What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

moments’ thought before he realized what Shelby was suggesting.

“Hell no,” he said.

“I know the perfect girl, too.”

“Absolutely not.”

Lake Minnetonka was a “lake” in the same way that van Gogh’s The Starry Night was a “painting.” The word didn’t quite do it justice. For one thing, Lake Minnetonka—or “Big Water” if you speak Dakota—was less a lake than a sprawling maze of interconnected bays, inlets, channels, peninsulas, and islands with a water surface that covered twenty-three square miles and a shoreline that stretched for one hundred and fifty miles. It would take a couple of hours to drive around it and when you did, you’d be passing through some of the most prosperous zip codes in Minnesota. To own a home on the actual lake—what’s the old joke? If you have to ask you can’t afford it? I know I personally couldn’t afford it and there are people like Jean Shipman who insist I’m a member of the one percent.

The address in Orono that Harry had been given was located on the north shore of a bay called West Arm. An enormous house surrounded by an immense emerald lawn that sloped gently to the lake. Given the size of the house, the unattached four-car garage, the elaborate gazebo, the two-hundred-foot-long shoreline braced with a wall of enormous stones, the wide, wooden dock, its planks covered with water-resistant polyurethane, and the huge boat that was moored to the dock, Harry expected to be greeted by a maid or butler when he knocked on the front door. Instead, it was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a Minnesota Twins sweatshirt.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. King?”

“I’m Porter King.”

Harry flashed his credentials.

“Special Agent Brian Wilson, FBI,” he said.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Porter said.

Harry nodded at the admission.

“Your security people are very good at their jobs,” he said. “Very professional.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Porter looked over Harry’s shoulder toward the person standing directly behind him. “You are?”

“My name is Greg Schroeder. I’m a private investigator.”

“Yes, of course. Riley’s man. Come in, both of you.”

They stepped past Porter into the foyer of the house. From there Harry could gaze into other rooms and admire the exquisite furnishings and artworks they contained. His first thought was to wipe his feet. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Porter.

“I know,” he said. “The place is like a museum. Sometimes I find myself walking around throw rugs and hesitating to sit on chairs for fear a guard will toss me out.”

Porter started moving through the house. Harry and Schroeder followed behind.

“You don’t live here?” Harry said.

“I live in Linden Hills in Minneapolis. I live in the house we all grew up in, which is a pretty nice house in a pretty nice neighborhood, but this…” He spread his arms wide as if he was having a hard time taking it all in. “This is spectacular, don’t you think? Charles lives here. Charles loves spectacular. Gentlemen, can I get you anything?”

Porter had led them into a room with plenty of shelves that held plenty of books; Harry didn’t know if it was a library or a study or if there was a difference.

“Nothing for me,” he said.

“I’m good,” Schroeder said.

“Gentlemen, you’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?” Porter drifted to one of the shelves and nudged the spine of a book. “Watch this.”

A large section of the bookcase slid one foot forward and silently glided off to the side. The small bar that it revealed rolled slowly out into the room. Porter chuckled as he watched.

“It never gets old,” he said.

There was a small refrigerator built into the base of the bar. Porter bent down, opened it, and retrieved a dark brown longneck bottle with simple gold lettering. He held it up for Harry and Schroeder to see.

“Westvleteren Twelve, I hope I’m pronouncing that correctly,” Porter said. “Brewed in Belgium. Some say it’s the best beer in the world.”

“Since you’ve already gone to so much trouble,” Schroeder said.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Harry said. “I’m supposed to be on duty.”

Porter popped the tops off two bottles and handed them out. He kept a third for himself. The three men sat in comfortable chairs that had already been arranged so that they faced each other as if the space was often used for informal gatherings. After Harry and Schroeder had a chance to sample the beer, Porter asked them what they thought. Both said they thought it was terrific.

“It’s a little a bit fruity for me,” Porter said. “Charles loves it, though. So, guys, our people say you want to talk about McKenzie.”

“Excuse me, Mr. King—” Schroeder began.

“Porter, please. You say Mr. King and I automatically turn around to see if my brother is standing there.”

“Porter, you’re aware that I’m employed by Riley Brodin-Mulally?” Schroeder asked.

“Riley called us earlier this morning. Darling girl. Smart as hell. Fierce. She reminds me of my niece, Emma.”

“Why would she do that? Call you, I mean?”

“Apparently, you had informed her this morning that our mutual friend Justus Reinfeld was engaged in less than scrupulous stock manipulation. She felt compelled to pass the information on to us.”

“You and Riley are friends?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to claim that. More like acquaintances with a common interest—we both dislike Reinfeld intensely. We were grateful for the call, of course. However, we were already aware of his machinations.”

“McKenzie,” Harry said.

“Interesting man.”

“He does have his moments.”

“We believe that McKenzie revealed to us what little intelligence he possessed in an effort to prove that he was a friend and not a foe, but again, we knew about Reinfeld’s somewhat nefarious activities long before our little get-together.”

“Get-together?” Harry asked. “You make it sound friendly. In actuality, you had McKenzie taken into custody, escorted from the shareholders’ meeting, and locked in a cell—isn’t that so?”

“Locked? Hardly. McKenzie was always free to leave at any time. He stayed because he wanted to talk to us. Truthfully, we wanted to talk to him. He had made quite a nuisance of himself in an attempt to