The McRyan Mystery Series

First Case, The St. Paul Conspiracy & Deadly Stillwater

Special Edition Three Book Box Set

by

Roger Stelljes

Table of Contents

First Case

The Start • Chapter One • Chapter Two • Chapter Three • Chapter Four • Chapter Five • Chapter Six • Chapter Seven • Chapter Eight • Chapter Nine • Chapter Ten • Chapter Eleven • Chapter Twelve

The St. Paul Conspiracy

Chapter One • Chapter Two • Chapter Three • Chapter Four • Chapter Five • Chapter Six • Chapter Seven • Chapter Eight • Chapter Nine • Chapter Ten • Chapter Eleven • Chapter Twelve • Chapter Thirteen • Chapter Fourteen • Chapter Fifteen • Chapter Sixteen • Chapter Seventeen • Chapter Eighteen • Chapter Nineteen • Chapter Twenty • Chapter Twenty-One • Chapter Twenty-Two • Chapter Twenty-Three • Chapter Twenty-Four • Chapter Twenty-Five • Chapter Twenty-Six • Chapter Twenty-Seven • Chapter Twenty-Eight • Chapter Twenty-Nine • Chapter Thirty • Chapter Thirty-One • Chapter Thirty-Two • Chapter Thirty-Three • Chapter Thirty-Four • Chapter Thirty-Five • Chapter Thirty-Six • Chapter Thirty-Seven • Chapter Thirty-Eight • Chapter Thirty-Nine • Chapter Forty • Chapter Forty-One • Chapter Forty-Two

Deadly Stillwater

Chapter One • Chapter Two • Chapter Three • Chapter Four • Chapter Five • Chapter Six • Chapter Seven • Chapter Eight • Chapter Nine • Chapter Ten • Chapter Eleven • Chapter Twelve • Chapter Thirteen • Chapter Fourteen • Chapter Fifteen • Chapter Sixteen • Chapter Seventeen • Chapter Eighteen • Chapter Nineteen • Chapter Twenty • Chapter Twenty-One • Chapter Twenty-Two • Chapter Twenty-Three • Chapter Twenty-Four • Chapter Twenty-Five • Chapter Twenty-Six • Chapter Twenty-Seven • Chapter Twenty-Eight • Chapter Twenty-Nine • Chapter Thirty • Chapter Thirty-One • Chapter Thirty-Two • Chapter Thirty-Three • Chapter Thirty-Four • Chapter Thirty-Five • Chapter Thirty-Six • Chapter Thirty-Seven • Chapter Thirty-Eight • Chapter Thirty-Nine • Chapter Forty • Chapter Forty-One

About the Author

FIRST CASE

McRyan Mystery Series - Prequel Novella

By

Roger Stelljes

The Start

Oliver walked out of the back of the bar, alone, a rarity for him.

Gordon Oliver was a closer.

He didn’t fail often.

Yet, tonight he had.

He’d spent the better part of three hours and sixty dollars working a pretty brunette, Natalie, going deep into his bag of tricks, using all of the tools in his toolbox, but he couldn’t reel her all the way in. But that was for tonight. Natalie was a semi-regular at The Mahogany and she was interested in him. After all he was leaving with her number and business card. However, for tonight any way, that was all she was giving up.

Gordon smiled to himself. Sometimes having to work for it made it all the more worthwhile when the deal was finally closed. And if past was prologue, he’d close the deal with Natalie soon enough.

He approached his Ford F-150 and reached in his suit pocket for his keys when he heard rustling behind him. He turned, looked towards the big dumpster and sighed, “What are you doing here?”

“Gordon we need to talk.”

“I told you I’m done talking about this. You know what you have to do.”

“Gordy, I can’t right now. I just can’t. I need a little more time to deal with him.”

Gordon shook his head and turned to walk away, saying: “I can’t wait for you to deal with him any longer. I’m sorry, you’re out of time.”

Those were the last words Gordon Oliver ever uttered.

Chapter One

“This wasn’t random.”

“I’ll take a large Morning Jolt and a medium Dark Roast,” Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan said to the barista working the counter at The Grand Brew. His purchase would accomplish two things. First, the coffee would get him going as he headed to his first homicide crime scene as a detective. Second, the purchase made him a little money, as he owned part of the coffee shop and twenty others like it with some childhood friends. Mac handed over six dollars, left the change and had the coffees placed into a cardboard carrier. He walked out the front door and climbed into his Explorer and handed a cup to his partner.

“Thanks, partner,” Richard Lich, better known as “Dick Lick,” said as he set the coffee into the cup holder.

“My pleasure,” Mac answered.

McRyan put his Explorer into gear and motored east on Grand towards downtown St. Paul. “So what do we have?” Mac asked.

“Body in an alley behind The Mahogany,” Lich answered. “Beyond that I don’t know much.”

“A murder behind the competition, that should make Shamus happy,” Mac said. Shamus was Mac’s uncle and he ran the other family business, McRyan’s Pub, which sat on the southwestern edge of downtown St. Paul. The Mahogany was a pub on the eastern side of downtown. The two bars catered to different crowds, however. McRyan’s Pub catered to cops and hockey fans. The Mahogany was known as the lawyer bar.

As he drove towards downtown and The Mahogany, Mac thought about working his first crime scene as a detective. Being a cop was the first McRyan family business and Mac was part of the fourth generation of McRyan cops. He had numerous uncles and cousins currently in the department and a few retired uncles, who instead of patrolling the streets, now patrolled the bottles and taps behind the brass rail at McRyan’s Pub, which was the second McRyan family business.

More significantly, Mac was the son of Simon McRyan, perhaps the best detective ever to walk behind a St. Paul badge.

Because of that, it was not Mac’s original plan to be a cop.

When he was a kid, being a cop was what he wanted to be, it’s what every McRyan boy wanted to be because that’s what their dads and uncles were. However, even as a young boy Mac knew his dad was special. Simon McRyan appeared on the news, was written up in the paper and every tough case seemed to come his way. He was a legend. More than once as a child and then again as a teenager, Mac heard he would have a lot to live up to when he became a cop.

It was assumed, expected, preordained that Mac would walk in his father’s footsteps. It was the McRyan way after all. However, even as a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old, Mac was self aware enough to wonder if he really wanted to work under that kind of pressure.

Then another path presented itself.

Mac became a straight A student and stellar athlete at Cretin High School. He was awarded a hockey scholarship to the University of Minnesota where he captained the team to a national championship his senior season as a tough and savvy left wing. He graduated with highest honors from the University and enrolled in law school, with visions of a legal practice and maybe even politics. He graduated summa cum laude from William Mitchell College of Law. Mac accepted an offer for $100,000 a year with a prominent Minneapolis law firm. He was married to his college sweetheart, who also went to law school, graduated with honors and had a similar job lined up with a prominent law firm. They were set for a life of prosperity and success.

But then, as it so often does, life gets in the way and changes the course you have selected.

Mac’s two best friends were his cousins Peter and Tommy, both of whom followed the family tradition. They became cops. Two weeks before Mac was set to be licensed as a lawyer, Tommy and Peter were killed in the line of duty.

For most people, they would have taken it as a sign that they made the right choice, to do something other than being a cop. Mac had better options, safer options, more lucrative and socially acceptable options. But the deaths of his cousins hit Mac differently. He didn’t want to run from it, he didn’t want to feel fortunate, he no longer wanted the more lucrative and socially acceptable option. He didn’t feel entitled to it, not when he looked at what the people most important in his life, his family, were doing. Instead, he felt an obligation, to his cousins, to his family and to himself.

A week later he joined the St. Paul Police Department.

Life had veered to a different path.

Now, a short four years later, Mac was about to walk under the crime scene tape for the first time as a detective. He knew his dad would be looking down on him.

Their crime scene was an alley in the middle of a block of one-hundred-year-old brown and red brick buildings. Lich pulled the car to the curb just short of the alley which was now taped off. They each took one last long sip of the hot coffee and then jumped out into the cool twenty-degree March morning as the sun worked its way up on the blue crystal clear eastern horizon.

Lich dropped his dark brown fedora on his round balding head. The fedora, trench coat, suit and shoes were all in shades of Lich’s trademark weathered brown. The clothes tightly, too tightly, formed around the bulbous mid-section of his five-foot-eight body. Lich’s ensemble made Mac look GQ in comparison. Mac was sporting a black wool trench coat, gray scarf, navy blue suit, light blue dress shirt and blue, yellow and cream stripped tie all of which hung comfortably on his blond haired blue eyed six-foot-one athletic frame.

Mac was curious as to how things would go with "Dick Lick." Mac had known him for years, even back when his dad was alive. Lich had the reputation of being a good detective, when he was interested in being one. Good instincts, a nice line of b.s. when needed and the willingness to occasionally think outside the box, little of which had been on recent display. As of late, he’d been finalizing his second divorce and it seemed as if his interest in police work had waned considerably. Given what the McRyan name meant in the department, Mac half-wondered if he’d been assigned to Lich as a way to motivate Dick. Mac would soon find out.

McRyan stepped under the yellow tape and stopped, taking in the scene. The alley was narrow, like a canyon, running between the four- and five-story brick buildings that dotted either side. Dumpsters, the odd car or truck, stray paper, cardboard coffee cups, soda cans, and small dirty snow piles and patches of ice framed either side of the alley. Occasional splotches of graffiti added a certain off-color ambience to the alley. The dumpsters provided an aromatic stench that permeated the air. Garbage pick-up couldn’t come soon enough.

“Lovely,” Lich grumbled.

The crime scene was a hundred feet ahead. A Ford F-150 was parked along the left side of the alley, the front end nosed at a leftward angle towards the grimy alley wall just past a large overflowing rusty green wheeled dumpster. The coroner was examining a body stuffed into the truck’s rear bed and Ramsey County crime scene techs were buzzing around the scene placing small yellow numbered tents to mark potential pieces of evidence, snapping pictures and taking video.

“Your first case, Mac. Why don’t you go ahead and run it,” Lich offered.

“Are you sure?” Mac asked, a control freak by nature. He definitely wanted the reigns.

“Yeah. I’ve got your back if we get stuck.”

Mac nodded, pulled on rubber gloves, opened his notebook and approached the coroner, an old family friend named Jack Coonan. Coonan felt them approaching, looked up, saw Mac and smiled, taking in the young detective approaching him. “Let me see the shield, boy.”

Mac pulled his trench and suit coat back to show his shield on his belt.

Coonan smiled. “Is this your first case?”

“First case, Jack. So what do we have?”

“Gordon Andrew Oliver,” Coonan answered, handing a wallet to Mac. “Patrol cop ran the plate on this truck and it belongs to Oliver. Bartender also confirmed it was his truck.”

“Cause of death?” Lich asked.

“Preliminary is blunt force trauma to the right temple area,” Coonan pointed with his pen to the temple area and a large hematoma. Then Coonan pointed to the back right of the victim’s head. “He might have been hit first in the back of his head. See the bruising and blood here at the base of his skull?” The coroner pointed with his pen at the right side of the back of the victim’s skull. Mac nodded.

Coonan continued: “He might have been hit from behind, falls and hits the bumper with the front right of his head and then falls to the ground.”

Mac leaned down to look at the back of the skull, “He was hit more than once?”

“That indeed appears to be the case,” Coonan answered. “I’ll have to see for sure when I examine him but it looks like he was hit back here twice, maybe three times. I can confirm once I get the body on the slab. But it’s the blow to the temple on the bumper that probably killed him. This is very preliminary, of course, but I bet I’ll find temporal bleeding and without immediate medical attention, the blow to the front of the head from the bumper was fatal.” The coroner was an old pro who didn’t idly speculate. Mac suspected much of what Coonan was surmising would turn out to be the case.

Lich was standing to the left of the truck. “So our guy was hit from behind, hits the bumper and falls over here to the left of the truck.”

Mac walked over to the left side of the car. He looked at the corner of the metal bumper on the left side of the truck and the smudges of blood on the bumper. In addition to that blood, Crime Scene had also marked the blood pool on the ground, just to the left of the back left side of the truck. There was also a small amount of splatter on the truck’s back left quarter panel.

“You think robbery, Mac?” Lich asked, testing.

Mac shook his head, “If it were, why not take the wallet? Jack, was any money in the wallet?”

“Yeah, Mac, couple of hundred bucks, American Express and Discover cards too, plus the guy has an Omega watch, pretty nice, still on his wrist.”

Mac looked to Lich, “If you were robbing the guy…”

“…You’d take the wallet, the money and credit cards.”

“And you wouldn’t stuff the guy in the rear bed of the truck. You’d take the wallet, watch, maybe even the truck, and get out of Dodge.”

“So probably not a robbery then. I’m with you so far Mac,” Lich said.

“Jack, can you give me a time of death?” Mac asked.

“I’d say somewhere between midnight and two a.m.” Mac nodded and jotted down some notes.

“Who found the vic?” Lich asked.

“Bartender from The Mahogany,” Coonan answered. “He’s talking to the uniform cop back there.” Coonan was pointing to the back entrance to The Mahogany thirty feet behind them.

Mac and Lich walked back to the uniform cop who was standing next to a tall, thin, disheveled man with a goatee. They introduced themselves to the clearly shaken bartender named Chet Remer. “You know our victim?” Mac asked.

Remer nodded then said, “Gordy was a regular with us. He was in two or three nights a week, occasionally on a weekend.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Last night. He was in like usual after work.”

“Where does he work?” Lich asked.

“At a law firm. Krueger, Ballantine, Montague and Preston.”

Lich looked to Mac, the lawyer turned cop. “Do you know the firm?”

Mac nodded. “Sure. KBMP is a well-known firm with forty, maybe forty-five attorneys, I think. Their offices are here downtown, over in the old Lowry Lewis Building.” Then to the bartender: “Mr. Remer, was Gordon Oliver an attorney there?”

“An associate I think.”

“So he was in last night?” Mac asked.

The bartender nodded.

“What time did he arrive?”

“Maybe nine-thirty, give or take. That was kind of a usual time for him. He’d been working some longer hours as of late he said. He said he was gearing up for trial.”

“What time did he leave the bar last night?”

“He left around midnight, I think. I remembered he gave me a wave on the way out the back and it was no big deal. He’s done it a hundred times I bet.”

“Did he always park out back like that?”

“Yeah,” Remer answered. “We let a few regulars like Gordy do that. A little perk.”

“How was it you found Mr. Oliver this morning then?” Lich asked.

“I went to a little after bar party with some friends last night after we closed at one. My friends dropped me back off at the end of the alley here this morning a little before five. My Jeep is parked back here. I noticed Gordy’s truck was still here which I thought was odd since I saw him leave, and leave alone. I walked over and saw the blood on the driver’s side. I looked inside the truck’s cab, didn’t see him and then got a sick feeling in my stomach. So I called 911. The police got here a few minutes later, popped the truck’s rear bed gate and flip cover and,” Remer’s lip started to tremble, “there he was.”

“I know this is difficult,” Mac said, “but can you think of anyone that would want to hurt Mr. Oliver?”

“No I can’t,” Remer answered. “He was a good guy, especially for a lawyer.”

Mac and Lich both snorted, which Remer noted.

“I know, I know,” Remer said. “Lawyers can be a little full of themselves.”

“Tell me about it,” Lich retorted, looking right at Mac with a toothless smile.

“Whatever,” Mac shot back, shaking his head.

Remer picked up on it, “You a lawyer or something?” he asked Mac. “Or maybe you’re married to one.”

“Good pick-up,” Mac answered, remembering that bartenders spend significant amounts of time observing and evaluating people. “I was going to be, but then I didn’t. Wife is a lawyer.”

Remer nodded. “Then you know this is a lawyer bar, right?”

Mac nodded. He’d been in a half-dozen times over the years with his wife and law school classmates.

“Well, we obviously see lots of them in here and, I don’t care how much they spend, some of them are real assholes, arrogant and full of self-importance. But Gordy wasn’t. He was plenty confident for sure, but he was friendly and not a bad looking guy at all. He dressed well and looked the lawyer part, pinstripe suits, nice ties, fancy watch, spent some money on the haircut, all that. He cut a good look and from what I observed, he had an effective line of bullshit for the ladies.”

“Get himself a fair amount of tail, did he?” Lich asked, his mind drifting to one of the few topics he liked to discuss in detail and, as Mac had learned, with great frequency.

Remer smiled. “Gordy left with company plenty of nights. I asked him his secret and he’d just say ‘you gotta use all the tools in the toolbox, Chet.’”

“He was killed outside your bar,” Mac said, getting back on track. “Did anyone in here give him trouble last night?”

“Not last night.”

“How about other nights then?” Mac followed, catching the bartender’s drift.

“Maybe a month ago he got into it pretty good with a guy in the bar. It was heated. We had a couple of off duty cops in here that night and they broke it up before it got physical, but it looked like it could have easily escalated to that level.”

“Do you know why?”

Remer smiled. “Like I said, Gordy was good with the ladies and from what I saw he didn’t really let a diamond ring stand in his way. He almost viewed it as a challenge. I think that night we might have had an angry husband or boyfriend.”

“Do you have a name?” Mac asked, jotting down notes.

“I don’t. I can check but I don’t think we wrote anything up on it.”

“Did you recognize the guy?”

“Not at the time. I probably would if I saw him again because of what happened that night. But he wasn’t a regular, that’s for sure, but whether that was the only time he was in here I don’t know. I know he hasn’t been back and Gordy never mentioned it again. I think he was here with some people from his law firm that night so they might know more about it.”

“Speaking of his work, did he ever mention any trouble there?” Mac inquired.

“No. He worked long hours at that firm like most young lawyers do, but he really seemed to like it. Sometimes he came here with people from the firm, lawyers, secretaries and stuff. I think he was a little friendly with a couple of women from the firm or at least it sure seemed like it. But again, he never mentioned any work trouble. He just worked a lot, I know that.”

Lich and Mac spent a few more minutes interviewing Remer and then left him and walked back into the alley to look over the crime scene again. Mac walked back to the blood pool and knelt down to look around when a flash of light to his right caught his eye. Under the front of the left rear tire he saw a small brass plate, maybe an inch by half inch, rectangular in shape. It wasn’t marked as evidence. Mac pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket. He carefully moved around the blood pool and crouched down close to the brass piece and shined his flashlight on it. It looked like there was blood on it. Mac called over a crime scene tech to mark, photograph and bag it.

Mac stood up and then looked back towards the dumpster and stared for a minute. Lich noticed the look.

“What are you thinking, Mac?”

Mac stood up and walked over to the dumpster and crouched down behind it, careful not to touch the dumpster. There was a gap between the back of the dumpster and the wall. He could peek through and see the back door to The Mahogany. The victim still had his wallet, watch and the car was still there.

“Jack, did the vic have his cell phone?”

Coonan shook his head. “Yes.”

This wasn’t a robbery, Mac thought. Robber wouldn’t put the body in the truck, not to mention the fact that the wallet, watch, cell phone and perhaps even the truck would be gone. Mac peeked back through the opening again. “I think our killer crouched down behind the dumpster here, lying in wait for Mr. Oliver. When Oliver passes,” Mac stood up and swung down with his right hand, “the first hit knocks Oliver into the bumper of the truck here. Who knows, there’s a patch of ice here as well so after he’s hit, he stumbles, maybe steps on the patch of ice and then hits his head on the bumper. Then the killer hits him a time or two when he falls to the ground, finishing off what was already probably a finished job because the blow to the head on the bumper is what kills him.”

“With what?” Lich asked. “Hits him with what?”

“I don’t know with what yet,” Mac answered. “There’s the small brass plate our tech is bagging right now that has blood on it, so it might have fallen off of the murder weapon when the killer was swinging it and hitting Oliver with it.”

“So what are you thinking, rook?” Lich asked.

“This wasn’t random. Someone knew Gordon Oliver was here and knew his truck would be parked back here. He was killed by someone who knew him.”

Chapter Two

“But a homicide is different, someone has been murdered.”

While on a long drive for a hunting trip when he was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, unsure if being a cop was what he wanted in life, Mac McRyan asked his dad how he delivered the news to a family that they had lost a loved one. Simon McRyan was a gregarious, outgoing, larger than life personality who knew how to fill a room with fun and laughter. He could make a funny quip about anything and often, when making a serious point, he would start off with some humorous anecdote to soften the impending lesson. However, for this question from his son, Simon McRyan sat in silence for a number of minutes, looking out the windshield, deep in thought, before he carefully answered the question.

Mac’s dad quietly said that before he ever informed the next of kin, he always tried to put himself in the shoes of the family and how they would want to be told the news and what they would want to hear from the policeman that was giving them the news. The most important thing was to make an investment in the victim. Then his father looked him straight in the eye and said: “Son, this is the most important thing. If you become a cop, if you work homicides, you speak for the dead. That is the job. You become their voice. That is the obligation and it is a heavy one. It is an obligation that not everyone can carry. If you become a cop and you become a detective and you want to work homicides, you will have to ask yourself if you can carry that burden. If you can, then you can talk to the family because then you have that investment in the case. You will say: ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ and it will mean something to the family. They will trust that you will do everything you can to solve it and give them an answer, closure and maybe even a sense of justice.”

