a girl when Jimmy Sky jumped off the railway bridge and she ran for help, Quill realizes now that she’s never stopped running. As she trains for the Boston Marathon early one morning in the woods, she hears a scream. When she returns to search the area, all she finds are tire tracks and a single beaded earring.

Things are different now for Quill than when she was a lonely girl. Her friends Punk and Gaylyn are two women who don’t know what it means to quit; her loving husband, Crow, and their two beautiful children challenge her to be better every day. So when she hears a second woman has been stolen, she is determined to do something about it—starting with investigating the group of men working the pipeline construction just north of their homes.

As Quill closes in on the truth about the missing women, someone else disappears. In her quest to find justice for all of the women of the reservation, she is confronted with the hard truths of their home and the people who purport to serve them. When will she stop losing neighbors, friends, family? As Quill puts everything on the line to make a difference, the novel asks searing questions about bystander culture, the reverberations of even one act of crime, and the long-lasting trauma of being considered invisible.

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These novels are driven by suspense and plot twists, often involving crime, detective work, or espionage. They aim to keep readers guessing and engaged, with a focus on solving a central puzzle or threat.

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