Mac thought about those words all the way back to the station. The ride allowed him to clear his mind before he made the call; the phone call that changes everything for a family. Lich had managed to find out that Gordon Oliver was from Wichita, Kansas. His father had died two years ago but he was survived by his mother. She was about to hear the news that she’d lost another man in her life. To make matters worse, Mac would have to deliver the news over the phone which didn’t seem right but was unavoidable.

He did the best he could with Janice Oliver.

Mrs. Oliver hadn’t spoken with her son in a week, other than via a few e-mails. Her son hadn’t mentioned any problems with anyone at work or anyplace else for that matter. He enjoyed his work and seemed happy. Mrs. Oliver didn’t have any information that seemed helpful. Mac told her he would be in touch with more information as it developed and that she should call him if she thought of anything. He took down a list of other family members to contact. After he hung up, he sat in his desk chair for a minute to collect himself. It had been a difficult conversation.

Lich had been sitting at his own desk twenty feet away, keeping a respectful distance while he listened in. When Mac hung up Lich left his desk for the breakroom. He came back with a cup of coffee for himself and his partner and said, “All in all, Mac, you did pretty well there.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s different than when you’re on patrol. In those cases, it was an accident, right?”

Mac nodded.

Lich continued, “In those cases, it’s an unfortunate set of circumstances, and the victim has died. It was an accident. But a homicide is different, someone has been murdered. It was intentional. The victim is still dead, but a homicide, that just hits people differently. It makes them ask why?”

Mac looked down for a moment and then pushed himself out of his desk chair, “Then let’s go figure out why Gordon Oliver was murdered.”

• • • • •

Their first stop was Gordon Oliver’s condo, which was a lofted apartment on the far eastern edge of downtown St. Paul, an area called Lowertown. The building, called The Parker Lofts, was a converted warehouse that was subdivided into condos. Oliver had a second floor unit. Mac and Lich, along with two crime scene techs, were let into the unit by the building manager.

The building was a secure building, requiring a key to get in. The front entrance to the apartment, as well as its parking garage, was monitored by video cameras. The manager said he would pull the camera footage to see if anyone unusual entered the building, particularly after midnight.

The loft was approximately one thousand square feet. The floor plan was open, with a kitchen opening into a large open living area that contained a leather sectional couch and easy chair situated around a large area rug and glass rectangular coffee table. The furniture framed a viewing area for the fireplace and a flat screen television. The bedroom and bathroom were positioned down a narrow hallway that ran behind the kitchen.

There was a standard amount of disorganization that evidenced it was occupied by a single, young professional male who worked long hours. The wool blanket on the couch wasn’t folded, there were four different bowls and three glasses in the kitchen sink, there were four pairs of shoes, three dress and one tennis, strewn on the floor mat by the door. The bed in the bedroom was unmade, his toiletries were spread across the vanity in the bathroom and papers were strewn across the small dining table near the kitchen.

“The place looks disorganized, but it doesn’t look like anyone ransacked the place,” Lich observed.

“No it doesn’t, although we need to review the video footage from the front door and garage to be sure,” Mac answered and jotted down a reminder. He perused the loose papers on the small table, a combination of work papers, legal briefs and cases and a few bills, one for cable and another for his cell phone. A red toolbox sat just to the side of the table and Mac smiled, thinking of the bartender’s statement, “You gotta use all the tools in the toolbox.” Of course, that referred to Oliver’s penchant to chase skirts.

Mac and Lich spent time knocking on a few doors but none of Oliver’s neighbors heard anything or were aware of any problems.

Chapter Three

“You can’t make that shit up.”

The Lowry Lewis Building was a five-story classic located in the middle of downtown St. Paul, six blocks from The Mahogany. The interior of the building featured a five-story courtyard with skylight. The offices opened to balconies that overlooked the courtyard. Marble, carved mahogany and oak were the distinctive finishes of the interior of the historic building. The first floor was occupied by a series of small businesses including a jeweler, shoe repair shop, clothier and barber. Krueger, Ballantine, Montague and Preston occupied the second through fifth floors. The receptionist area for the law firm sat at the top of a wide grand staircase that rose majestically to the second floor from the street level entrance.

McRyan looked at the listing of attorney names on the wall behind the receptionist and counted forty-six attorneys. He recalled from his law school days of interviewing with firms that KBMP, as it was known, specialized in corporate transactions and the complex litigation that attached itself to that kind of work. It was an old-time St. Paul law firm, having first opened its doors as Krueger and Ballantine in 1922. Krueger and Ballantine had long since passed, and Montague was listed as retired. The only name partner still active was Marie Preston, who was listed as the firm’s managing partner. She was who Mac asked to see.

Marie Preston was a woman in her mid-to-late fifties. She wore dark round tortoise shell glasses. Her black hair, with strands of gray, was pulled back in a tight bun. She was dressed in a plain black pant suit, red blouse with a double strand of pearls around her neck. She wasn’t dressed matronly but certainly conservatively. Mac broke the news to Preston about Gordon Oliver’s death.

“It is such a shock. I saw him here just last night. Do you know who killed him?” Preston said after a few minutes, having regained her composure, although her eyes still watered.

“We’re trying to figure that out, ma’am,” Mac answered. “What can you tell us about him?”

Preston explained that Oliver was a fourth year associate who was an up and coming litigator. He was an extremely hard worker who had billed over 2,100 hours the previous year and was ahead of that pace in the current year. Good numbers for a young associate, requiring late nights and lots of weekend time.

“Gordon was a good young trial lawyer. He tried his first jury trial last year and won. He had the mindset for litigation, he was going to be a good one, a very good one. A lawyer’s lawyer,” Preston explained. “He liked the battle and grind of it and he had just the right amount of arrogance for it.”

“Arrogance?” Lich asked.

“If you want to be a good lawyer, particularly a good trial lawyer,” Mac answered, “you need to be confident. You need to be arrogant.”

“And Gordon didn’t lack for either quality,” Preston added.

“Arrogance, huh. You were going to be a trial lawyer, weren’t you, Mac?” Lich said smiling.

Mac shook his head, ‘walked right into that one,’ he thought. Then to Preston, “You said he worked long hours?”

“If you want to be a good litigator, a good young lawyer for that matter, you must be willing to grind it out hour-by-hour, day-after-day. Gordon could do that and seemed to like doing it.”

“We’re going to have to ask this question of a lot of people around here, but did he have any problems with anyone?”

“Professionally? No. His conduct as a lawyer was exemplary. In fact, even though he was a very young lawyer, he’d become something of our professional responsibility expert when others had some ethical questions. Professionally, he was an absolute stickler for the rules.”

“But personally?” Lich followed, picking up Preston’s tone.

Preston sat back and picked her next words carefully, “With litigators like Gordon, you want them kind of living on the edge, to have something of a fearless attitude, to be willing to go at a hundred miles an hour. They are more effective that way. Gordon was no exception. With those kinds of lawyers you take the good with the bad.”

“I assume the good was the legal work and billings,” Mac said.

“Yes,” Preston replied. “Partners make money on profitable associates. Gordon Oliver made us money.”

“What’s the bad?”

“Well,” Preston answered slyly, “Gordon could be pretty abrasive and well, he really liked the ladies.”

“So we’ve been told,” Lich said. “At least about the ladies. The abrasive part is new.”

“So what about his liking the ladies was a problem?” Mac asked.

“That he shared his affections with soooo many of them around the office,” Preston replied disapprovingly.

“So many? Like how many?” Mac asked, pen at the ready.

“Well there were at least three women that I know he slept with. There was a secretary, a paralegal and then one of our associates.”

“Three? At least that you know of?” Mac asked skeptically, jotting down notes. “Were there more?”

“I suspect there could have been but there are only three that I know of for sure.”

“Hey, at least he’s equal opportunity, hitting everyone on the law firm food chain,” Lich said lightly.

“Indeed,” Preston answered. “Gordon was, what one of my fellow partners likes to call, a hound. In any event, the problem in one case was that the woman was married and in another case, the woman was in a long-term relationship and it created some issues, particularly with the married woman.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Well, about a month ago we had a rather angry husband appear at our reception desk demanding to see Gordon.”

“What was his name?”

“Martin Burrows. His wife Tammy Burrows is a secretary in our office.”

“Did Mr. Burrows see Mr. Oliver?” Lich asked.

“He did, unfortunately,” Preston related that as Burrows waited at the reception desk, Oliver and two other associates walked up the staircase, returning from a Starbucks run. Burrows attacked Oliver, landing one punch before the two other associates were able to get between them. Building security was called and Burrows was physically escorted out of the building.

“Were any charges filed?” Mac asked.

“No. Gordon let it slide. He didn’t want to make it any bigger a deal than it was. Perhaps he should have.”

“The bartender at The Mahogany said that Oliver and another man got into it one night at the bar. No blows, but it got heated. Do you know if that was Burrows as well?” Dick asked.

“It might have been. I heard some gossip about that incident but I didn’t hear that Burrows was attached to it. Who knows, it might have been the significant other of some other woman Gordon bedded. He was pretty adept at making that happen.”

“You mentioned abrasive, how is that an issue?” McRyan asked.

“You know that whole confident, arrogant thing. It rubs some people the wrong way. Some people were put off by his confidence. Partners have been feeding him a lot of work, especially Stan Busch, and Gordon wasn’t afraid to flaunt that.”

“How about his work? Was there anything he was working on lately that could have caused him some trouble? A difficult client perhaps? Maybe opposing counsel he had an issue with?”

Preston shook her head, “For the last three or four months he’s been heavily involved in a case that was supposed to go to trial starting next week. It’s a complex shareholder lawsuit. Gordon Oliver was working with another very good senior associate named Michael Harris. Both of them were working for Happy Hour.”

“Happy Hour?” Lich asked quizzically.

“Happy Hour is Stan Busch,” Preston replied. “I guess he’s kind of what I would call our morale partner. He’s notorious for taking people out for drinks after work. He’s done it for years. We call him Happy Hour.”

“We’ll need to talk to him and the whole firm,” Lich said.

“We’ll need a whole roster of your employees,” Mac added. “We need to speak with everyone and know who is here and who is not.”

“Please wait here for a minute,” Preston replied. “I need to make an announcement.”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich spent the next three hours interviewing lawyers throughout the offices. The atmosphere was somber. Doors were closed. Discussions were in hushed murmurs. There were enough teary eyes and sad faces to suggest Oliver was liked by a fair number of people around the firm.

They started with the lawyer Oliver was doing most of his work with. Mac and Lich caught Stan Busch a/k/a “Happy Hour” as they exited the conference room with Marie Preston. Busch was just arriving in the office, carrying two briefcases, a black leather litigation case and a weathered tan executive briefcase. Preston informed him of the news.

Busch shook his head, “I knew the womanizing would get him sooner or later.”

Mac and Lich shared a look and then followed Busch back to his well-appointed corner office. It reeked of old school lawyer and law firm, with fifteen-foot-high ceilings, crown molding, oak wood floors and dark cherry wood furniture. The office was a power office and Busch looked plenty comfortable sitting in it even given the circumstances. The veteran lawyer was nattily attired in a navy blue pinstripe suit, red silk tie and a crisply pressed blue dress shirt with a white collar. Busch sat casually, one leg crossed over the other, in his high backed leather chair behind his large cherry wood desk, cutting the look of a lord over his law practice.

Behind Busch was a large cherry wood credenza full of family photos, many taken on family ski, beach and tourist trips. Mac could make out two of the pictures which were clearly from Venice. The walls of the office were dotted with pictures of Busch with the powerful and elite of the state; governors, legislators, lawyers and even the odd celebrity. To the right of the credenza, on the floor, were two more high-end leather square litigation cases to which Busch had added the two briefcases he brought with him to the office.

“I like your tan briefcase,” Mac said. “Reminds me of the one an uncle bought for me when I graduated law school.”

“Thank you,” the lawyer responded, glancing briefly to the briefcase and then back to McRyan with a quizzical look. “If you went to law school, why are you a homicide detective?”

“It’s a long story. Besides, we’re not interested in my story, we’re interested in yours and that of Gordon Oliver.”

Stan Busch liked Gordon Oliver. “It will be a real loss. He was a very fine young lawyer. Everything you want in a young associate. He was really coming along nicely and I could envision him doing my work and the firm’s work for many years to come.”

“So we understand Gordon Oliver was working a lot for you as of late,” Lich said.

“Exclusively for the last four months. We have a case scheduled to go to trial starting next Monday. Gordon, along with Michael Harris, was going to be covering much of that trial, along with me of course. Gordon was going to handle a number of witnesses at trial. After we are done meeting here, Michael and I will have to start working on a continuance.”

“Was he having any trouble with anyone here in the office or on that case?”

“On the case, no. It’s a complex albeit garden variety shareholder dispute case. Other than the typical push and pull of litigation, there have been no problems. So no, work was not a problem for Gordon, not at all. My clients really liked him and he did good, very good work, work beyond what most fourth year associates are capable of. Now his personal life? That is another story. That will likely provide you with your killer.”

“How so?” Mac asked.

Busch shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve heard. Gordon liked the ladies. I saw him in action a number of times. He used to say, man’s gotta use all the tools…”

“…in his toolbox,” Mac finished the phrase for Busch. “I’ve heard that a few times today,” Mac added, a tinge of disgust in his voice.

“Gordon said it at least once a day, whether he was doing legal work or chasing the ladies. It was his signature catch phrase, I guess. You’ll find it on a wood plate on his office desk.”

“So who from Mr. Oliver’s personal life would have it in for him?” Lich asked.

“I think there is a husband or two of our female staff that are not fans of Gordon. I’m sure Marie Preston told you of the incident in the lobby a month or so ago.”

Mac and Lich nodded.

“Well that wasn’t the only time he had to deal with Mr. Burrows. Gordon told me there were phone calls, e-mails and one threat to kill him, so I’d check on that Burrows fellow.”

“Did Oliver report the threats to the police?”

“I’m not sure. I recommended he do so.”

Mac made a note to look into Burrows the minute they left the firm. “Any other spouses or boyfriends we should look into?”

Busch nodded and quietly said, “You will want to talk to Genevieve Mathis, a paralegal, and Heidi Sawyer, an associate here in our office. I know Genevieve is engaged to be married and Heidi has a long-time boyfriend and I know for a fact that Gordon slept with both of them.”

“How do you know this?” Lich asked.

“I saw him leave with them on different nights when we were out at The Mahogany. From what I could tell, they weren’t one time occurrences either.” Busch gave them the details as best he could recall.

“Sorry I have to ask this, but where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?” Mac asked.

“No problem detective, I understand,” Busch replied reasonably. “I left the office around 6:30 last night and spent the night working at home. I went to bed around 10:30 or so. My daughter stayed the night with me.”

Mac and Lich spent another five minutes with follow-up questions and then Mac asked: “So I understand they call you Happy Hour?”

Busch smiled, “Detective McRyan, we demand our people work hard around here, especially our associates, and they make the partners a lot of money. So I don’t think it’s asking too much to take our people out a few times a week for a drink, some appetizers, an occasional nice dinner at Kincaid’s to say thanks for a job well done.”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich worked their ways through the offices for the next two hours, interviewing staff and lawyers regarding Gordon Oliver. They took a break in a conference room just after the lunch hour to look at their notes to review who they’d interviewed, who was left and what they’d learned. It was an interesting mix of people to say the least.

“How about that one lawyer, the older guy with the comb-over, what was his name, Sander Anthony, what a piece of work.”

“The guy who remembered interviewing me when I was in law school?” Mac asked, taking a sip of coffee. “The one who didn’t really like Oliver?”

“Yeah, that guy. He was kind of a douche bag. What did he say about Oliver’s office philandering?”

“Wouldn’t a prudent lawyer avoid the chance of such office scandal by not bedding the help,” Mac replied, mocking Anthony’s stuffy voice. “The one that cracked me up was the woman lawyer, that little pit bull named…”

“Oh yeah, Powers, Barbara Powers,” Lich finished. “Man, she went off on Oliver about his litigation skills, how he did this wrong or that wrong. How cocky and condescending he was.”

“Yeah,” Mac answered. “She’s the one on crack, I think, or at least that’s what some others in the office seem to think.”

“Why do you say that?

“As we were walking down the hall I heard a couple of lawyers quietly chuckling about ‘Barbie Law.’”

“Barbie Law?”

“Yeah, the gist being she makes the law up as she goes along. Let’s just say these folks didn’t hold her legal acumen in high regard,” Mac said with a wry smile and took a last sip of his coffee. “So let’s go over the list. We have some people left to interview. The first one we should interview is Michael Harris, he should be back now.”

• • • • •

Michael Harris was a senior associate who worked exclusively with Stan Busch and had worked with Gordon Oliver extensively over the last four months. Whereas Busch’s and several other partners’ offices spoke of status in the classic building, Harris’s spoke of a busy lawyer gearing up for trial. Red rope files were scattered around the floor of his office. Piles of neatly stacked papers created a skyline across his desk and credenza with multicolored cardboard and ceramic coffee cups littered among the stacks. Harris’s suit coat was draped over one of his guest chairs. His white button down collar shirt was open at the collar, his plain black tie loose and askew and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. No pictures, no art nor even his law degree were to be found on the walls. Harris looked like one of those overworked lawyers you saw on a television show. Harris was all business.

If others in the firm were surprised by Oliver’s death, Harris was the opposite, “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“Why not?” Mac asked.

“Gordy lived on the edge. He worked hard and played even harder.”

“How did he play hard?” Lich asked.

Harris looked at Lich skeptically, “Really? How many people have you spoken with around here?”

Mac scanned his notes, there were too many to count, “Let’s just say lots.”

“And you talked to Happy Hour, right?”

Mac nodded.

“Then you know about Gordon. He was a womanizer, a twenty-four seven hard-on unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. He worked all day, went out drinking at night with the express goal of getting some action. That included women here in the office and outside the office. He wasn’t terribly discriminating.” Harris proceeded to give them the women Busch, Preston and others had given them.

“We’re going to be looking into that,” Mac said. “Were there any other issues, beyond his womanizing, perhaps with work? Was there a conflict with another lawyer or client perhaps?”

Harris shook his head, “This case is really the first one I’ve worked extensively on with Gordon so I can’t be sure but I doubt it. He did exceptional work for me and Happy Hour. He was always available for his clients, almost too available.”

“What do mean too available?”

“Oh nothing really. It’s just that Gordon would walk around the office with his cell phone attached to his ear. He’d answer it anywhere and everywhere and he would walk around the office talking to clients on it almost as a way to… I don’t know… show everyone else,” Harris rolled his eyes, “how hard he was working. As if we all weren’t. It was all just a little too haughty for my taste.”

“You sound like you didn’t like Oliver,” Lich said, not a question, but a statement.

Harris shook his head. “Gordon was a little annoying and arrogant, that cell phone thing being an example and I certainly didn’t approve of his off hours activities and I will not be surprised if that is what ultimately got him killed. But when it came to work, he was all business. I could give him something and he would it get done, done right and efficiently. He was a fourth year associate but he was really doing the work of a fifth or sixth year associate. Gordon was that good. Whatever led to his death, I seriously doubt it had anything to do with how he practiced law.”

“Where were you between midnight and two a.m. last night?”

“I left the office at 11:30 and was at my apartment on Grand Avenue within ten minutes and five minutes after that I was in bed and a minute after that I was asleep.”

• • • • •

Genevieve Mathis was short, almost tiny, maybe not even five feet tall. She was dressed in a conservative plain black pant suit and cream blouse buttoned at the neck. She had applied a light layer of makeup and her shoulder length straight black hair was generally un-styled unless you counted that she pulled it behind her ears. She had the look of a serious worker in the office and she didn’t strike Mac as the type to indiscriminately hook up with someone like Gordon Oliver. She just didn’t look the part but the phrase ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover’ jumped into his head as he quickly assessed her. Mathis was a paralegal who worked for the firm’s trusts and estates group.

Mac got right to it, “We understand you had a relationship with Gordon Oliver and that caused some issues on your domestic front.”

“It wasn’t a relationship, detective. I slept with Gordon a few times.”

“Why?”

“What does that matter?”

“Mr. Oliver is dead. So it matters,” Mac pressed.

Mathis nodded and exhaled, “I have a boyfriend, detective. We’ve dated for a really long time. I don’t know, maybe it got boring and Gordon came onto me a few times. We were out for drinks one night with a small group here from the firm. He asked me if I wanted company. And I surprised myself and said yes.”

“When was this?”

“A month ago, the first time was on February 18th.”

“Were there other times?”

“There were three times.”

“Why only three times?” Lich asked.

“Because I ended it after that. I realized Gordon was sleeping with others here in the office and I felt I was about to become a punch line.”

“Did your boyfriend find out about it?”

“I don’t think so. I never told him and I really hope he doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I think he is going to propose.”

“How do you know that?”

“I picked up his gym bag the other day and the zipper was open. Everything fell out and one of the things that fell out was a felt ring box. I didn’t look inside but…”

“…You think that’s what it is.”

She nodded. “What I did with Gordon was fun, a guilty pleasure perhaps, but also a huge mistake. I haven’t been with a lot of men and he was really good looking and I have to admit the sex was pretty hot. He knew what he was doing and I’ll freely admit I enjoyed it, but it was wrong.”

“So where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?”

“I was at my apartment with my boyfriend. It’s a secured building with video cameras. I’m sure it will show you the time I came home and that neither I nor my boyfriend left.”

• • • • •

One look at Cassidy Burrows told Mac that Oliver didn’t have a type, other than she had to be a woman and willing. Whereas Genevieve Mathis was the antithesis of look at me, Cassidy Burrows was all about that. She was dressed less than conservatively with a short thigh high pink skirt revealing her thin legs and a plunging neck line that displayed her ample topside. Mac looked to his right at his partner, who appeared to be undressing Burrows in his own right. Mac gave him a dirty look.

“It’s been a long day,” Lich growled as he sat back and let his eyes drift elsewhere.

Burrows knew why she was in the conference room and didn’t beat around the Busch, taking Mac and Lich aback with her bluntness: “Do you think my husband killed Gordon?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Mac said. “Do you know where he was last night between midnight and two a.m.?”

“I don’t know, he moved out two weeks ago,” Burrows answered. “But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Is it because of what happened between you and Gordon Oliver?” Lich inquired.

“That’s certainly part of it.” Burrows related that her husband was moody and temperamental to begin with and it only got worse when he drank. He also had a criminal record.

“Criminal record, what did he do?”

“Bar fight. A long time ago. He nearly killed a guy.”

“Why?”

“The way the guy looked at me.”

Mac and Lich shared a look. Mac continued, “So knowing this about your husband, that he beat a guy to a pulp for looking at you wrong at a bar, you nevertheless slept with Gordon Oliver?”

Burrows shrugged. “Gordon Oliver was merely a symptom of the problems I had in my marriage. My husband and I haven’t been happy together for a long time. At least I haven’t been and if he were honest with himself he would admit the same. At some point I realized my marriage was over and Gordon Oliver was a good looking guy who was available, interested and there were no strings attached. I don’t regret it in the least.”

“How long did you and Oliver sleep together?” Mac asked.

“We didn’t sleep detective, we had sex.”

Mac shook his head, “Right. How long then, or rather perhaps, how often did you and Mr. Oliver get together for sex?”

“Over a two-month period, probably a dozen or so times. It would be a night here and there. Once in his pickup truck. There were a couple of nooners at the Holiday Inn off of 94 east of downtown. Gordon was a good lay and I liked it.”

“Your husband came after Oliver pretty good,” Mac said. “Confronting him here at the firm, at The Mahogany, even threatened to kill him once from what we hear.”

“That’s all true.” Burrows related what she knew about the confrontation at The Mahogany as well as when her husband called Gordon at three in the morning threatening to kill him. “That’s when I told him to get out,” Burrows said. “I haven’t spoken to him in a week and haven’t seen him in two, so I have no idea where he was last night.”

“Where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?”

“I was with a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Lich asked and Mac snorted, knowing exactly where his own sex crazed partner was going.

“A man, Alexander Burrows. I spent the night at his place.”

“Burrows?” Mac asked. “This wouldn’t happen to be a relation to your husband?”

“His younger brother.”

“H… h… his younger brother, I… see,” Mac was in disbelief. He needed a few seconds to compose himself. “Soooo… let me get this straight. Your alibi is that you were sleeping with your husband’s younger brother?”

“It is,” Cassidy Burrows wasn’t the least bit embarrassed or apologetic.

Mac pinched the bridge of his nose and Lich turned away, doing everything he could to avoid laughing. Mac steered into safer territory, taking down information about where Burrows’s husband worked, where he was living and where they were likely to find him. They both cautioned her to not contact her husband.

After Burrows left the room, Lich said to Mac: “Did we really just sit through that?”

“You can’t make that shit up,” Mac said shaking his head. “She is a piece of work.”

“I’d say if Martin Burrows didn’t kill Gordon Oliver, he might kill his brother,” Lich cracked.

“Or her,” Mac said. “And I’m not sure I could blame him.”

“What do you think?” Lich asked as they got ready to leave the conference room. “Does Martin Burrows look good for this?”

“I think we need to be careful.”

“Why?”

“Because Burrows looks exactly that, but that’s almost too easy.”

“What’s wrong with easy, I love easy,” Lich quipped.

Mac snorted. “You have to love easy. I mean, look at your suit.”

Chapter Four

“This will not end well for you!”

Having finished at the law firm, at least for now, Mac and Lich stopped into the Department of Public Safety to check in with their captain. After briefing him on the status of the case and their one good suspect, they pulled information on Martin Burrows.

Five years ago Martin Burrows spent six months in jail for his role in a bar fight. Apparently Burrows started the fight as his wife had said. He went in with fists and when his combatant answered with a stiletto knife, Burrows broke the end off of a beer bottle and stabbed the man in the abdomen. The man lived and had brandished the knife which apparently had served to mitigate Burrows’s sentence.

A review of Burrows’s license information revealed he was six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds. His DMV photo gave the appearance of a man not to be trifled with. His square head sat on a neck that looked like a tree trunk. Burrows wore his hair high and tight with a small thin beard sculpted around his mouth. His brown eyes glared menacingly out of the picture. “I think we’ll want a little back-up when we go see this guy,” Mac cautioned.

Mac’s cell phone buzzed and it was Jack Coonan. He spoke to Coonan for a moment and hung up. Mac jotted down some notes.

“So what’s the Doc have to say?” Lich asked.

“He says his initial assessment at the scene looks correct. The contusion to Oliver’s temple is what killed him. The contusion led to temporal bleeding. Like Coonan said, without immediate medical treatment, the wound was fatal. But that’s not what was interesting.”

“What was?”

“You remember the contusion on the back of his head?”

“Yeah, on the back right side,” Dick answered, grabbing the spot on the back right of his head.

“Exactly,” Mac replied. “Coonan says the wound to the back of the head was made by a descending blow by someone taller.”

“How can he tell?”

“The shape of the wound is like an indentation, made by something that is a half inch wide. The downward angle of the wound suggests that whatever was used came from a high angle from someone taller than Oliver. Coonan thinks the person was over six feet, at least six-two.”

“And Martin Burrows is how tall?”

“Six-three.”

• • • • •

In the late afternoon, with the sun quickly fading in the west, Mac and Lich tried to find Burrows at the apartment he was renting just off Snelling Avenue near the Minnesota State Fair Grounds. There was no answer to their door knocking. The manager let them into the apartment, which was a small one bedroom. A quick look revealed Burrows was not there. His pickup truck was not in the parking lot either. His wife said that if he wasn’t at his apartment, he often liked to ride a bar stool at Drew’s Saloon, a small working man’s bar on Dale Street, just north of Interstate 694.

Drew’s Saloon was a corner bar that occupied half of an old two-story brown brick building with Vittolo’s, an Italian restaurant, occupying the other side that fronted Dale Street. They were separate establishments. Behind the saloon and restaurant was a shared parking lot, which Mac cruised. Burrows’s red Chevy Silverado was among the twelve vehicles scattered about what looked to be thirty parking slots.

“He’s here,” Lich said as Mac pulled the Crown Vic into an open parking spot. Mac checked his watch, 6:09 p.m. The sun was just a glimmer in the western sky. It would be dark in a matter of minutes.

“Where’s our backup?” Lich wondered.

“Right there,” Mac answered with a smile as a patrol car pulled up to the curb running along the parking lot. McRyan jumped out and quickly walked over to the squad car. One of the patrol cops was Mac’s cousin Shawn, who powered down his window, smiled and greeted his cousin: “Look at you in the suit,” Shawn needled as he exchanged knuckles with Mac. “So what do you need from us, cuz?”

Mac gave Shawn and his partner, Victor Montonez, a picture of and the rundown on Burrows, including size, criminal record and general volatility. “So he might be trouble, boys. Lich and I will go in the back. You and Victor stroll in the front and hopefully the show of force will make him come nice and easy.”

Mac and Lich allowed Shawn a minute to pull around the front and then casually made their way through the back door. Once inside the back door, they walked down a narrow, inclined, ten-foot hallway into the bar proper. Inside the bar, there was a distinct walkway down the middle to the front door. To their left were a series of booths running the length of the wall to the front window where Mac could make out Saloon in reverse stenciled in cursive on the front window. To their right was the bar, which ran the length of the wall with a break in the middle with an opening that led into Vittolo’s. The gap into Vittolo’s caught Mac by surprise. He didn’t think there was a connection between the two establishments.

“I don’t like where he’s sitting,” Mac whispered to Lich.

Martin Burrows was sitting on a stool next to the throughway into the restaurant. He was carrying on a conversation with two other men and had his back to Mac and Lich. However, he was facing the front entrance and Mac could see his shoulder muscles tense up when his cousin Shawn and Montonez walked in the front door. The patrol cops locked in on Burrows immediately who stepped away from his bar stool and turned to the back of the bar and saw Mac and Lich.

Mac had his right hand holding his suit coat back to reveal his service weapon and his badge on his belt. He held his left hand up, “Martin Burrows, I’m detective McRyan with the St. Paul Police Department. I need to talk to you.”

Mac locked in on Burrows’s eyes. Burrows peeked to his left, into the opening into Vittolo’s. Mac didn’t have anyone covering that way and he could tell from the look on Burrows’s face that he knew it too. “Martin, stay calm. Don’t do something stupid,” Mac warned.

Burrows bolted.

“Ahh shit, that’s something stupid,” Mac muttered as he gave chase into Vittolo’s, his cousin falling in behind him.

Burrows was out the front door of the restaurant and burst into the rush hour traffic on Dale Street, just barely avoiding a collision with a Grand Am coming north on Dale and then dodging between a Camry and Dodge Ram pick-up truck traveling south. Mac was out the front door two seconds later. He held his left hand out to halt traffic coming north while Shawn did the same with southbound traffic, leaving them a lane across Dale. Montonez and Lich jumped into the patrol car.

Across Dale, Mac burst ahead of Shawn and gave chase after Burrows, who was twenty-five yards ahead of them running down the sidewalk. Free from dodging cars, Mac quickly closed the gap on Burrows, cutting down ten yards in one block. Burrows crossed another street and then, sensing Mac was closing in, looked back, saw that he was and veered hard right into a narrow alley. When Mac reached the entry to the alley, he slowed some and carefully turned the corner, looking for an ambush.

There was no ambush.

Instead, Burrows was running up the alley, dumping garbage cans, fifteen yards ahead now.

“Burrows!” Mac yelled as he sprinted forward, easily dodging and hurdling the dumped cans, sirens getting closer. “Burrows, stop!” Mac yelled as he quickly closed the gap on Burrows. “This will not end well for you!”

Mac was within five yards now, halfway up the alley. Burrows knew it and moved right and grabbed a two-foot-long two-by-four lying by a garbage can, turned and started to swing it. Mac, anticipating the blow, went in low and put his shoulder into Burrows’s mid-section, tackling him off his feet before he could finish his swing.

Mac rolled him quickly onto his stomach, put his right knee into Burrows’s back, and grabbed his left arm. Shawn, who’d been trailing behind, reached the scene and slapped a cuff on the right wrist and then the left.

Burrows looked like a tied up calf.

Mac, the effort of the two-block sprint catching up to him, looked Burrows in the eye and mocked, between deep breaths, “What were you thinking… running… like that? Do… Do…. Do I look like I’m out of… shape… to you?”

Burrows coughed and spit, “No.”

“That’s right,” Mac answered sarcastically. “I ran the Twin Cities marathon last fall. You were not going to get away from me. Only someone guilty of murder would do something that stupid.”

Burrows eyes popped out of his head, “Oh my God. Did I really kill him?”

Chapter Five

“Predators.”

It took him three hours to alibi out on the murder of Gordon Oliver. Five minutes of interviewing him, forty-five minutes to get a video file e-mailed from Mystic Lake Casino and another two hours to review the video. Between midnight and two a.m. Martin Burrows sat on a stool at a blackjack table at the casino in Prior Lake, a suburb twenty miles southwest of Minneapolis, a good half-hour drive from the site of Gordon Oliver’s murder.

Martin Burrows wasn’t their guy.

Nonetheless, for Martin Burrows it was the good, the bad and the ugly.

The good news for Burrows was that he had an iron-clad alibi for Gordon Oliver’s murder.

The bad news, as best Mac could tell, Burrows lost at least three hundred dollars. According to security at the casino, Burrows accused the dealer of cheating him and confronted him in the casino parking lot. That confrontation was broken up by casino security.

The ugly was that the Prior Lake police were looking for Burrows because he followed the blackjack dealer from the casino to his apartment and beat him, and beat him badly, in the parking lot. Burrows thought he’d killed the dealer when Mac accused him of murder.

As Mac scrolled through the video to confirm the alibi, things got interesting at 2:45 a.m. when Burrows was clearly getting agitated, standing and pointing at the dealer. At 3:07 a.m., Burrows looked to have lost eighty dollars on a hand he’d doubled down on. He slammed down his chips and pointed at the dealer again. This brought security to the table and Burrows was escorted out of the casino. The dealer’s shift ended at 5:00 a.m. Apparently Burrows waited in the parking lot and followed the dealer to his apartment in Prior Lake and beat him badly. The dealer was alive and in stable condition at the hospital.

Burrows ran because he thought Mac and Company were there to arrest him for the beat down on the dealer. He knew nothing about the murder of Gordon Oliver.

Once in the interrogation room and when Mac and Lich were certain that Burrows’s alibi would hold, the man broke down. His marriage was falling apart, his hours were way down at his job and everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. Mac felt some sympathy for him.

The Prior Lake police would be stopping by to pick up Burrows for his pending legal issues in Scott County. Before they did, Mac took a moment with him, sitting on the edge of the table, next to Burrows’s chair: “Martin, you’ve got some anger issues, dude. Going after Oliver, threatening to kill him, all that. I know he was sleeping with your wife and your marriage is falling apart, but I gotta tell you, I met your wife today. She’s definitely not worth throwing your life away over. You’re a young guy and you’ve got a lot of years left. Now you’re going to do some time for what you did to that dealer, and you should. The man will make it but you did some damage. While you’re doing your time, get yourself some help. Maybe have your attorney make some anger management counseling part of whatever sentence you end up with. Because if you don’t get that temper of yours under control, the next time you lose it you might end up killing someone and you will have thrown your life away.”

• • • • •

It was a few minutes after ten when Mac and Lich strolled into McRyan’s Pub, the other McRyan family business. The two grabbed stools at the bar and were served Grain Belt Premiums by a retired detective now bartender. Mac took a long pull from the bottle and exhaled and looked at his watch. He had a meeting in an hour a few miles away.

“So your first case, what do you think so far?” Lich asked, taking a pull from his beer.

“I’m thinking we spent the day interviewing and talking to a lot of people and our one good lead went in the shitter an hour ago,” Mac replied with disgust.

“Happens,” Lich replied lightly, having seen it a hundred times.

“I’ve been thinking though,” Mac said, taking another drink. “Oliver seems to have had two things in his life, his job at the law firm and chasing skirts. He did those two things and that seems to be it.”

“What’s that tell you?” Lich asked.

“That we’ll find our murderer out of one of those two things. It’s either something he’s been working on or…”

“…someone he’s been working on,” Lich said. “He’s working a case or he’s workin’ a broad.”

“That’s right, workin’ a broad,” Mac said, shaking his head, a perturbed look on his face.

“What?” Lich said, seeing the look.

“I hate guys like Oliver.”

“Womanizers?”

“Predators. I’ve known guys like him for years. Played hockey with them, went to college and law school with them. I’ve seen friend’s wives and girlfriends pursued by guys like Gordon Oliver. They like women in relationships. They like to pursue them. They like the challenge of it.”

“It’s like Charlie Sheen,” Lich said.

“How so?” Mac asked.

“He said he paid for prostitutes, not because he wanted them to stay but because he wanted them to leave. It’s the same thing here. Oliver gets the married woman. She’s not going to stay. It’s like Cassidy Burrows said. No strings attached.”

Mac disagreed. He turned and faced Lich. “Dick. That doesn’t make it right.”

“I’m not saying it does,” Lich answered defensively.

“You’re not exactly disapproving,” Mac retorted and took a long drink of his beer. “It’s just flat out wrong. It can ruin peoples’ lives. Look at that Mathis woman at the law firm. She wouldn’t have pursued Oliver. But he pursued her like it was a conquest. That could have ruined a relationship that she’d been in for years. Same thing with Cassidy Burrows. He was acting without thinking about any of the consequences attached to those actions.”

“Is that why you gave Burrows that pep talk back at the station? Because of Gordon Oliver?”

Mac shrugged. “I don’t know. The guy has issues but his remorse seemed genuine. I suspect he’s going to have plenty of time to think about what he did and I thought it couldn’t hurt to encourage him to get some help, that’s all.”

“Ah, that catholic upbringing is showing through, lad. Father Flynn at the Cathedral would be proud of you, boyo,” Lich said in his best Irish brogue.

Mac checked his watch, took one last sip of his beer and dropped a ten on the bar.

“Time for one more?” Lich asked. “I’ll buy.”

Mac shook his head, “I’ve got to make one more stop before I go home.”

Chapter Six

“The question now is how much do you really want to know?”

Mac met Meredith Hillary at a hockey party his junior year at the University of Minnesota. Mac was excelling on the ice for the Golden Gophers, playing on the second line, starting to see power play time, playing a physical and fearless brand of hockey that made him a huge fan favorite at Mariucci Arena. He was certain to be voted captain at the end of the season. He was a big man on campus, knew it, strutted around like one and enjoyed the benefits of it.

Meredith Hillary was impossible to miss at the party. She was hauntingly attractive with dark green eyes, a bright smile with long legs to match her long black wavy hair. And she was smart, studying to go to law school, which Mac had been giving thought to as well. Mac had a new girlfriend at the time but Meredith was unattached and once she met him, she pursued him and it didn’t take long for Mac to let her catch him. He was in love and thought she was too.

Meredith came from money. Her father was a senior executive at General Mills and her mother was a renowned vascular surgeon. They both made their way up from humble beginnings and now enjoyed the fruits of their labor and the status they had attained. Meredith was bound and determined to do the same. She wanted the professional success and the status that would come with it; the wealth, the big house, the fancy cars, the beautiful children who went to expensive private schools and colleges. She wanted the good life and she wanted the trophy husband to go with it.

Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

He wasn’t going pro as a hockey player but he was handsome, ambitious, smart if not borderline brilliant, graduating magna from the University of Minnesota and heading to law school. They married after their second year of law school together. Mac had a six-figure job lined up post law school which meshed well with her similar job offer from a large firm.

Mac was happily on board with the plan that Meredith had set in motion.

Then his two cousins, his two best friends, the co-best men at his wedding, were murdered in the line of duty. Mac felt the calling of the family business and changed the plan.

Meredith was not on board.

She didn’t want him to do it. She didn’t understand why he needed to do it. In her mind, Mac should have felt just the opposite. He should have felt fortunate that he could avoid such a dangerous line of work, blessed that he had options in life that were more lucrative, safe and in her mind acceptable. She said he was destined for more than working a police beat.

Mac couldn’t give in, wouldn’t give in to her on this one. He had to do it. There were four generations of cops in his family. He had numerous uncles and cousins who were cops. He idolized them, worshipped them and until a few years before, had always wanted to be one of them. His two best friends had sacrificed their lives. Their sacrifice left Mac feeling like what he’d done in life, no matter the success he’d had, no matter the money he’d make or the status he would attain, would ever match up. It would never come close to what his family had sacrificed, to what Peter and Tommy had given. This was something he had to do as a man, as a McRyan, and Meredith needed to realize this. It hadn’t been part of the master plan but life has a way of intervening and changing your course. It wouldn’t have to be forever but for a time, so that he could look his family in the eye.

This was vital to him. He simply had to do it. He wanted the woman he loved on board. He expected the woman he loved to be on board.

Meredith either didn’t understand it or simply viewed what Mac was doing as beneath him and, by extension, her. He upset her carefully crafted plan and she was not happy with the course change. She married a lawyer who at a minimum would become wealthy and at a maximum, could become much more. She didn’t set out to marry a cop. A few weeks after he got out of the academy and was working patrol, Mac overheard Meredith talking to her mom, derisively saying “he’ll do this for a few years, get bored and will realize he is wasting his talents. Hopefully he’ll realize it before it’s too late.”

Mac never confronted her about it but it motivated him all the more. Proving her wrong and showing her that he was right became his motivation. He wanted to prove to her that this was the right thing for him, that they could have the life she envisioned, maybe just getting there a different way. He was out of a uniform and with the vice squad within two years. He worked some undercover for another year and became a detective within four years before he reached age thirty. Mac was on his way. And it wasn’t just on the job, but financially as well. He’d also invested in the Grand Brew Coffee shops. That little ten grand investment was paying off twenty fold and was certain to provide more.

Yet Meredith was unhappy.

Things had changed.

There was no going back.

The last six months Meredith came home later and later at night. There were a few nights where she said she was working through the night and just stopped home in the morning to shower and change clothes. A new case came up that required trips to New York, Washington and San Francisco. She became distant at home. Their love life, once extremely active and adventurous had essentially come to a halt.

At first, Mac wanted to believe it was just that she was as driven to succeed in her career as he was in his. But he had always taken pride in being brutally honest with himself and knew he was in denial. All the telltale signs were there. He was virtually certain of it but he needed to be sure.

Mac knew five retired cops who became private detectives. The best of the lot was John Biggs, a detective who once worked cases with and had the respect of Simon McRyan. Biggs ran a small private investigation firm and developed a very good reputation and catered to an exclusive clientele. Three weeks ago Mac hired Biggs to find out if his instincts were right.

At 11:00 p.m. sharp, Biggs let Mac into his office. A thick manila folder with Meredith Hillary McRyan written on the tab sat in the middle of Biggs’s desk along with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and two glasses and that told Mac all he needed to know.

“Looks like I was right.”

Biggs walked behind his desk and took the cap off the Scotch and poured two fingers in each glass. “I’m sorry, kid,” Biggs answered simply as he handed Mac a glass. “The question now is how much do you really want to know?”

“Everything.”

“You sure?”

Mac simply nodded. In his heart and his head he knew this was the case and was mentally prepared for it. Nevertheless, the reality of it still hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Take a seat.”

Biggs flipped open the folder. He had two clipped sets of pictures, handing one to Mac. Biggs or one of his investigators followed Meredith Monday through Friday up until three days ago, when Biggs had seen enough and began to put together his investigative report. Biggs walked through the report and pictures with Mac. Biggs was good, very good, Mac realized objectively. He had the goods. He caught Meredith in the act on multiple occasions.

It was with whom that threw Mac.

Meredith worked on complex corporate litigation and many cases would involve five or six attorneys, usually a senior partner, a junior partner and three to four associates. Mac had figured Meredith found another similar aged associate at her law firm given she was working late and traveling more on firm business. But that was not the case and who she was sleeping with told him everything he needed to know about his wife, what he was blind to about her all along. Their relationship was less about love and more about social status. When Mac was at the University and in law school he looked like a man who was on the right path. He was on the path of status, wealth and notoriety. These were the things, Mac realized, that mattered most to his wife. Meredith was more concerned with status, wealth and looks than love and honor. She had to be because she was having an affair with the senior partner she’d worked with since she first joined the firm, the very married forty-seven year old J. Frederick Sterling.

“Surprised it’s Sterling?” Biggs asked.

“Stunned.”

“Me too,” Biggs answered. “Because I did a little research about his marital history.”

“Which told you what?”

“Well, J. Fred here is on his second marriage,” Biggs answered. “And he has a prenuptial agreement with the current Mrs. Sterling that has an interesting provision or two.”

“Interesting?” Mac asked, catching Biggs’s tone. “Interesting how?”

“If they divorce she gets $350,000 and that’s it.” Biggs took a drink of his Scotch.

“Pocket change for a guy with his money,” Mac answered with a dismissive wave. “From what Meredith told me a few years ago, he’s worth at least seven or eight million dollars.”

Briggs held up his hand, “Except there’s an infidelity clause in that prenup my friend. If they divorce because he’s caught cheating, she gets a cool five million.”

Mac’s jaw dropped, “Five million… dollars.” Mac whistled. “Really?”

Biggs nodded with a satisfied look on his face.

“Hmpf. I’m surprised you didn’t run into a private investigator tailing him. She ought to have one on retainer just to protect herself.”

“I seriously thought the same thing but we didn’t see anyone,” Biggs said as he lifted the bottle and Mac nodded. Biggs poured more liquor into Mac’s glass. “A friend of a friend of an acquaintance got me a look at the prenup. Apparently the first marriage went tits up because J. Freddy was schtoppin’ wife numero dos.”

“So wife number two knows that Sterling has the wandering eye and writes in a little protection,” Mac adds. “He stays faithful or if not…”

“It’ll cost him,” Biggs finished. “The language is rock solid, if he gets caught cheating, he owes the five million. Of course that would be on top of the rather sizable monthly alimony of $25,000 he pays to wife number one from his first divorce eight years ago, not to mention child support for three kids at Blake School, which runs him somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty grand a year. Now he took home a little under $900,000 last year so he’s not living check to check—yet. If he gets divorced because he gets caught with his fly down, it’ll cost him dearly.”

Mac’s strategy and terms for divorce suddenly became crystal clear.

Chapter Seven

“So what is this then?”

Mac got home at 1:15 a.m. Meredith was already asleep and given what he’d just learned from Biggs, couldn’t bring himself to join her in bed so he simply racked out on the couch. Never one who needed more than a few hours of sleep, he was up by 5:30 and went for a long run.

When Mac decided to become a cop, one thing he agreed to was buying a house. The house, of course, needed to meet Meredith’s expectations. Consequently, the house was most definitely at the upper end, and in reality, beyond what they probably could afford at the time, a 4,500 square foot Victorian in the Mac-Groveland neighborhood, four blocks east of the University of St. Thomas. While he never had any formal training, Mac was handy with tools and interior design. He’d spent the better part of the last four years on various restoration projects in the home, including the furniture layout and color scheme. It was plenty livable when he started but it was now a beautiful home and would, if he put it on the market, easily net him double the original purchase price, even in the flat-lined real estate market. That day was soon coming, but until then Mac would enjoy another of the house’s perks, its close location to Summit Avenue.

Summit Avenue ran east from the Mississippi River a little over four miles to downtown St. Paul. It was a boulevard filled with stately mansions, synagogues and churches, majestic one-hundred-year-old trees, the Minnesota Governor’s mansion, his law school William Mitchell College of Law, the University of St. Thomas and Macalester College. It was a wonderful stretch of city for a morning run.

He put his earphones in, set the music to random and began his run in the cool March air. The morning jogs were always important to him. He worked problems out in his mind in the solitude of the early morning. For the last several months, he’d thought through his marital issues. Now he had a plan for dealing with that. This morning he wanted to think about something else, the Gordon Oliver murder. His first case and after one day, he felt stymied.

The first thing he did was mentally run through everything he knew. For the next twenty minutes he ran through the crime scene. Oliver had been hit from behind on the back of his head, but there was no weapon at the scene that they could find. While he hadn’t seen the final autopsy report, Coonan was sure the weapon used was not something like a tire iron or something else heavy. It was enough with the force of the blow to knock him down, but not enough to kill him. The blow to the front of his head on the bumper had taken care of that. The weapon was not found at the scene so the killer dumped it elsewhere or, while unlikely, still had it. Mac had noted the small brass plate with blood on it. It might have come from the murder weapon although it could have just as likely been lying on the ground and Oliver fell on it and that’s how his blood ended up on it.

Forensics might be able to shed some light on what the killer hit Oliver with. The forensics report would probably be in his e-mail inbox when he got to the Department of Public Safety. Oliver’s truck had been dusted for prints on the outside. The only prints found belonged to Oliver. March nights were still cold in Minnesota and the killer probably wore winter gloves so prints were unlikely.

He crossed Dale Street, three miles into his run. Mac ran the Twin Cities Marathon the previous fall. The last stretch of the marathon was along Summit Avenue. Since training for the marathon, he’d kept running five days a week. He checked his sport watch and he was running at a steady seven minute pace.

The murder just didn’t feel random. It wasn’t a robbery. His money and credit cards weren’t missing. Oliver’s Omega watch and cell phone were still with him. How about a briefcase? Mac hadn’t thought of that and made a mental note to see if perhaps some legal papers were missing. Perhaps that would give them a lead.

It likely wasn’t a robbery because the body was placed in the back of the truck. Were it a robbery, the money, watch, cell phone and anything else of value would have been taken and the killer would have left the body. They wouldn’t have taken the time to hide the body. But why did the killer feel the need to hide the body? They wanted a delay in it being found perhaps? They needed the time to set up their alibi? Mac could almost sense in his mind that the murder was a split second decision made by the killer and then an ‘Oh shit’ moment and the killer puts the body in the truck and ditches the scene as quickly as possible.

That strongly suggested it was someone who knew him.

Mac reached the St. Paul Cathedral, the halfway mark of his run and pulled out his cell phone. He had some good thoughts and quickly sent an e-mail to his work computer before he forgot them. He played random music on the first stretch of his run but Mac wanted some Springsteen for the return run and selected Darkness on the Edge of Town. Mac checked his watch and started the run back towards home.

It wasn’t random. Therefore, the case would be solved through the people involved in Gordon Oliver’s life. The law firm and The Mahogany thus far were the two consistent places in his life. He worked long hours at the law firm. He was at The Mahogany several nights a week. The profile Mac and Lich were developing of Gordon Oliver was a workaholic who blew off the stress of his job with sex, often with women from work or The Mahogany. Those were the ‘tools in his toolbox,’ Mac muttered to himself.

Martin Burrows, now that would have been nice and easy. Burrows had been perfect but he had an air tight alibi. Perhaps there was another aggrieved husband or boyfriend out there that they had yet to discover. He and Lich would need to re-canvas the bar and the law firm to dig further. Forensics was downloading his home computer and e-mail and Mac wanted to review it to see if anything jumped out at him. They were also working on getting access to his law firm e-mails. The County Attorney’s office was working through the issues on that. It wasn’t that the law firm was being difficult, just crossing their i’s and dotting their t’s on their obligation to protect their client’s information.

Mac crossed Snelling Avenue at 6:15 a.m. heading west, now in the last stretch of his run. The traffic was starting to pick up some now on Summit Avenue, the morning rush not far off. He made a last mental checklist of what he’d thought about as he kicked it down for his house, finishing the last mile of his eight-mile run at 6:27. He stopped a block short of his house and walked the rest of the way for a cool down, sending himself another e-mail of his thoughts on the case while he did so. They would be in his inbox when he got to work in an hour.

Mac walked up the driveway to the side portico entrance of the house and into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator as Meredith walked into the kitchen in a dark olive dress suit and off white blouse and three-inch heels. She looked good. She always looked good.

Mac started a pot of coffee and said, “I was thinking we haven’t had a dinner together in a while.”

“No we haven’t,” Meredith replied looking at her watch and waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. “I can’t tonight, I’ll be working late. This Clanex merger is proving to be a killer.”

“I suspect I will be working late tonight as well,” Mac answered. “I picked up the Gordon Oliver murder.”

“I heard about that yesterday,” she answered. “Word is he was probably killed by some jealous husband. I hear he was quite the ladies’ man.”

“Yeah, women should be careful about men like that,” Mac replied, curious if Meredith caught the meaning. “Anyway, how about tomorrow night? I can try to be home by seven. I could pick up some Chinese,” which was her favorite. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about. It’s kind of important.”

“I think I can make it,” Meredith answered as she poured coffee in her travel mug.

• • • • •

At the station, Mac and Lich discussed the case over coffee and came to the conclusion they needed to go back to KBMP and interview everyone again. Mac brought in two additional veteran detectives, Frank ‘Double Frank’ Franklin and Rick Beckett, as there were upwards of eighty people to go back through. It was a long morning and early afternoon. Mac and Lich re-interviewed everyone from the day before while Franklin and Becket interviewed others in the office that had less exposure to Oliver.

A little after three p.m. they reconvened in a small law firm conference room to review notes. Stan Busch gave Mac and Lich a list of cases that Oliver had worked on for him the past six months. Michael Harris worked on most of the cases with Oliver but recalled nothing about the cases that were a problem.

“Gordon could be extremely combative in depositions, at times overly so,” Harris said. “I’ve seen him piss off opposing counsel and deponents more than once. But that’s standard and most of the people we had Gordon depose were usually lesser players in the cases. I tended to handle the bigger fish so I’m hard pressed to think of anyone in a case that would want to kill Gordon. I can’t think of one case where that was an issue.”

“How about clients?” Mac asked. “Was there ever a client that Oliver had issues with?”

“Not one that I can think of,” Harris answered. “Like I said the other day, Gordon was really attentive to our clients and our clients are pretty happy. Stan reels them in and I do the litigation work with Gordon’s help, at least until yesterday. Gordon was a pain at times, detective, but like I said yesterday, I’ll miss the guy. As a young associate, he was money.”

Further interviews with the rest of the firm’s lawyers revealed that in the last six months most of Oliver’s work was with Stan Busch. There was some real estate litigation that Oliver worked on for Marie Preston and one case for another partner, Jackson Lund. No problems were noted with those cases yet more names were collected to potentially interview.

Franklin and Beckett interviewed the firm’s staff and their results reaffirmed one immutable truth of the work place, the staff always knows more about what’s going on in the office than the bosses. Turns out that Gordon Oliver had slept with not three, not four, not even five, but six different women in the firm, including one partner. Beckett and Franklin interviewed the law firm’s IT manager who said that Gordon told him one time that he had his own little Yahtzee card. It required sleeping with a receptionist, secretary, paralegal, associate and a partner. The staff knew that he’d completed the card by recently bedding a forty-three-year-old partner named Constance Bernier on the leather couch in her office.

“She said ‘he got me at just the right time,’” Double Frank said.

“This dude was good,” Beckett added.

“He’d fuck a goat if you held it for him,” Mac replied disgustedly.

“You saying he had it coming, Mac?” Franklin asked.

“No. I’m merely stating the fact that he was a douche bag when it came to women.”

“It’s probably what got him killed though,” Dick added. “We just have to find the person he pissed off the most and we have our killer.”

“How about the other women he slept with?” Mac asked. “Do any of them look good for it? Have boyfriends or husbands who look good for it?”

Franklin and Beckett shook their heads. “Two of the women now have boyfriends although they didn’t while they were serving as a love receptacle for Gordo,” Beckett said. “They both claim they were home with their new boyfriends last night. We’ll follow up but I’d bet my pension they alibi out.”

“What about Bernier?” Mac asked.

“She flew in from Atlanta this morning. She was there for the last four days.”

“We could look at her financials and see if she hired someone to do it?” Lich speculated.

“We can and should but does this really look like a hit to any of you guys?” Mac answered, shaking his head. “If it were a hit, there would be a bullet in his head or a hitter would have known enough to make it look like a robbery gone bad. He would have taken Oliver’s wallet and watch. This looks like neither.”

“So what is this then?” Beckett asked.

“This is someone angry at Oliver who made a mistake, didn’t mean to kill him or made a split-second decision to kill him for some reason. This person didn’t really know what they were doing, panicked and quickly hid the body and ran.” This train of thought gave Mac an idea. “Maybe there’s a surveillance or security camera that caught our guy nearby?”

Lich was skeptical. “Mac, none of the buildings in the alley had any cameras, at least not ones on the alley.”

“I know that,” Mac answered, thinking broader. “I’m thinking in the vicinity, within the three or four block area. Maybe we’ll get lucky and see someone walking, running or driving away from the area that is tied to Oliver, The Mahogany and the law firm.” Mac thought for another minute and looked at Beckett. He was good with video and computers. “Rick, you and Franklin hit the establishments around The Mahogany and get any video running in the time window of the murder. Maybe we’ll get a hit off of that.”

“What are you guys going to do?” Beckett asked, a tinge of bitterness in his voice, knowing how boring surfing hours of video could be.

Mac looked at his watch which said 3:44 p.m. “We’re going to go back to the station for a few hours. I want to go over everything we have and then Dick and I are going over and re-canvassing The Mahogany when it starts getting busy. I want to hit it when most of the staff and regulars are around.”

Chapter Eight

“It must be the law firm.”

Lich said he needed a break before they went over to The Mahogany. Mac was okay with that. It gave him some time alone with the case to work through the evidence. One thing Mac learned from watching his father over the years was that at some point in a case you needed to sit down and take a look at everything and see if a pattern, string or trail developed.

In law school, a professor happened along Mac studying in the law library. He saw Mac had written ‘jurisdiction’ and drawn a box around it on his legal pad. He had a line to the left that read ‘personal jurisdiction’ and a line to the right that read ‘subject matter jurisdiction,’ the two components necessary for a court to have jurisdiction over a particular case. Then notes were jotted around each of the words. The professor smiled and said, “Mr. McRyan, you are mind-mapping.”

A mind-map is essentially a diagram that uses words, ideas, tasks or other items arranged around a central key word or idea. Mac saw his father do it when he was a kid. Mac picked it up and used it in college and then law school. He never knew it was called mind-mapping but that’s what Professor Becker was telling him and Mac apparently had a good understanding of jurisdiction. He aced the Civil Procedure final.

While Lich took his leave for a few hours, Mac jotted ‘Gordon Oliver’ in the middle of the page, drew a rectangle around it and started jotting down notes in bullet point format:

• Associate at KBMP for 4yrs.

• A very good young litigator according to several attorneys including Preston, Busch, Bernier, Anthony, Lund and Harris.

• Worked killer hours, strictly litigation, going to trial next week.

• No problems professionally at work.

• Mr. “All the tools in your toolbox.” His signature catch-phrase for work and pleasure.

• Womanizer. Slept with at least six women at law firm, probably more. 1. Burrows alibi’d out. 2. Mathis home with boyfriend. 3. Bernier in Atlanta. Other women are not good suspects, no apparent motive (might need to evaluate further?).

• The Mahogany is favorite bar. Confrontation at bar but it was with Burrows, who alibi’d out.

• No other apparent social life beyond law firm and bar.

Mac drew another line away from Gordon Oliver and jotted down ‘Crime Scene’ and drew a box around it:

• Alley at The Mahogany.

• Time of Death - Midnight - 2:00 a.m.

• Blunt force trauma to temple was the fatal blow.

• Not a robbery. Still had wallet, watch and cell phone. New Ford F-150 left behind. If robbery all would have been taken and body left behind.

• Body stuffed into truck bed. Why? To hide it. Why hide it?

• Hit from behind by someone who was tall, at least 6’2" based on wound angle. Weapon unknown.

• Brass plate with blood. Unsure if from murder weapon. Forensics still evaluating.

• Why use the alley? If not robbery, then he was killed by someone who knew him. Alley was a good location but killer had to know that he would be there. Only someone who knew him well would know he would be there. The killer knew him - really knew him.

Mac circled that notation on the legal pad. The killer knew him—really knew him. So how many people really knew him?

Mac leaned back in his desk chair and twirled his pen in his fingers. Now that was something to think about. Only someone who knew him or talked to him all the time would know he was at the bar that night and at that time. Someone could have followed him or they knew he was there and then could lay in wait.

Mac opened the folder on his desk that contained Oliver’s cell phone records. He’d asked that the records identify the number and identity on the other end of the call. A cell phone was essentially one of Oliver’s appendages according to the attorneys at his firm. The records reflected that. On the day he was murdered, he had thirty-three cell phone calls. Mac shook his head. A record day for him might be ten calls and this guy had thirty-three. The day he was killed was not an outlier. As best Mac could tell, he averaged somewhere around twenty-five calls a day.

As for the day he was killed, the calls appeared to be from a collection of clients and from the firm. A number of calls were identified as being from the clients he was going to trial with next week on the RFX Industries shareholder suit. Opposing counsel in the case must have been from French and Burke as there were three calls from that firm. Gordon had calls from Stan Busch, Michael Harris, Constance Bernier as well as two from his secretary and one from a paralegal. The firm calls were mostly between 11:30 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. and as Mac looked back on his notes, Oliver took a long lunch that day with some other attorneys from the firm. Towards the end of the day, there was one call from Stan Busch at 6:30 p.m. and another from Michael Harris at 8:22 p.m. Mac made a note to follow-up on those phone calls to see what Harris and Busch discussed.

He had to have been killed by someone who knew him, but why? Could be the womanizing but Mac was starting to think that was not the cause. Martin Burrows was their one good suspect on that angle and he was out. The others just didn’t feel right nor did the evidence really point in their direction. Nobody else seemed bitter enough to want to do anything to Oliver.

Mac looked at the crime scene photos and in particular the pictures of Oliver. He had this nagging impression that given how the murder took place, the killer didn’t really know what he was doing. It was as if there wasn’t a plan. The first blow to the back of Oliver’s head was with something strong enough to stun him and knock him over but, according to the coroner’s report, it would not have been enough to kill him or even do any real damage beyond stunning him. It was Oliver hitting his head on the bumper that was fatal and that wound appeared to Mac as if it happened by chance or luck or even possibly bad luck. It would have taken real talent to have known that hitting Oliver from behind would have caused him to fall and hit the bumper. If the killer went for revenge, he would have used a tire iron or a bat if the plan was to hit Oliver from behind. Neither the evidence at the crime scene nor the wounds to Gordon Oliver revealed the use of any such weapon. The killer may have brought and, it appeared at this point, probably left with the weapon used to hit Oliver in the back of the head. But in the end, there was a definite lack of viciousness to the murder. It was almost as if it happened by accident.

Mac kept thinking that the killer knew Oliver well. Knew his habits, his routines, where he liked to hang out. The killer knew, had to know, that Gordon Oliver was granted the privilege of parking in the back at The Mahogany. That he would be there, that he would come out the back. Given what they knew of Oliver thus far, it struck him that somehow his murder tied back to the law firm. These were the only people who seemed to know him really well.

“It must be the law firm,” Mac muttered.

“Why?” Lich answered. Mac was so engrossed in what he was doing he didn’t realize his partner was back.

“How long you been back?”

“About ten minutes or so there, partner. I’ve just been sitting here watching you. You were so intensely focused I didn’t want to interrupt. So why is it the law firm and not some spurned lover or the lover of a spurned lover?”

“I’ve spent the last two hours running through the case. The angry boyfriend, fiancé or husband theory doesn’t add up for me.”

“At least not yet,” Lich cautioned. “Given how prolific our guy is, I’m sure there is a woman he bedded that we’ve yet to uncover.”

“I’m not dismissing it completely,” Mac answered. “There could certainly be someone out there we are not aware of yet. But even with that, I don’t buy the angry boyfriend angle anymore.”

“Why not? Seems that’s the one thing he was doing that pissed people off.”

“True.”

“So why the firm and not some jilted lover or boyfriend or husband or ex-husband?”

“Because of where he was killed, Dick. He was killed by someone who knew his habits, where he went, when he went there and that he would park his truck behind the bar. At this point, the only people who know Oliver well enough to know those things are the people at the law firm. I’m just thinking it has to be someone there and Oliver knows something, has something on someone, maybe he saw something that made someone need to track him to the alley behind The Mahogany for some reason. We find that, we find our killer.”

Lich sat down in the chair next to Mac’s desk. “Let’s assume you’re right, which I’m not completely convinced that you are, but let’s say you are. That means going deep, much deeper at the law firm. You may know this better than I but at least in my experience, law firms do not give into something like that willingly.”

“No, they’ll fight us because it probably means us getting into e-mail, files and all that stuff lawyers and law firms like to claim privilege over although that’s a bunch of bullshit,” Mac answered derisively, looking at his watch. “Look, it’s after six now so we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get with the County Attorney’s office to evaluate our more involved access at the law firm. In the meantime, we can go back to Oliver’s apartment and see if we missed anything. Then we can cover our bases and go to The Mahogany.”

“I can’t wait,” Lich sighed.

Chapter Nine

“Yahtzee.”

Mac cut the crime scene tape covering the door to Oliver’s apartment and he and Lich walked in. Mac carefully dropped a backpack containing a picture camera and video camera on the floor. They both pulled on rubber gloves.

“So what are we looking for?” Dick queried, his arms folded across his chest, looking around the apartment.

“We’ll know it when we see it,” Mac answered as he walked down the back hallway to the bedroom. When they’d been to Oliver’s place the day before, Mac had given only a cursory look to the bedroom. Now he wanted to take a longer look. If Oliver had something to hide, perhaps he’d have hidden it at home and, in the absence of a home office, the most likely place to hide it would be in his bedroom. Mac stood in the doorway, hands on hips, surveying the landscape.

The bedroom was square in shape, probably twelve-by-twelve, with a long walk-in closet in the far right corner, wrapping behind the bathroom in the hallway. The room itself contained a queen-sized bed, walk-in closet and small Ikea three drawer dresser and nightstand. Mac started with the nightstand, which had a drawer resting over two shelves. The drawer contained a box of condoms, a spare watch, two pens and the remote for the small television sitting on top of the dresser. Next he moved to the dresser. The top drawer was the sock drawer, half athletic socks and the other dress socks. Underwear occupied the middle drawer and white t-shirts in the bottom drawer. He searched through all the drawers but all they contained were socks, underwear and t-shirts.

Next was the closet. While dress codes had relaxed at law firms over the years, litigators still needed to be ready to go to court at a moments notice. Gordon Oliver was clearly ready if that were the case. The man was a suit horse. Mac had recently bought five suits for work to go with the five he already owned. He figured he’d use the suits and sport coats he had to have enough variety in clothes for the job. Oliver had him waxed.

There were eighteen suits, ten sport coats, twenty-five dress shirts and ten pair of shoes. The guy worked long hours, made good money and was unmarried. He spent a good chunk of his disposable income on clothes.

Mac checked the pockets on the suits, coats and pants and didn’t find anything of interest. There were three storage boxes on the shelves above the hanger rod. He pulled them down and searched them. One had athletic equipment, spikes, a softball glove, softballs and two baseball hats. Another box contained what looked like law school papers, two appellate briefs for moot court competitions, a series of Oliver’s resumes and cover letters.

Mac opened another folder and chuckled. It contained form rejection letters from law firms. It was a right of passage in law school. Mac and his law school buddies used to hang the rejection letters up on the wall. They all said the same thing. We thank you for your application, your credentials are extremely impressive and you will do well in your legal career—just not at this law firm. He put the letters back and moved to the third box which contained personal effects, some photographs and financial information on his law school loans. As he looked through it, Mac didn’t find anything of interest.

Mac checked the bathroom quick, looking under the vanity. Other than a box of condoms, spare towels and extra bathroom supplies, there was nothing of interest. Walking back towards the living area, Mac opened the hallway coat closet. Inside he found two trench coats, a ski coat and a brown leather jacket. There were tennis shoes and some additional casual shoes on the floor. A box on the top shelf contained a collection of winter gloves and hats. Leaning in the back corner were his golf clubs and a softball bat. Otherwise there was nothing of interest in the closet.

Lich was looking through the kitchen cabinets when Mac walked back in and sat at the kitchen table. “I didn’t find anything in the living room obviously,” Dick said. “The kitchen doesn’t have anything either. Heck, half the cupboards are empty. Oliver didn’t have much in the way plates, glasses, things of that nature.”

“Single guy who works all the time, not a surprise,” Mac said, looking under the kitchen table. “He didn’t care much about how his place looked, smelled or was organized. I mean, he’s got this dirty toolbox sitting under the table. I mean, what’s he even… need… a toolbox… for?” Mac stared at the box. “Could it be that simple?”

“What?” Lich said, seeing the look on Mac’s face.

“You have to use all the tools in the toolbox,” Mac mumbled as he flipped the metal clasps loose and opened the toolbox. A dusty tray sat in the top with a few screw drivers, wrenches, tape measure and hammer. Mac pulled the tray out and looked into the box itself. “Huh.”

“What?”

Mac pulled out a yellow folder that was clasped closed. “Grab the camera out of my backpack.”

Lich walked back to the door into the apartment and grabbed the backpack Mac brought along. Dick pulled out the camera and snapped three photos of the envelope. Mac then opened the top and slid the contents out onto the table. There was a computer flash drive and copies of a death certificate, driver’s license and other various papers. Mac read through the documents and a smile crept across his face.

“What do you have?” Lich asked.

“Yahtzee.”

Chapter Ten

“Your whole life is a lie.”

At 10:03 p.m., Mac pushed into the interrogation room with Lich, sat down at the table and looked across at his suspect.

“Why am I here?” Michael Harris asked.

“You tell me, Michael,” Mac answered acidly, dropping a stack of paper down on the table in the interrogation room, “Or should I say Jordan. As in Jordan Paris.”

You could have knocked Michael Harris a/k/a Jordan Paris over with a feather.

“You look surprised. Wait until you see what I found,” Mac added with dramatic flair. “You know what they say. You gotta use all the tools in the toolbox.”

In Gordon Oliver’s toolbox, Mac found a binder clip of documents that showed Michael Harris was in fact Jordan Paris and that the real Michael Harris was dead and had been for eight years. McRyan and Lich spent the better part of the last four hours putting it together.

Jordan Paris, who was now sitting across the table from them, graduated from the University of San Diego School of Law cum laude eight years ago. In his final year of law school, as required in California, he submitted his application to the Committee of Bar Examiners for the State of California. To be admitted as a lawyer in California, the applicant must be shown to be of appropriate moral character for the practice of law. Jordan Paris had a felony drug conviction from his sophomore year in college when he was running with a bad element. A drug sale went sideways, there was gunfire and one person was killed. Paris didn’t shoot anyone, was largely in the wrong place at the wrong time, but ended up with six months of jail time and a felony conviction. After his jail stint, Paris re-dedicated himself to his schooling and managed to fight his way into law school. While worried about getting admitted to the California bar, he thought with his clean last four years and good grades, he’d be able to show evidence of reform and rehabilitation. Then in the summer between his second and third year of law school, Paris was arrested for driving while intoxicated. His application was rejected by the committee as he was viewed as lacking the moral character for the practice of law. He filed an appeal, which failed. He would not be admitted to the practice of law in California.

Paris met Michael Harris while in his second year of law school. Harris was attending Thomas Jefferson School of Law in San Diego. The two ran into each other in the law library at the county courthouse. Paris could tell right away, Harris was a loner. Yet they struck up a friendship. When Paris was down on his luck, with no job, even fewer prospects and almost no money, Harris offered him the couch at his apartment. One month later, Michael Harris was killed in a car accident.

At the time of his death, Harris was just starting his own law practice, running it out of a run-down job share office with four other young lawyers. Harris was an only child and both his parents were dead. He appeared to be a loner and few people seemed to notice that he passed. When he died and nobody seemed to be missing him, Jordan Paris made a calculation.

Jordan Paris became Michael Harris, proving the Committee of Bar Examiners for the State of California correct about Paris’s lack of moral character.

Paris assumed his friend’s identity, moved to Florida and was admitted to the bar. After three years practicing in Florida, he moved to Illinois for two years and then had been at KBMP for the last two years. At KBMP he became the model senior associate, working almost exclusively for Stan Busch, trying cases and putting himself on a potential path to partnership.

Harris impressed Oliver. So much so that Gordon Oliver called a friend of his named Jane Phipp, who worked the career center at the Thomas Jefferson School of Law. Oliver raved to Phipp about Harris, how personable he was and what a good lawyer and mentor he was. Phipp related to Mac that she said to Oliver that she didn’t remember Michael Harris in that way and the two of them did a little more talking and corresponding and they realized they were not talking about the same person.

Oliver did what good young lawyers do, research. Mac had to hand it to him. Gordon Oliver pretty much had it all and was dead on based on what Mac and Lich had dug up in the last three hours.

Mac laid it all out on the table for Paris.

“This is not what you think, detective,” Paris pleaded. “I did not kill Gordon Oliver.”

“I don’t know, Jordan,” Mac replied casually. “It seems to me like you’ve got huge motive to have done so. Oliver figures out you’re not who you say you are, that you’ve assumed Michael Harris’s identity and that you’ve been practicing law under his name. He confronts you about it a day or two ago, threatening to expose you to the firm, the authorities and anyone else who would be interested. I mean, you’re finished but good. Before he does that, before he reports you, maybe he offers you some sort of alternative. Maybe he’s worried about the damage it will do to the firm, so he gives you the chance to come clean or maybe just leave town, a little get out of jail free card. Whatever it was, it doesn’t work for you. So you went to The Mahogany to confront him.”

“You might not have even wanted to kill him,” Lich added.

“That’s right,” McRyan stated, sitting back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his right leg over his left, “You just wanted to talk again, but he rebuffs you. He’ll have none of it. Everything is falling apart. So you lose it. You hit him in the back of the head. Gordon stumbles, falls and hits his head on the bumper. Then he isn’t moving. He’s dead. You killed him.”

“So you panic,” Dick followed. “You put his body in the back of the truck and you get the heck out of there. It might have helped if you’d grabbed his wallet, watch, etcetera… so that it looked like a robbery. I’m a little surprised you didn’t think of that. It certainly caused us to look in other directions, such as the law firm where we found you.”

“I didn’t kill him, detectives,” Paris exclaimed. “I didn’t even know Gordon knew about me. If he did, he didn’t let on at all. I had no idea.”

“Come on,” Lich replied exasperated. “You can’t expect us to believe that.”

“It’s true, you have to believe me.”

“Why?” McRyan retorted. “There’s nothing about you that is true, that is real. Your whole life is a lie.”

“That’s true. What you say is true, everything, except the part where I killed him,” Paris exclaimed and then slumped back in his chair, rubbed his face and exhaled. “Look, I’ve been pretending to be Michael Harris for eight years. I’ve grown eyes in the back of my head. I could sense a couple of people might have been on to me in Florida so I moved on. Same thing when I worked in Chicago, there was a lawyer in the office who started asking some questions that told me it was time to get out while I could. So I could smell it coming in Miami and Chicago. But I got nary a whiff here. I had no clue.”

It was Mac’s turn to sit back. His gut was telling him Paris might be on the level. He looked over to Lich who was unimpressed with Paris’ performance.

Mac flipped back through some pages from his notebook. “You said to me the other day that you left your office on the night Oliver was murdered around 11:15 p.m., correct?”

“Yes.”

“That’s plenty of time for you to get to The Mahogany and to the back alley and wait for Oliver to leave.”

“I went right home that night. I left the office at 11:15, I got to my apartment at 11:25 and I was asleep ten minutes later. I was exhausted from preparing for trial.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

Paris’s head went down and his shoulders slumped. He shook his head. “I live alone. I drove to my apartment along Grand Avenue, parked and went into my place.”

“Any security in your building?”

Paris shook his head.

“Any cameras that could verify your arrival?” Mac followed.

Paris shook his head.

“Any neighbors you saw on the way in?” Mac asked.

“No.”

“That’s not exactly what we would call airtight there, Jordan.”

“I don’t know what else to say, detective,” Paris uttered. “It’s the truth.”

McRyan and Lich stepped out of the interrogation room and into the hallway. It was after midnight. “So what do you think?” Mac asked.

“I think he’s guilty as the day is long,” Dick answered. “You actually have doubts?”

“I don’t know.”

Lich rolled his eyes. He was tired. It was late. “What? Something is bothering you, Mac, so frickin’ spit it out.”

Mac plopped himself down into his desk chair, pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “The part where he says he’d grown eyes in the back of his head. Something about that rang true to me.”

Lich grabbed his own desk chair and rolled it over to Mac’s desk. He sat down, leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, ready to impart a little wisdom on his smart but young partner. “Mac, the guy has been lying to people for eight years. He’s gotten really good at it. Now I hate admitting this, especially to you, but in my experience lawyers tend to be pretty bright people, Mac. They’re smart. Paris adds to that, a well-developed ability to lie. Put those two things together and you have yourself a lethal weapon—which is capable of doing who knows what. In this case, the lethal weapon was willing to kill. Mac, he killed Oliver two nights ago. Since then he’s had plenty of time to think about what he would say if we got onto him, which we did. He’s playing us, he’s playing you. Don’t let him.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Mac answered as he sat back up to his desk. A forensics report was sitting on the desk. The forensics reports identified where the blood covered brass plate from the crime scene came from. “Or maybe I am right.”

“Huh?” Lich said.

Mac handed him the forensics report. “Take a look at what that blood covered brass plate is from.”

Dick read the report, and looked up to Mac.

“Do you remember where we saw one of those?”

Lich nodded.

“We got the wrong guy.”

Chapter Eleven

“I can prove it all.”

Stan Busch sat awaiting Mac and Lich in the interrogation room. Busch, as usual, was smartly attired in a black pin stripe suit, white monogrammed dress shirt and red silk tie, looking like a million bucks. In the last eight hours Mac and Lich managed to reveal that looking like a million dollars and living a million dollar lifestyle was why Stan Busch was their man.

Mac and Lich observed Busch briefly through the mirror into the interrogation room. Assistant Ramsey County Attorney Bobby Young was standing with them. It was easy to see that Busch was angry, upset and also, at least to Mac, nervous. He was conferring with his lawyer, a local legal heavyweight named Saul Tobin. Normally Tobin would be reason to be wary, he was good, very good. However, Mac and Lich had the goods.

“You ready?” Lich asked.

“Let’s go,” Mac answered, picking up a green garbage bag and leaving the viewing room. The two detectives stormed into the interrogation room.

“Arresting me at the courthouse on some bullshit murder charge in front of my legal colleagues? You two have a lot of explaining to do,” Busch started. “Saul and I are going to have your badges.”

“Lighten up, Stan, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Lich said flatly.

Mac took Dick’s lead in: “Let me tell you a little story, Mr. Busch.”

“About what?” Busch snorted.

“About why and how you killed Gordon Oliver.”

Busch snorted.

“Don’t say a word, Stan,” Tobin ordered.

“Counselor, he won’t have to,” Lich responded casually.

“No, he won’t,” Mac added confidently and then started. “We’ve done some looking into you, Stan, these last eight hours once it became clear you were our guy. For me, I wanted to know why you killed Gordon Oliver. I knew that you did but I needed to know why. And you know what? I think I know.”

“Oh, do you now,” Busch spit.

“Stan,” Tobin warned.

“I do, Mr. Busch, and it’s the oldest reason in the book. Money. We looked over your billings for the last three years. You have been billing Michael Harris at $350, $375 and $400 per hour the last three years. He billed 1,922, 1,988 and 2,189 hours in those years. My Cretin High math tells me that’s $2,293,800 of billings by Michael Harris on your files. I also know that you recovered 96% on your billings, so there has been very little discounting taking place.”

“We also understand,” Lich added, “that under your firm’s compensation system that you receive significant credit for those billings come bonus time, not to mention your own time that you put on those files. That’s why you’ve made $748,000, $792,000 and $849,000 in the last three years from your firm. Michael Harris has helped make you wealthy.”

“So what?” Busch answered.

“So what? Michael Harris isn’t a lawyer and you know it,” Mac answered, looking at Tobin, who flinched. It was clear that counsel for the defense was unaware of this little tidbit of information. “In fact, you know that Michael Harris’s real name is Jordan Paris.”

Mac looked over to Tobin. “Counselor, to bring you up to speed, Jordan Paris is a graduate of the University of San Diego School of Law but he was never ever admitted to the practice of law in California or any other jurisdiction because of some criminal issues of his own many years ago. The real Michael Harris, who was Paris’s roommate at one time, is dead as the result of a car accident eight years ago. Paris assumed his identity, moved to Florida, then Illinois and finally here, holding himself out as Michael Harris.”

“Of course we don’t need to tell you this, Mr. Busch, do we?” Lich added. “Because you already know.”

“Indeed you do,” Mac continued, flipping through his notes and then turning his attention back to Busch. “We checked your phone records and those of the law schools. You called both the Thomas Jefferson and University of San Diego School of Law in the last week. They remembered you just as they remembered Gordon Oliver calling them about the same thing two weeks ago. Your Michael Harris isn’t a lawyer.”

Mac looked over to Tobin, “Counselor, if a law firm finds out that one of their lawyers wasn’t one, what does the firm have to do with the fees paid for the legal work of the non-lawyer?”

“Disgorge the fees,” Tobin answered.

“I thought so,” Mac said and then to Busch: “Since Harris, or shall I say Jordan Paris, only worked on your files, that’s $2,293,800 in legal fees that would have to be returned. Not to mention all the money you would owe back to your law partners. And the alimony from your marriage, holy cow your financial situation is tanking worse than Enron. And oh-by-the-way, can you imagine the damage such a disclosure would cause to your book of business going forward? There are a lot of lawyers in this town, good lawyers, and that business would be gone in a blink of an eye and you would be gone from KMBP in the next blink.”

“And if that wasn’t motive enough, there was your other little ethical issue two years ago. You remember don’t you Mr. Busch. That case where you failed to disclose a settlement offer to your client, a settlement offer that was significantly more than what the jury awarded your client at trial,” Lich added. “That resulted in complaint to the Office of Lawyers Professional Responsibility, a malpractice claim and some rather bad press for the firm.”

“Not to mention the loss of a multi-million dollar client,” Mac added. “Given how tenuous that put your position with your firm, you had plenty of reasons for wanting to take care of this problem with Paris before anyone found out.”

“That may all be true,” Busch answered, “but on the night Oliver was killed I was at home with my sixteen-year-old daughter which I know you have verified. I left the office at 6:20 p.m. and went home and never left until I came into the office the next morning.”

“We talked to your daughter yesterday,” Mac answered. “She did say you were home when she went to bed at 10:30 or so. She even recalled setting the alarm for your security system before she went to bed and recalled shutting it off the next morning before she left for school.”

“Like I said,” Busch said confidently.

“So we checked with your security company,” Lich responded. “They confirm your daughter’s story. But then they also have the system being deactivated at 11:20 p.m. and then re-activated at 12:48 a.m. So why would you have done that?”

“Perhaps my daughter did. I was asleep.”

“You’re lying. You turned off your security system. You left your house. You went to The Mahogany and killed Gordon Oliver.”

Busch laughed it off. “That’s a nice story. A nice theory even. But you can’t prove any of it.”

“I can prove it all,” Mac answered as he opened the garbage bag he had brought in and pulled out Busch’s weathered tan executive briefcase and slammed it on the table. Next to the briefcase, Mac placed a series of photographs.

“Do you recognize this briefcase?” Mac inquired.

Busch didn’t respond but Mac detected a slow leak of air from Busch’s posture.

“It’s yours. We got it from your office this morning.” Mac reached for the first picture which was of Busch leaving the Lowry Lewis Building at 6:22 p.m. on the night of the murder. “As you can see you are leaving the office with this briefcase.”

“So what,” Busch answered.

Lich slid another picture in front of Busch and his lawyer. This picture was a close-up of the briefcase.

“As you can see, there are two of these small brass plates along the bottom of the briefcase, framed by the vertical stitching running down from the handle,” Mac noted and then pointed to the briefcase. “Now today there is only one brass plate on the briefcase. What happened to the other one?”

“You tell me,” Busch replied flippantly.

“Fine, I will,” Mac quickly replied as Lich placed another picture in front of Busch and his lawyer. It was the crime scene photo of a matching brass plate with blood smeared on it. “We found this at the crime scene. The blood on the brass plate matches that of Gordon Oliver. It also matches the brass plate for your briefcase. You want to know why I’m sure it is?”

Busch didn’t respond.

“I know because forensics took your briefcase and found Gordon Oliver’s blood on it right where the brass plate would go,” Mac pointed to the lower right corner of the briefcase and a small area of discoloration.

“You did a pretty good job of cleaning the blood off the briefcase,” Lich noted. “But I would have thought you’d have stumbled onto a CSI episode at some point and have learned that it’s really hard to get rid of blood. Even when you think it’s gone, it’s not.”

“You brought this briefcase to the alley behind The Mahogany. You hit Gordon Oliver in the back of his head, which knocked him down, and then hit him twice again. In the process, this brass plate fell off your briefcase,” Mac thundered on. “You told me to prove it and I have. To quote Gordon Oliver: ‘I’ve used all the tools in the toolbox.’ I’ve proven you were there, you hit him with your briefcase and you killed him. Stan Busch, you’re under arrest for the murder of Gordon Oliver.”

• • • • •

Saul Tobin was a good lawyer and knew that his client was guilty. It was only a matter of how long he would spend in jail. The rest of his life or maybe have a few years of freedom at the end of his life.

Fifteen minutes later, McRyan and Lich got a full confession from Busch.

Stan Busch didn’t go to The Mahogany intending to kill Oliver. He went hoping that he could buy Gordon Oliver’s silence or at least more time to take care of the Harris problem. In the alley, Busch had tried to reason with Gordon Oliver, even offering him $100,000 in cash as a down payment, which he had in the briefcase. Oliver wouldn’t give in, said that Busch had to come clean on Harris and if he didn’t Oliver would. Busch got upset, walked after Oliver and hit him from behind with the briefcase. The $100,000 in the briefcase made it heavier and the blow to the back of Oliver’s head sent him sprawling. Oliver fell and hit his head on the bumper. He looked dead and Busch hit him twice more to be sure and then placed the body in the back of the truck and ran from the scene.

Chapter Twelve

“It’s blackmail.”

Mac pushed his way through the backdoor into his house, a twelve-pack of Grain Belt Premium bottles in one hand and a plastic bag full of Chinese food boxes in the other. Meredith called and was ten minutes away. Mac opened a beer and took a long sip from it. He set the Chinese food boxes out and grabbed a couple of plates. He would wait for her to arrive.

How to handle this situation was something he’d run through his head for the past three hours. He’d considered a myriad of ideas. He’d given some thought to romancing her one last time and then dropping things on her but that didn’t feel right. Packing her bags and having them at the door had been another but that didn’t feel right either and, given the last two days, he was simply too tired to do it. Instead he opted for the direct approach. This would be a confrontation that ended on his terms.

Meredith pushed through the backdoor looking tired from the day. Her look softened slightly at the beer and Chinese food. “Ah, dinner,” she said, sitting down and starting to put some food on her plate.

“More like the Last Supper.”

Meredith stopped scooping food and sat back in her chair. “That sounds a little ominous.”

“Because it is,” Mac answered and slid a manila folder over to her.

Meredith was on guard now as she flipped open the manila envelope. The first picture was one of her walking with Sterling.

She frowned.

The next picture was of the two of them entering a hotel room at the Marquette in Minneapolis.

Her eyes popped open.

The last picture was of her in bed with Sterling.

Her jaw dropped.

“You son of a bitch,” she growled.

“That’s rich. You’re cheating and I’m a son of a bitch,” Mac growled back.

“What gives you the right…?”

“What gives me the right?” Mac railed in response. “Love and honor? For better or for worse? In sickness and health? Till death do us part? Ring any bells for you there, Meredith?”

“This is your fault, not mine,” she answered, pushing away from the table and standing up. “You screwed everything up. This could have been great but you had to go be a cop.”

“How shallow are you?” Mac replied angrily. “Don’t answer because I now know the answer. But you know when we got married I thought it was for love. I really did. I was in love. I thought you were too. But I was wrong. Instead, at the time I simply met your husband criteria. I’ve come to realize you’re like one of those old Andre Agassi commercials. Image is everything.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously Meredith. It is. You wanted a trophy husband who was good looking, rich with the right career so that you could have some sort of perfect looking life. If love was included, well that would be a nice upgrade but it wasn’t required. It was as if picking a husband was like buying a car to you.”

“You could have taken some of my desires into consideration when you made some of your decisions, Mac. The decision to become a cop was not one that we made. You made it. What I thought didn’t matter. If you loved me you would have taken that into consideration. Instead, you just went ahead and did it.”

“I had to.”

“Oh bullshit,” Meredith sneered as she paced around the kitchen. “This whole obligation to your family crap is what has driven us apart.”

“You know what I don’t get?”

“What?”

“What’s been so bad, Meredith? You live in a beautiful home. Was it beautiful when we bought it? Maybe not. But I made it that way. I worked my ass off on it. Do we have money? We do. Sure I don’t make what I would have as a lawyer, but my investment in the coffee shops has paid off. Our other investments, which I manage, are doing well. We have plenty of money together and more on the way. What was so bad? Why isn’t that enough for you? Why wouldn’t a loving husband and all that be enough?”

“It’s just not. Not for me,” she answered. “I had something else in mind when we got together. I envisioned something else and this wasn’t it. I don’t care what you think of my reasons, Mac. I just don’t care anymore. I’m not happy. I want out. I’ve wanted out for a long time.”

“What, so you and J. Frederick Sterling can go and live that life you’re looking for?”

“He’s unhappy like I am. That’s what led to this. We are both unhappy.”

“So he’s who you want to be with?”

“Yes. I’m sorry but I do.”

“He’s a two-time loser you know. You’d be wife number three.”

“I don’t care.”

Mac shrugged his shoulders. “Okay then. But I have terms.”

“Terms?” Meredith asked quizzically. “We’ll just split everything.”

“You see, that’s not going to work for me,” Mac answered, shaking his head. He held up the picture of Meredith and Sterling in bed. “J. Frederick fill you in on his prenup?”

“I know he has one. She gets $350,000 upon the divorce. We’ve discussed it.”

“I bet that was scintillating pillow talk.”

“Jealous?” Meredith replied, satisfied with herself.

“Riiiight,” Mac sneered, “of you and J. Fred. I don’t think so. But I do have a question for you.”

“Which is what?”

“Has he asked for a divorce yet?”

“No but he’s going to.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mac asked with a tone that caught her attention. “Do you know about the infidelity clause in his prenuptial agreement?” The look on her face said she didn’t. “I didn’t think so. If he’s busted cheating on his wife he owes her $5,000,000.”

Meredith saw where this was going, “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

Mac snapped his fingers, “Like that. I will not hesitate in the least.”

Meredith sat back down and stared daggers at Mac whose expression was emotionless. After a minute, she quietly asked, “What do you want?”

“I want it all. You keep your retirement plan at work and I get everything else including the house, the investments and the Grand Brew ownership interest. That’s the deal and it is non-negotiable,” Mac answered icily.

“The house? The investments? You take it all?” Meredith asked dumbfounded. “How is that fair?”

“It’s not, and I don’t give a rip,” Mac answered. He had the leverage and intended to use every last bit of it. He had no sympathy for or love left for her at the moment. She had betrayed him, hurt him and he was going to get his pound of flesh. He pulled an envelope out of his backpack addressed to Mrs. Sterling and slid it across the table to Meredith. “My terms or this gets delivered. Your boy will be out five million and he probably won’t look so attractive to you at that point nor you to him. You, in sooooo many ways, will get screwed over if any of this gets out. I’m already gone, but if this gets out, J. Freddy is gone, your career will be gone, everything. So this is the price you will pay for me to go away quietly.” Mac had done the math and on his terms he would come out of the divorce with nearly $500,000 between the house and investments. If Meredith ended up with Sterling after all this she’d be fine. “Agree to my terms and you can have those pictures and they’ll never see the light of day.”

“It’s blackmail.”

“Yes it is, counselor.” He reached inside his backpack and pulled out another manila folder that he slid across the table to Meredith. It contained a divorce settlement with his terms in writing. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to consider this. But you fuck with me on it and I will burn you at the stake, Meredith. I will do what I say. You know me. You know I will,” he said coldly, absolutely no emotion in his voice. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to look them over.” Mac pushed himself up from the table. He grabbed another beer and twisted the top off. “And you have five minutes to get out of my house.”

• • • • •

A half hour after Meredith left, Lich arrived. In the midst of his second divorce, he was the perfect person to commiserate with. The two detectives sat in front of Mac’s big screen in his family room, watching the Minnesota Wild play the Vancouver Canucks. After two periods, the Wild were leading 3-2. It was a good game, with three fights and lots of physical play. Mac was on his ninth beer at this point, every bit on his way to getting obliterated.

“You need another beer?” Lich asked as he pushed himself up off the couch, having finished his.

“Is the Pope catholic?” Mac responded, holding up his empty.

Lich was back in less than a minute with two beers and one of the Chinese food containers.

Mac told Lich everything about what happened, Meredith cheating, hiring Biggs to investigate her, J. Frederick Sterling, the prenup, the showdown with Meredith, everything. Lich just listened and laughed when appropriate and was amazed at how harsh Mac was in demanding terms in the divorce. It helped Mac to vent but in the end he felt sad and empty. “I just can’t believe I’m sitting here and all of this happened.”

Lich nodded and said, “I hear you, brother.”

“What happens next?” Mac asked. “You’ve been through this, what did you do?”

“Everything wrong,” Lich answered.

“How so?”

“After my first marriage broke apart, I immediately started dating again and I was remarried within a year. That marriage lasted five long, agonizingly painful years, Mac. It was a mistake and frankly it has screwed me for the rest of my life financially. I’ll be paying through the nose.” Lich’s second wife was a social worker and made half what he did. Between alimony for her and his first wife, Dick wasn’t going to be left with much for himself.

“In retrospect what should you have done?”

Lich took a sip of his beer and then said: “If I had to do it over again, Mac, I’d have taken my time. I would have taken a lot of time. I wouldn’t have jumped into anything right away. Men often do that and it ultimately doesn’t work well. The first time around I never let myself heal emotionally and I made some bad decisions and here I am again and I gotta tell you, it’s pretty tough. I find it hard to push out of bed in the morning sometimes,” Lich said, stuffing Chinese food into his cheeks.

“What gets you up in the morning?”

“The job,” Lich answered, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “It’s the one thing that I have done well in my life most of the time. I get up and I go to work and I try to help people. Like today, we brought some closure to Gordon Oliver’s mother, that’s no small thing.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“No it’s not. It matters, Mac. What we do matters. It’s something that didn’t seem to dawn on your wife, or soon to be ex-wife, but what we do makes a difference. And let me tell you one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re a good cop, Mac. Very good.”

“Thanks, partner.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lich responded, taking a big swig of his beer. “When I was assigned to work with you, the captain thought you needed a veteran hand to guide you through the work. From what I’ve seen, the apple didn’t fall far from the Simon McRyan tree. So if I were to impart any guidance on you, it wouldn’t be about police work.”

“What would it be about?”

“Get healed. Get yourself some casual tail, put some murderers in the can and make a difference. And in time,” Lich held his bottle out towards Mac in a toast, “you will find a woman worthy of Michael McKenzie ‘Mac’ McRyan.”

Mac smiled and clinked bottles with Lich, “I’ll drink to that.”

THE ST. PAUL CONSPIRACY

McRyan Mystery Series

By

Roger Stelljes

Chapter One

“I’m in.”

Halloween.

The van turned left off of Grand Avenue and northbound onto Grotto, stopping mid-block at the alley. A man jumped out, quickly ducking between the back of a dumpster and a building on the right side.

Ten fifteen p.m., no moon, nothing but the stars. Fifty-seven degrees with a light breeze—balmy for the last night of October in Minnesota.

He looked east down the alley between Summit and Grand Avenues. The left side was residential housing, early twentieth-century Victorian mansions converted into condominiums—a fashionable trend in St. Paul. To the right was a combination of alternating businesses and red and brown brick apartment buildings, hip because of their location along the popular Grand Avenue. At the far end of the alley to the right was a hot nightspot, Mardi Gras, which specialized in Cajun food and Creole music. Revelers in costumes of all kinds would be in and out all night.

The van pulled away, turning right on Summit and disappearing from view. Dressed head to toe in black, the man invisibly picked his way through backyards, around garages, over fences and under trees to the other side of the block. Within five minutes he was looking through a gap in a hedge at the backside of the condo.

He had done this many times, for many years, but rarely in his home country. He worked alone, although there was the usual need for technical assistance. When he did this for the government, he stalked his prey for weeks or months at a time, getting to know their every move, learning about the people they saw and when they saw them, getting the layout of where they lived and worked. Did they have pets? Lovers? Family? He would probe, follow, observe, determining the perfect place to strike. That had not been the case this time.

There hadn’t been weeks; there had barely been three days.

The mitigating factor in his favor was that his target, unlike most in his career, didn’t consider herself one. In fact, she wasn’t concerned about security at all. She had no security system. She left a key under the front steps mat and followed a routine schedule, always working at night and never home until after 11:00 p.m.

Claire Daniels, investigative reporter for Channel 6. She was good, the best in town and would be until she left, which was to be soon, a network job in the offing. Having watched her on television for the last few years, he understood why.

And then there was her beauty.

Like many female television reporters, Claire was stunningly attractive. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvaceous body she worked on relentlessly. The man had watched her workout at the club three times now—aerobics, treadmill, Stairmaster, bike, weight machines. There was no messing around as she worked with feverish intensity, excellent technique, sculpting her body to absolute perfection.

Claire was the desire of every man in town. She had desires of her own, and currently it was Minnesota’s senior United States senator, Mason Johnson. The two were dating, in the loosest sense of the term, meeting late at night, usually at her place, usually when the senator’s wife was in Washington, DC.

Even if he had only three days to prepare, the whole situation provided the perfect cover.

Through the gap in the hedge, he could see her place, which was part of an old mansion, now subdivided into expensive condos. She had the last condo to the north. He was looking at the rear entrance, across the narrow driveway and through the side door of the one-car, tuck-under garage.

The man darted across the driveway to the side door and quickly pulled out a key, a duplicate of the one left under the mat on the front step. The key slid smoothly into the dead bolt, giving a light click as the door unlocked. He slipped inside, quickly removed the key and quietly shut the door. Fetching a towel out of his small backpack, he cleaned and dried his shoes. With the towel again stashed in the backpack, the man moved through the garage to the back door and up the stairs, which took him into the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and listened. Silence.

Moving through the kitchen took him to a hallway that led into the living room. The drapes were pulled over the large picture window that looked out to St. Albans Street. Just before the front door, he turned right and took the steps up to the second level.

There were four rooms on the second floor. Along the back was a spare bedroom that Claire used for storage, a bathroom, and a second bedroom she used as an office down on the end. The front was a single open bedroom, thirty-five feet by fifteen according to the blueprints filed with the city. An arch divided the bedroom from a sitting area.

He went into the first spare bedroom, directly into the closet that faced into the hallway. Hiding in the left side of the closet, he kept the door open enough so he could get out without having to open it further. Through the opening he could see across the hallway into the master bedroom. Thin streams of illumination from the streetlight fought through the window shades to provide a dark outline of the king-sized bed and flanking nightstands.

In the closet, he checked his watch: 10:25 p.m. He tapped his throat mike. “Eagle Eye, this is Viper. I’m in.”

“Copy that.” Eagle Eye was parked in the Mardi Gras parking lot across the alley from the condo with a view of both the back and front of the condo.

Viper. He’d used this code name as an assassin for the agency. It gave him a certain comfort level, put him in the right mindset for this little operation.

He sat sideways, so he could peer around the sliding door. If Daniels and the senator held to their schedule, they’d arrive within the next hour.

Forty minutes later his earpiece came to life. “Viper, Lexus in the alley, just turned in. It’s her.” Viper heard the garage door hum to life. The senator wouldn’t be far behind. He shut off the mike and took out his earpiece, securing it inside his collar.

He could hear Claire as she came up the backstairs from the garage and walked quickly through the kitchen to the front door. The front door opened. Viper heard quiet talking. The door closed and then silence for what seemed like five minutes. Then he heard movement up the stairs, rough and halting, as if only a few steps at a time. There was heavy breathing, and Viper imagined them slowly working their way up the stairs, warming up for what was to come.

Suddenly, they appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, Claire already down to her bra and panties. The senator stripped down to his dress pants. As they moved into the bedroom, she reached with her right hand and hit the light switch, turning on the left nightstand lamp.

Viper could see their profiles, as they finished undressing each other and fell into bed. He looked away, as a professional should. But he could hear them, especially Claire, and he couldn’t help himself. Daniels had the effect on him that she had on others. She was intoxicating, making love to the senator in a hushed breathy moan, the vertebrae in her back visible as she arched, moving in perfect rhythm. He envied the senator, his hands on her small buttocks, moving with her in stride, making love to the incredibly beautiful reporter.

Hidden in the closet, invisible, Viper watched as Claire became the aggressor. She picked up the pace, moaning louder, back arched more, moaning louder, head leaning farther back, moaning louder, writhing passionately.

And then she came, exhaling loudly.

Half an hour later, the lovemaking long complete, they lay on the bed, enjoying a little pillow talk about nothing in particular. She talked about the live report she gave in front of some local government building; something about a city spending a little too lavishly on its employees. The senator related a story about how he had just managed to avoid the check scandal when he was in the House of Representatives.

At 1:15 a.m., the senator rolled out of bed and began to dress. All the while, Claire lay on her side, naked, watching him. She had not rolled over and gone to sleep. There had been no half asleep admonition to lock the door. Viper could see it in her eyes. She wanted him to stay. The senator finished his tie in a nice Windsor knot and walked over to the bed, leaning over and kissing her good-bye.

Mason Johnson walked out of the bedroom, turned left, and headed down the stairs. A few seconds later, Viper heard the front door open and close. After a brief moment, he heard the dead bolt lock into place.

Viper turned his gaze towards Claire. She was rolled over now. He could see her back, once again making out the little vertebra of her spine. The nightstand light oddly remained on.

The spare bedroom was carpeted, which helped to cover his approach as he slithered out of the closet and to the wall, putting his back to it and sliding towards the hall. The condo was quiet. The only sound was the hum of the furnace, starting up to keep the condo’s temperature constant. It provided just enough ambient noise to cover his approach.

His watch said 1:37 a.m. Timing was important.

He sprang across the room, jumped on the bed, rolled her over, and clenched her throat. Viper saw the horror in her eyes. Frantically, she reached for his hands, but he was too strong. She flailed at him, striking his face, shoulder, and arms, all the while kicking her legs, wiggling her hips, trying anything to get away. She tried to scream, but only gasps and croaks made it through his grip. He coldly looked in her eyes through his mask while pressing the life out of her.

After a minute, the flailing and struggling slowed and weakened. As he tightened the vice on her throat, her eyelids fluttered, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and he felt her body go still underneath him. Removing his left hand from her neck, he checked her pulse with his right.

She was dead.

Pushing off her and standing up, he checked his watch, 1:39 a.m. He took his mask off and massaged his jaw. Daniels was strong, and he’d been hit hard, but she was tired, and he was too quick. There had been no time for her to react or scream. She never had a chance.

Viper carefully searched the condo. He had been through it once already the previous night, but he’d been ordered to search again. For the next hour he methodically worked his way through the bedroom, sitting room, office, hallway closet, built-in buffet, and spare bedroom. Next, he moved to the main level and eventually to the basement.

The information about his employer was not to be found.

He headed back upstairs to her bedroom. Was there anyplace he hadn’t looked? He searched the television cabinet. It was stocked with CDs and DVDs, but not with what he was hunting for. The computer was ignored; it was already searched and now monitored from afar.

He checked his watch, 2:30 a.m., time to get moving. Viper made a last trip to the master bedroom to look at Claire. What a shame, such a beautiful woman. He flipped off the light switch and headed for the stairs, sliding his mask back on in the process. He made his way to the garage, where he found the Lexus. A quick look inside didn’t reveal the documents. How about the trunk? He triggered the latch on the driver’s side door and popped open the trunk. Empty other than a flashlight, a pair of boots, and a window scrapper—typical accouterments for the coming Minnesota winter. Viper shut the trunk and moved to the rear door.

“Eagle Eye, Viper. I’m at the rear door.”

“Copy Viper. Go.”

Out the back door, through the hedge and down the alley Viper went. The pickup point was a parking lot between an apartment building and the Kozlak Foodmart. Viper moved his way to the side of a garage across the alley from the parking lot.

The black van turned into the parking lot, approaching from the other side of the alley. As the van turned toward him, the sliding door opened. Viper sprang from the side of the garage, across the alley, over the guardrail, and into the van while it was moving. Once inside, he asked, “How’d Bouchard come out?”

“It’s done.”

Chapter Two

“Your day just got worse.”

Many St. Paul residents started their morning at the Grand Brew, a cup of coffee to get the workday started. For Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, a fourth-generation St. Paul detective, it was his way to start the day. Not only did he love the coffee, it was making him a little dough. Two childhood friends owned the Grand Brew. Mac had invested a little money six years before in exchange for a small piece of the action. That “small piece” was turning out to be a nice, and ever-growing, supplement to his detective’s salary.

Mac grabbed his coffee and looked at his watch, 7:30 a.m.—day of paperwork ahead. He had cleared a murder the day before, a stick-up gone awry. It took Mac and his partner a week to put the case together and find the stick-up guy, a nineteen-year-old kid they identified from a surveillance camera. They hauled the kid in, and he went quickly.

Mac’s partner was Richard Lich, or better known within the department, and often to his face, as “Dick Lick.” Mac frequently wondered what in the world Lich’s parents had been thinking. Dick was a veteran cop with money problems; two divorces would do that to a guy. That being said, when motivated, Dick was a good detective. He had an easy manner with people and a quick wit. When he was on his game, Lich was a good complement to Mac’s blunt, if not occasionally abrasive, approach to matters. Problem was, as of late, Lich had checked out. Mac hoped he would snap out of it soon. He could use the help.

Mac jumped into his Explorer, put his coffee in the cup holder just as his cell phone vibrated. He took a look. Just like that a seemingly slow and easy day turned busy. His captain was looking for him.

“McRyan.”

“Peters. St. Albans, between Summit and Grand, cleaning lady found a body.” Mac wrote down the address. “I called Lich. You’ll be there first. Keep me advised and keep your cell on.” Click.

Well, good morning to you too, Mac thought. Captain Marion Peters was a good guy, an old-guard cop that Mac and the rest of the McRyan clan knew well. The gruff manner had more to do with last night than the body on St. Albans. The University Avenue Strangler had struck for the fifth time.

The University Avenue Strangler. Good grief, Mac thought. It wasn’t a cop moniker. That was a media creation and cornball as hell, but that was the media. If you have a serial killer, which they did, the media had to give him a name. A name made for great headlines in the Pioneer Press and Star Tribune.

Four women, now five, had been killed, strangled, sexually assaulted, and dumped into vacant lots in the vicinity of University Avenue. The signature item identifying the killer was a balloon left behind, marking the body like a buoy. The balloon was always the same—a smiley face. “Have a Nice Day.”

Of course, with a serial killer, people, including politicians and especially the media, tend to go into a panic. Mac saw it on the morning news shows, the media in full glory, hyping the murder of another innocent victim for ratings, providing “Team Coverage” and “Exclusives you’ll only see on Channel 12.” City council members had already been on the tube reassuring everyone that the police would find the killer. Undoubtedly, Captain Peters’s gruff mood had something to do with the latest murder, the media swarm, and, Mac suspected, hysterical calls from city politicians demanding something be done. As if it was that easy.

Mac pulled out onto Grand and headed east to St. Albans with a murder to work on. He was thirty-two years old, six foot one, and one hundred ninety pounds. He was ruggedly handsome, with blond hair and icy blue eyes. His short hair formed around a taut face, with a square jaw and a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon in his chin. He had three crisscrossing scars under his chin, the result of stitches from hockey-related cuts. He worked on his wiry, strong body frequently and was proud of the fact he remained in “game” shape, no heavier than his college hockey-playing weight.

Mac had taken a somewhat circuitous route to being a cop, considering his family. Growing up, all he ever wanted to be was a detective just like his dad, the famous Simon McRyan. It didn’t hurt that his grandpa and great-grandpa, several uncles and cousins—all of them were cops. It was the family business. As a kid, his two best friends were his cousins, Peter and Tommy. All three were going to be like their dads, St. Paul cops.

But then Mac turned out to be a straight-A student and a great high school hockey player, garnering an athletic scholarship to the University of Minnesota. After four years, he graduated again with straight As and had captained the Gophers to an NCAA Championship. He was engaged to the prettiest and smartest girl on campus. His road to life was paved for something other than police work.

So, while Tommy and Peter joined the police force after college, Mac and his fiancée enrolled in law school. He graduated summa cum laude, second in his class. He had a job lined up with Prescott and Finnerty, a prominent law firm with a $100,000 starting salary. His lovely wife, also a lawyer, would make equally as much in another law firm. With his name recognition, perhaps politics would follow. He was set for a wealthy life with a beautiful wife.

Then two weeks after the bar exam, while standing on the eighth tee at Somerset Country Club, his life changed forever. His cell phone rang. Peter and Tommy had been killed in the line of duty, shot as they responded to a bank robbery.

Mac was a pallbearer for both, the only one not in a police uniform. As he stood by one casket and then the other at the cemetery, he looked to his family, more than twenty of his cousins and uncles in uniform, laying it on the line to protect their families and city. Listening to the priest speak of the commitment his two cousins had made, he felt selfish and empty. What has he done that compares to Peter and Tommy? Why has his lot in life been different? The athletic and academic success, the law degree, marrying the pretty girl—did that mean that being a cop was for someone else? That his family and their sacrifices were beneath him? That he shouldn’t feel the same sense of obligation that four generations of his family had?

A week later he joined the police force.

His mother, always relieved that he had been going down a different and safer path, nonetheless understood. It was the McRyan way.

His wife never forgave him. He ruined the perfect life she thought they would have. It took seven years, but the perfect marriage eventually came to an end. He’d gotten the final divorce papers in the mail the day before.

Joining the force also brought the unspoken pressure for Mac to measure up to his father, the revered Simon McRyan. His dad died in a freak deer-hunting accident fifteen years before when Mac was still in high school, hit in his heart by a stray bullet from a far-off hunter. They never found the person who’d fired the shot. Mac had been with his father, holding his hand as he died.

Simon McRyan was the standard by which all other detectives in St. Paul had been and —to a certain degree—still were measured, and Mac wanted to measure up. He didn’t want to be known simply as Simon McRyan’s son. He was proud of his father, thought about him often when he grabbed his badge and Glock 9mm. But every day Mac operated under the shadow of Simon McRyan, cognizant of its existence, aware that, as his father’s only son, he had much to live up to.

Mac turned left into the parking lot for Mardi Gras, knowing it would be a good out-of-the-way place to park, and saw two squads in front of the condo. The yellow crime scene tape was already up, twisting in the breeze. A crowd of locals was gathering.

There were five other McRyans of Mac’s generation who were cops. One of them, his cousin Patrick, stood on the porch of the condo. He came down the steps to meet Mac.

“What say you, Paddy boy?”

“It’s not good, cuz.”

Mac furrowed his brows, knowing the tone of Patrick’s voice. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly, as they walked towards the condo.

“Our dead body is Claire Daniels.”

Mac stopped abruptly and looked at his cousin for a minute, “The reporter?”

“Yeah.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, I always wanted to see her naked, but not like this.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs.”

“Is forensics on the way?”

“They’ll be here any minute.”

As he headed up the front steps, Mac stopped and asked, “Any media yet?”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Not yet. They’re all probably still over at the serial killer site giving Riley hell, but I gotta think the newsies’ll show pretty soon.”

“All right. I’m going up and take a look,” Mac said, as he fished out some white rubber gloves out of his pocket and turned to go inside.

Claire was living pretty well, Mac thought when he walked in, noticing the furnishings. To his right was a large living room with nice furniture, mission-style chairs and tables with an expansive leather couch, probably from Room & Board or Pottery Barn. He noticed that the condo looked in order, very neat and clean. The stairway up to the second level was to his immediate left.

At the top of the steps, a uniform cop, Bonnie Schmidt, waited for him. As Mac got to the top of the steps, she nodded towards the bedroom. A white blouse lay on the floor at the top of the landing. Mac kneeled down to it and took a quick look around. He walked back down the steps and took a look at the living room; everything was in order, immaculate.

He walked back up the steps. “Was the blouse here when you arrived?”

“Yup. Cleaning lady said she picked up a pair of slacks on the landing. She was about to pick up the blouse when she looked into the bedroom, saw the body, and you know the rest,” Schmidt said.

Mac left the blouse and turned into the bedroom. He carefully sidestepped the bra and panties lying on the floor. Claire Daniels lay on the left side of the bed, flat on her back, her arms spread out, her left leg straight and the right hanging over the side of the bed. Mac walked to the left side of the bed and crouched. He immediately saw the bruising on the neck. The cause of death was pretty obvious. Strangulation. The killer probably had been straddling her on the bed, pressing down on her windpipe.

She was naked, and Mac wondered if sex had been involved. It might explain the blouse on the landing, the scattered underwear. Forensics would find out soon enough. Mac took a moment to look around the room. Odd. Other than the blouse on the landing and the panties and bra on the bedroom floor, no other clothes lay strewn about. He saw no apparent signs of a robbery. Things seemed tidy. Mac walked over to the dresser. There was a jewelry case on top. Using his Bic, he flipped it open and immediately realized she had some valuable pieces. But each slot and drawer was filled with jewelry. If someone rummaged through it, they put everything back just so.

Mac heard some commotion on the steps, looked back and saw that it was forensics. “Hey, Mac,” said Linda Morgan, a young nerdy crime-scene tech Mac really liked. “Paddy told me Claire Daniels?” Linda said conversationally.

“You heard correct,” Mac replied, standing with his hands on his hips. “Best I can tell, the killer put his hands on her throat and squeezed. You can see the bruising. Strangling, I’m thinkin’.”

“Anything else?” Morgan asked.

I’m sure you’ll check for sex, and I think you’ll find it,” Mac answered. “It feels like that happened here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It just feels like it. The blouse on the floor. Bra and panties here. I haven’t spoken with the cleaning lady yet, but there were slacks down on the landing. Seems as if Claire was in a hurry to get them off. It just feels like something like that happened here.”

“Well, if she did, we’ll find out.” Linda put on her glasses and reached for some rubber gloves to start evaluating the body. Another tech Mac didn’t know was getting the fingerprint kit going.

Mac grabbed his cell phone and hit the speed dial for Captain Peters.

“Peters.”

“McRyan. Your day just got worse.” Mac said neutrally, “Our homicide is Claire Daniels.”

Silence. Then, slightly stammering, Peters asked for confirmation. “The TV reporter? From Channel 6?”

“Yes.”

“Cripes, what’s next,” Peters sighed. “Mac, do you need some help over there?”

“Yeah, some extra units’d be good. We’re going to draw a crowd.” He thought for a moment. “If you got any extra people to spare, I have a feeling we may need to do some door to door here.”

“Okay. I’ll get some bodies down there. You run it. But listen, son, the shit’s going to hit the fan with this. If you get stuck, ask for help. If the media are not there yet, they will be soon. They’ll be all over you. Don’t say a word until we talk. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dick Lick there yet?” Peters asked caustically, knowing Lich’s approach to things as of late.

Mac stifled a chuckle, “No, sir.”

“Whatever you do, Lich doesn’t talk to the press. He always loves to talk. It’s your case. You run it, and he follows.” There was a brief silence, and then, “Look, if Dick pulls his head out of his ass, don’t be afraid to use him. He’s been around. If he’s set right, he knows what he’s doing. But you lead. I’ll let him know that.” With that Peters clicked off.

It was his case for now. This was going to be a major case, and Peters was giving him the chance to take the ball and run with it. Mac planned to do just that.

Mac watched forensics as they started to set up, unpacking gear from their fishing-tackle boxes. Black lights, cameras, plastic bags. He walked out into the hall and up to Schmidt. “Cleaning lady?”

“Down in the kitchen.”

Mac headed down. As he came to the bottom of the steps, Lich walked in. In his early fifties, Lich was pot-bellied and bald. He owned a collection of old, faded suits, replete with coffee stains and the occasional burn hole from one of his cigars. His choice that morning carried a couple stains. Lich, as Mac often said, was a piece of work.

Lich was divorced, so he and Mac had that in common. He had been cleaned out, which they didn’t have in common. It was a point Lich frequently made. His ex cleaned him out and left him without a pot to piss in.

“Mornin’, Mac. Your cousin filled me in.” Just then Lich’s cell phone went off, and Mac figured it might be Peters. He didn’t want to be there while that conversation took place. Instead he headed for the kitchen. The cleaning lady was sitting at the kitchen table with a uniform cop named Jones. “Lich’ll be a minute,” Mac explained to Jones.

The cleaning lady was hunched over, looking anxious and just a shade from terrified. Just then Lich came in and whispered to Mac, “Peters says you lead.”

Mac nodded, “Let’s get after it then.”

The cleaning lady, Gloria, had arrived at her normal time, 7:00 a.m. She had gone upstairs to grab some clothes for the laundry. On the way up the steps, she had picked up the slacks on the landing and saw the blouse at the top. As she bent over to pick up the shirt, she glanced around the corner and saw Daniels lying on the bed. She then immediately called 911.

After listening to the summary, Mac asked, “Did you and Ms. Daniels ever talk? Have a conversation?”

“Sometimes. She was friendly, always letting me make coffee for myself, as long as I made some for her. Sometimes I would bring rolls. She was a nice lady.”

“Did she ever mention anyone who might be after her? That she was concerned about? Was there ever any hate mail lying around? Disturbing phone messages? Anything like that?”

The woman’s eyes were wide with innocence. “No.”

“How about people she saw, dated? Ever talk about any of that?”

“We never talked about things like that. I didn’t know her like that. I might see her in the morning and say, ‘You have a date last night?’ She would just kind of smile and nod.”

“Was she seeing anyone right now?”

“She might have been, but I don’t know who it was.”

“Is it ‘might’? Or do you know?”

Terror edged into her eyes. “I think she was seeing someone. Yes.”

“Why do you think so?”

“When she’s dating someone, she gets up really late. She works late and I think her dates are late.”

“And if she’s not seeing anyone?” Lich asked.

“Then she’s a pretty early riser, has coffee, reads the paper, exercises. But if she had a date, it seemed like she liked to sleep in late.”

“Anything else that tells you she was seeing someone,” Mac continued.

“No, just that she seemed to be sleeping in late.”

“And you don’t know who she’s seeing?”

“No. She never said. If he ever stayed the night, he was gone before I ever got here.”

“How many days a week do you come?” Lich asked.

“Three.”

“Three?” Mac asked. “Seems like a lot for someone who lives alone.”

Gloria said, “Ms. Daniels, she liked things perfect.”

“Neat freak, huh,” Lich said.

“Not so much that as just a perfectionist,” Gloria answered. “Just the way she was.”

“When you arrived here this morning, did anything seem out of place, you know,” Lich asked, and then pointed up, “other than the obvious?”

Gloria vigorously shook her head. “No, everything seemed pretty normal.”

“How’d you get in?” Mac inquired.

“Front door. I have a key.”

Mac went to look at the front door for a second. There was a dead bolt, fairly new. He examined the lock and the door. It was clean, no scratches, no signs of forced entry. He walked back to the kitchen.

“Gloria, is your key for the dead bolt?”

“Yes.”

“Was the dead bolt locked this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a new lock?”

“It was put in a few months ago.”

Mac looked past her to a stairway going down the back. “Is the back entrance down those stairs?”

The cleaning lady nodded.

Mac and Lich went down the steps and looked at the back door. Unlike the front door, the knob was very old. There was a dead bolt, but it wasn’t locked. Through the door was a single-car garage with a garage door and a dead-bolted side door to the left. This dead bolt was newer looking. As with the front door, there was no sign of forced entry.

“Wonder if the same key opens both?” Lich said.

“Let’s see.”

They headed back up, and the cleaning lady confirmed that both doors had the same key. Mac did some quick mental gymnastics. No evidence of forced entry. No evidence of robbery. Maybe somebody had a key?

Just then a couple of other younger detectives from robbery homicide showed up. Mac chuckled. Bill Clark and Al Green looked like a couple of IBM guys. They were tall, with short black hair, blue suits, and red ties.

“I must not have gotten the memo.”

Green and Clark at first looked blankly at him. Then they looked at each other and just shook their heads, “Fuck you, Mac,” Green replied. “The captain ordered us down here to give you a hand. So, what do you need, smart ass?”

Mac chuckled and gave them the rundown on what they had so far, which wasn’t much. “Let’s start door knocking on all these brownstones and checking the apartments across the street. Use some uniform guys, and I’ll get Peters to send some more down.” Mac was also thinking the newsies would be there soon, and he would need to control them and the crowd. The media would go nuts with one of their own dying.

“Bill, grab Paddy. He’s up for detective. Take him around with you. Al, grab another uniform and start knocking on doors. If you come across something, let me know.”

With that Green and Clark headed out to start the canvas.

Mac and Lich headed back upstairs. Morgan was jotting down some notes as another tech took a few more pictures of the body. A third tech was dusting for prints. “Linda, got anything for us?”

Morgan stared at her notes a minute, biting her lower lip. “Body temp indicates preliminary time of death as between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Cause of death is pretty obvious; she was strangled. He got on top of her and basically pressed the air out of her, with his hands on her neck, thumbs straddling her windpipe, fingers around the back. Strong sucker, whoever did it.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah, she’d had it all right. I’ll be able to tell you a little more about that once we examine her downtown.”

“Will you be able to get DNA?” Lich asked.

“We should.”

Mac thought for a moment, “She had sex, but …”

“It looks consensual. I’ve taken a quick look. There’s nothing to indicate rape. There’s no tearing around the vagina that I can see. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Are you saying he—we’re assuming a he—killed her after sex?”

“Not necessarily. I might know more when we get back and examine her. Could be that she was into something weird, sexual asphyxiation, something like that. I don’t see any tools or props around here to suggest that, though. It could be she said he was a bad lay, and he got pissed and killed her. Heck if I know right now, but we might be able to do better after we examine her.”

“All right. Are you going to move her now?” Mac asked.

“In a bit. We need to take more pictures and do a few other things.”

Lich appeared to be mildly interested for a change. “What do you think?” Mac asked.

“No signs of forced entry. At this point, nothing points to a break-in, so it seems like it was someone who knew her.”

Mac couldn’t argue with that. No forced entry made it more likely it was someone she knew, which would narrow the field of suspects. They headed down the steps. Lich reached the bottom and was looking at the front door. Mac slipped by him onto the front porch and looked out at the street as a Channel 12 news van pulled up. “Ahh, shit.”

“You knew they’d get here sooner or later. They’ll soil themselves when they find out it’s Daniels,” Lich replied lightly, morbidly amused by the situation.

Mac turned back towards Lich, who was standing, hands on hips looking out to the street. Mac’s eyes wandered down to the floor mat in front of the door. He kneeled down and flipped it up thinking, She wouldn’t … but she did.

“Well, lookey there,” said Lich, “I didn’t think people did that anymore.”

“Might explain no forced entry,” Mac thought. Lich called upstairs for forensics to come and get a picture. Just then Mac’s cell phone chirped.

“McRyan.”

“Peters. You and Lich need to come down and fill me in. The chief’ll be in on the meeting. It’s 8:40 now. Be here by 9:00.”

Peters clicked off. Downtown was ten minutes away. Mac looked at Lich. “We have an audience in twenty minutes.”

“The chief?” Lich asked.

Mac nodded. Lich chuckled lightly.

“Bet he’s had half the city council on the horn yelling at him this morning. Now this. I wouldn’t miss it,” Lich replied.

Mac snorted, “Well let’s get going then. I’d hate to deprive you of the show.”

Chapter Three

“Real police.”

Viper yawned. It had been a long night. After a couple hours’ sleep, he was back to monitor the situation. Sitting in the back of a blue van parked on the northeast corner of Summit and St. Albans, he looked back at Daniels’s brownstone one hundred fifty yards away through tinted glass. A crowd had gathered, and a number of uniformed cops controlled the situation, putting out the yellow crime scene tape, keeping people to the other side of the street. It was 8:15 a.m.

Viper took another drink of water, avoiding the coffee the rest of his crew swilled. He rarely drank coffee. It was bad for the system, and he was a self-professed health nut, except for the occasional beer or glass of wine. He would have to watch it though, or he’d have to hit the can, and he didn’t want to leave the van. He wanted to make sure events started and stayed on the proper course.

A couple of detectives, a young blond-haired one in a sharp blue suit and an older bald guy in a rumpled shit-brown suit, were talking on the front porch of the condo. Suddenly the young detective looked down and flipped up the mat. The key. Viper figured they’d find it. That was fine by him. No evidence of forced entry, meaning someone had a key or easy access to one. The senator, when they found him, would have to admit he used it. His prints would be on it.

Viper trained the binoculars on the young cop and watched him reach for his cell phone. It was a brief call, thirty seconds at most. He looked to the bald detective, said something, and pointed away from the condo. They walked down the steps and looked to be leaving. Then they stopped, turned and climbed the steps to the neighbor’s condo to the right of Daniels’s. The young detective pointed in a few directions, and the other detectives nodded. Directions given, the younger detective and the bald one left the porch and headed to the south and out of sight.

Viper thought a little more about what he had just seen. It looked like the young cop was in charge of the situation. He couldn’t be much over thirty years old. Yet, he seemed to be the one giving directions, with everyone else nodding when he talked. The bald guy, much the younger detective’s senior, hadn’t said much at all. Viper wondered why such a young cop would be calling the shots on a high-profile case like the death of Claire Daniels. He would have someone make a call. Maybe they caught a break.

• • • • •

As Mac walked through the door and into the St. Paul Public Safety Building, the intensity of the day hit him in the face. Faces were taut, voices low and serious. It was not St. Paul’s finest day, and all eyes were on the department. The desk sergeant saw Mac and Lich walk in and directed them up to the chief’s office.

Charles Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for eight years. At fifty-four years old, he was a thirty-three-year veteran of the police force who worked his way up from uniform cop to chief. He was a tall, slender Irishman that seemed to have aged ten years in the last month, largely due to the serial killer. His once bright red hair had turned gray.

Chief Flanagan knew police work but, to put it charitably, the politics and public relations aspects of his job were not his strengths. His saving grace was that he had the complete and total support of the force, unusual for many big-city chiefs. He was, as Mac’s Uncle Shamus liked to say, real police. The chief always stood behind his men. While that made him popular with the rank and file, it occasionally made him some enemies at City Hall, enemies now making his life miserable. Mac had known him for as long as he could remember. He had been with Mac, Shamus, and Pat Riley, another St. Paul detective, when Mac’s dad was shot and killed.

Mac and Lich walked into the chief’s outer office, and his secretary led them in. As they entered, the chief looked up. He walked to Mac, shook his hand warmly and said, “Mac, it’s nice to see you, boyo.”

“Good morning, Chief. Nice to see you as well.” The chief’s appearance told Mac what kind of day it had already been. The suit coat had been jettisoned, the tie and collar loosened, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. There were three coffee cups on his desk, all half empty. If Mac didn’t know better, he got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, although a quick scan failed to reveal an ashtray.

“Lich, how are you?”

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, boys, the shit’s hittin’ the fan. We’ll be speaking with the media soon,” Flanagan said, wincing. “I know you probably don’t have much, but Peters, Sylvia, and I need an update. So,” the chief said, pointing to Mac, “give us what you’ve got.”

Mac pulled out his notebook to give the basic rundown. He finished with, “Forensics preliminarily puts time of death between midnight and 2:00 a.m.”

“How’d the killer get in? Were there any signs of forced entry?” asked the chief.

“Not so far,” Mac replied, explaining about the new door locks and key they found.

“Anything missing?”

“Doesn’t seem to be,” Mac answered. “The house isn’t ransacked in any way. She had jewelry in her bedroom, some fairly expensive pieces, which appear to be undisturbed. So, at this point, it looks like whoever got in was let in, or had a key. Maybe a boyfriend.”

“Do we know anything about who she was seeing?”

“Not yet. We’ll need to get down to the station and talk to the people she worked with. Maybe we’ll learn something there.”

Sylvia Miller, the department spokeswoman, piped in. “The media knows that it’s Claire Daniels. I’ve already been getting calls, and they, being the media, want to know when we’ll have something to say. What can we offer at this point?”

Mac was about to speak, but he first looked to Flanagan, who nodded. “I know the heat’s on, but I don’t think we should release much. She was found dead this morning in her condo. I’d give them the usual bullshit that an autopsy will be performed. Indicate that we’ll be questioning people in the neighborhood, people she worked with, that sort of thing. Beyond that …” Mac shook his head.

“We’re getting hammered here, with the serial killer and then this,” Miller pleaded. “Can’t we go with more, the strangling, time of death, the sex information … any of that?”

“Not yet,” Flanagan answered. “It’s way too early. I don’t want us to get hung based on speculative information we’ll have to retract later. I don’t wanna compromise the investigation.”

“I understand that, but information’ll get out on a case like this,” Miller pushed. “The media pressure’ll be immense. One of their own is dead here. We need to throw them a bone, or we’re gonna get skewered.”

“Damn it, I fuckin’ know that!” yelled Flanagan, who then caught himself, obviously regretting the outburst. After a quiet moment and an exhale, he said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your situation, Sylvia. But we must let the detectives do their work. If we catch the guy, we’ll be fine. If not, I’ll take the heat.” Flanagan then turned to Mac. “This is your case to run. But be smart. You need help, boyo, ask, and keep Peters in the loop. And, son, all media requests go to Sylvia for now.”

“Avoiding the media is fine by me,” Mac replied.

“That goes for you too, Lich,” added Peters, his tone just a bit accusatory.

Mac smiled inside. Lich liked to talk.

“What’d I do?” pleaded Lich with his arms held open.

“Dick,” said Flanagan, “you have a rep for leaking. Not here. Keep your mouth shut.” It was not a request.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, boys, go to it.”

Mac and Lich left the room.

Once they were gone, Miller, always evaluating the public perception of things asked, “Chief, isn’t McRyan kind of young to be handling this?”

The chief gave Miller a long, severe look before answering. “You know his background. He’s got four good years as a detective. He’ll be fine. From your perspective, he should be someone we want in front of the camera. People will recognize the name.”

“That’s all true, but this isn’t a public service announcement. This is a murder case of a well-known reporter on top of a serial killer. This is very high-profile. McRyan doesn’t look very senior. People might wonder, is all I’m saying.”

“Your concerns are noted,” was Flanagan’s terse reply.

With that, Miller and Peters got up to leave. The chief asked Peters to stay.

With the door closing behind Miller, the chief asked, “She have a point on Mac?”

“No,” Peters responded without hesitation. “Mac’s fine. He’s young, sure, but smart. Lich’s fine too if he’s with it, and I made sure he was properly motivated this morning. Mac doesn’t concern me.”

The chief considered it for a minute. “Real police. It’s in his blood.”

“Yes, sir,” Peters replied. “He’s a natural at this. He’s level headed, a natural leader, he wants the responsibility. Plus, he’s smarter than hell.”

Chief Flanagan thought it over. “You know, he reminds me of his old man.”

Peters smiled. “Me too, Chief.”

“Well, screw them all then,” Flanagan said. “We let the real police do their job.”

Chapter Four

“Claire’s dead.”

Mac and Lich got back in the Explorer and drove to Daniels’s place. Mac was jacked. It was not often he got a case like this. Lich, catching the mood of the moment, put it right, “This type of case—bring it home, and you’re set, Mac. Screw it up, and you might get night watch down in the jail.”

As they pulled onto Grand and were a few blocks away from Daniels’s place, Lich chirped, “Media’s in heaven. They’ll have a field day with us today.”

Mac couldn’t argue with him, it was going to be rough, especially for the chief and Sylvia Miller.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Lich said with just a touch of wry sarcasm.

Mac caught the tone. “You gonna be okay following my lead on this?”

Lich chuckled. “There’ll be no problem, Mac. I haven’t exactly been busting my hump lately, but I’m with you on this. No fucking around.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what’s on our agenda?”

“Check out the condo. Then we’ll head down to Channel 6 and talk with her colleagues. Her mother’s been notified. We’ll have to talk with her as well, although word is they weren’t close.”

As they approached Daniels’s condo, the media horde became evident, with television trucks and microphones everywhere, people running back and forth. To avoid it, Mac dumped the Explorer in an open spot along Grand, half a block away. He and Lich got out and made their way towards the condo, casually winding through the news vans, and ducking under the crime scene tape.

Mac saw a uniform cop and said, “Go get me Clark and Green,” and to Lich, “Let’s take a closer look around the condo.”

As Mac entered the bedroom, forensics was getting ready to transport the body. Morgan had nothing additional to give them; they would have to wait for the autopsy. On his first time through, Mac had gotten the feeling that very little was amiss, but he wanted to look around and get a feel for Daniels.

The bedroom was really two rooms. There was the area where her bed, dresser, and closet were located. Claire must have slept on the right side normally, as there was a phone and an alarm clock on that side of the bed. The drawer on the right nightstand was filled with the usual stuff one might expect, including a notepad and pen to take messages. The drawer on the left side held a brass tin that contained condoms, which was interesting, for, if nothing else, she was prepared.

He took a look at her closet, a deep walk-in. Claire had been a clotheshorse, which was not surprising for a television reporter. There were a couple of boxes with personal effects, some family pictures, and a high school yearbook from Bristol, Ohio. Mac took out the yearbook and thumbed through it. Bristol was a small town as Claire’s graduating class looked to be about fifty students. He found Claire, with a last name of Miller, so she must have been married at some point or changed her name. Her graduation picture certainly indicated that she must have been the object of many a Bristol boys’ dreams.

Mac left the closet, and went to the other side of the bedroom through a wide archway into what was a large sitting room. When she was home, Claire obviously had spent most of her time here. The room was tastefully furnished with a plaid love seat and chair combination. There was a large entertainment center and collection of DVDs and CDs. Claire was a Meg Ryan fan, owning copies of Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, and even Kate and Leopold. There was also a run of movies that had some of the hotter scenes around. She owned Sliver, Body Heat, 9½ Weeks, Basic Instinct, and a few Andrew Stevens and Shannon Tweed B movies, flicks one would typically find in a frat house. There were even two porno flicks, which he found mildly amusing, something he would have expected to find in a couple of his buddies’ places, but not here.

There were also a number of DVD copies. Upon closer inspection, Mac saw that they were DVDs of her TV work. Each was indexed and well organized, indicating the story she had reported and the date. She also had some videotapes of her work in Denver and Salt Lake City.

A door from the sitting room led into the hallway. On the other side was an office. She had an L-shaped desk with a glass top. A desktop computer sat on the left corner, a tower of CDs to the right. Forensics would go over the computer with a fine tooth comb.

There were a couple of filing cabinets. A quick inspection of the desk revealed she was, again, very organized. Mortgage, investments, insurance, vehicle information—all segregated in colored folders with typed labels. There was little else in the office of interest. It didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed or was out of order. As he finished, Lich came in and just shrugged his shoulders—nothing of interest found downstairs.

They walked back down the hallway to a built-in cabinet. It had bookshelves on top, a drawer and cabinet on the bottom. The cabinet had spare towels, washcloths, and some bathroom supplies. The drawer had some decorative washcloths and towels, probably for when Claire entertained. There were a few books, trinkets, and a wood Roman numeral X on the shelves.

A tour of the spare bedroom revealed a junk room, with some old clothes hanging in the closet and a few pieces of exercise equipment. They walked back into the master bedroom. Lich spoke first. “Gotta be someone she knows, because, best as I can tell, nothing’s out of place.”

“You may be right,” Mac replied, unable to argue with the premise. He headed down the steps. As he reached the bottom, he saw Clark and Green walking up. Mac tilted his head up in greeting as they approached.

“Nothing so far,” Green said. “We’ve gone through the apartment buildings across the street. There are a couple of apartments where people didn’t respond, though, so we’ll have to go back.”

“Okay, keep at it. Lich and I are heading down to Channel 6 to talk to her work people. If you get anything, give me a call.”

Nobody had anything to add, so Mac and Lich headed out. Word spread that Mac was lead on the case, and the media had identified him. As he and Lich headed towards the Explorer, a throng of reporters approached and started shouting questions. “No comment,” and, “You’ll have to work through media relations,” was all Mac would say. Lich, on his best behavior, said nothing.

• • • • •

There were two US Senate dining rooms. One was for use by current members, their families, as well as any former senators. The other dining room, a small one, was only for current senators. It was perhaps the most exclusive restaurant in Washington, if not in all of the country.

Senator Mason Johnson was having a late lunch with the junior senators from Wisconsin and Iowa. They were discussing various issues involved in a farm bill before the Agriculture Committee, of which all three were members. The Republican senator from Iowa had sponsored the bill and was explaining to his esteemed Democratic friend from Wisconsin his displeasure with other Democratic senators who were, in his terms, “fiddlin” with his bill.

Senator Johnson was hearing their conversation, but he wasn’t really listening. Rather, he was enjoying his tomato-basil soup out of an exquisite fine-china bowl and thinking about Claire.

As he was finishing his lunch, a senate page approached their table. He had a note for the senator. “Come back to the office right away—Jordan.” Jordan Hines was Johnson’s best friend and chief of staff. Hmmm, he wondered. What could be so important? Johnson excused himself and made tracks for his office in the Russell Senate Building.

The senator was conflicted. He knew his own marriage was over, although he had not discussed divorce with his wife. While he was only forty-four years old, he had been in Washington for fourteen years, six as a congressman and eight as a senator.

His years in Washington had taught him one immutable truth about his job: it was demanding on a marriage. There were long hours at the capital, traveling, raising money, as well as spending time in the home state. His wife was a good woman, intelligent, attractive, but not one to stay home and be the dutiful senator’s wife. In their many years in Washington, she had become a force in a number of political causes, some of which differed from his own political philosophy. The time she spent on her career and the time required for his strained the marriage. He had brought up the issues with Gwen, hoping she would understand the importance of what he was doing as a senator and would give up some of her work to be there for him. However, the more he brought it up, the more strained things became. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spent a night together or made love. He needed her love, her attention and affection. Instead, he often found himself alone at the end of the day. They had simply drifted apart.

Then he met Claire. It was early September, at a birthday party for a political supporter back home. He was standing next to the bar, having a gin and tonic and talking to a group of friends when he saw her walk in. She was wearing a black strapless dress and, while very tasteful, it left little to the imagination. Then she flashed that smile he had seen on TV. She was stunning. While he had noticed her, as every other male in the joint must have, he didn’t make any sort of a move towards her. It was another half hour, and suddenly someone grabbed him by the arm. It was his friend Conner Lund, and with him was Claire Daniels.

“Mace, Claire wanted to meet you.”

It was not often that he was made uncomfortable, even intimidated by anyone, and in particular a woman, but Claire had that effect on him initially. It was her beauty. She was the most attractive woman he had ever met. However, once he met her, shook her hand and spent a few moments with her, he liked her immediately. He found her to be warm, funny, and intelligent. They talked for what seemed like hours, both within a group of people, as well as by themselves. There were numerous times each of them broke off to converse with others, but somehow they always ended up back together. At the end of the night, as everyone was leaving, he found himself standing next to her, waiting for the valet to bring up his car. He wondered how he could somehow mention seeing her again. She made it easy. As the valet pulled up her car, she mentioned she was going to be in DC in a couple of weeks. She wondered if they could get together for lunch. Of course, he said, just call his office. He didn’t even know if he was scheduled to be in town, but he decided he would make sure he was.

Sure enough, two weeks later, Claire showed up on his calendar. She was going to stop by the office to say hello. However, it was not going to be around lunch, but at 5:00 p.m. He figured she was busy but would stop by to say hello, probably on the way to the airport.

She stayed for five hours. They talked about everything going on in Washington. She had interviewed for a position with CBS, working in the capital. The job would start in January. She was excited about the opportunity. While she loved Minnesota, she was growing bored with local news and she wanted to work on a larger stage.

Toward the end of the evening, the topic of the senator’s wife came up. He had only told Jordan about his marital problems. For whatever reason, he told Claire everything. She just listened. She didn’t judge him. She didn’t lecture or argue about his wife’s desire to have a career of her own. She just listened.

At the end of the night, he walked her to the door of his office. He felt like a teenager on his first date. There was nobody around; he probably could have kissed her good night. He was attracted to her, yet he wasn’t sure if she was attracted to him. He’d never cheated on his wife, and he held back. Well, not completely. “I’m going to be in the Cities in a week. Maybe we could get together for a drink?”

“I’d like that.” She left him her home number and leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

Claire was all he could think about for the next week. On Friday, he got into town and immediately called her. They agreed he would stop by her place for a drink. When he got there, they were in bed within fifteen minutes. She was everything he dreamed she would be. She was an energetic, aggressive, even wild lover. He’d never been with anyone like her. He felt twenty-four, instead of forty-four. She made him feel like a man again.

As a senator, he always made frequent trips home. He loved his state, and it was good politics to be seen at home, lest it appear you become more a resident of Washington, DC, than Minnesota. Having met Claire, he made it a point to get home each weekend. He made the trips home three-and-four-day weekends with plenty of political events to cover the visit. But most late nights were spent with Claire.

He would have to talk to Jordan. Hines knew all about Claire. He was the only one he’d told about it. He didn’t know if what he had with Claire would last. He wasn’t sure long-term relationships with a woman like her would work. She had a career of her own and was not the type to be the supportive, stay-at-home wife to a senator. But she made him feel alive again. He wanted to spend as much time with her as he could to see if it might work. But if nothing else, he knew that his marriage was over. It was time to have that conversation with his wife. He thought she might be having the same feelings. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Then there would be the political fallout. He and Jordan would have to plot out how best to handle the divorce from a political standpoint. It wasn’t unheard of for politicians to get divorced. What he didn’t want was a scandal. If he did it soon, with four years left in his term, any short-term political damage could be repaired, especially if the divorce was handled right. As he entered the lobby to his office, the receptionist indicated Jordan was waiting for him inside. As he walked into his office, Hines, with a concerned look on his face, motioned for him to close the door. The senator closed the door and asked, “What’s up?”

“Claire’s dead.”

Chapter Five

“We also learned she’s a horny little minx.”

Mac and Lich spent the afternoon interviewing people at Channel 6. First up was Station Manager Mary Carpenter. Carpenter hired Daniels three years earlier from a station in Denver, where she had worked for two years. Prior to that, Daniels worked in Salt Lake City. According to Carpenter, while it wasn’t officially announced, Daniels had taken a network job in Washington.

Carpenter was unaware of anything special or unusual Daniels was working on or investigating. In fact, when they heard she had been found dead, Carpenter immediately asked around, but nobody seemed to know much of anything. It hadn’t been unusual for Daniels to work the background of a story unbeknownst to Carpenter and then bring it to her or a news producer.

Mac asked, “We’d like to get a list of stories she’s worked on, as well as a list of anybody who sent threatening letters, e-mails, messages, or things of that nature.”

“We’re already working on it,” replied Carpenter.

Interviews with the rest of the station staff were similar. Daniels was well-respected, worked hard, and was the total perfectionist. As with Carpenter, all were unaware of whom she was dating.

Tim Mullany was Claire’s most frequent cameraman and her closest friend at the station. They had worked together since she came to Channel 6. He was a fifteen-year veteran at the station, had worked with numerous reporters over the years, and stated that Daniels “was easily the best I’ve worked with. She was a total perfectionist. Yet she did it in a way, the perfectionist part, that wasn’t offensive.” Smiling, Mullany continued, “She was here three years and had a lot to do with the work ethic picking up around the station.”

“Was she seeing anyone?” Mac asked.

“I’m pretty sure she was.”

“Do you know who?”

“That I don’t know. Claire kept her dating private. She never told me about the people she dated, and I never really asked. It was none of my business.”

“She made it into the tabloid pages a lot,” Lich said.

Mullany nodded, “Claire was someone that people were interested in. She was a beautiful woman, and she dated some fairly well-known people in town, an athlete or two, some fairly prominent business people. She tried to be discreet about it. I kind of admired that.”

Joe Elliott came to the conference room next. He was the sports anchor for Channel 6. He started at the station at the same time as Daniels and the two had dated briefly. If Daniels made the men’s hearts skip a beat, Elliott made the ladies swoon. He had been a college linebacker at Indiana and didn’t appear to have let the years get the better of him. He looked like he could go out and play now. Mac got right to the point, “I understand that you dated Claire Daniels a while back?”

Elliot smiled, “Yeah, we came to the station about the same time. We didn’t really know anyone and kind of struck up a friendship.”

“It was more than friends though?”

“Yeah, I was certainly attracted to her right away, and I had just gotten divorced and was looking to get back into the swing of things. Claire was at the right place at the right time.”

“Why didn’t it last?”

“I certainly had no intent of getting into any sort of relationship at that point. And our relationship, if you want to call it that, was pretty intense, but wouldn’t have lasted.”

“Intense how? Sexually intense?”

Elliott cringed, looking as if he wanted to stop the conversation. “I wish I wouldn’t have used that term. Claire was, is, my friend, and I can sense where you’re going with the question. I’m not sure what nature our relationship was or took has anything to do with what happened to her. I mean, it was two and a half years ago.”

Mac leaned forward in his chair. “I wouldn’t ask the question unless we thought it was relevant. And you’re right as to where I’m heading. As uncomfortable as this is, I need to know if she was into anything kinky or out of the ordinary.”

“Does this have something to do with how you found her this morning?” asked Elliott, going into reporter mode.

Mac stayed neutral. “Again, I wouldn’t ask unless it was relevant.”

Elliott looked away at a picture on the wall for what seemed like a couple of minutes, thinking about what he wanted to say. “Claire was no repressed Catholic school girl, that’s for sure. She wasn’t promiscuous, but she liked sex, a lot. Told me she always had, from the time she was a freshman in college. Said she even made a sex tape with an old boyfriend her junior year. She used to joke she’d end up like Paris Hilton if that thing got out. And she exuded sexuality. It was almost intimidating when she came onto you, like a sexual freight train, this pulse you would get from her.”

“Was she into anything kinky, weird, anything like that?” Lich asked.

“Weird, no. Kinky, a little. She wasn’t into anything like whips, chains, anything like that. But she was intense, energetic. I’d even say a little wild. I used to say, ‘And women say men are loud.’ I mean, you knew when she had an orgasm.”

“You said I was right about kinky. How was I right?”

“She liked different positions mostly. I remember she told me once about a shirt her friend had which showed these two little devils, male and female, in all kinds of different positions. She said she wanted to try them all. We tried a few, but nothing too crazy. It was fun. She was fun. Like I said, she was something in bed, almost perfect at sex. I mean, she could really get you going.” Elliott seemed to smile at the memory.

“Why did it end?”

“People at the station found out, so we ended it. We were new to the station, and we both felt it didn’t look right.”

“Did you remain friends?”

“Yes. We actually became really good friends. In fact, I just recently became engaged, and she bought my fiancée and me this wonderful gift for our house.”

Mac shifted gears. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her family. Claire had been married, right?

“Yes.”

“Must have been before she came here?”

“Yeah. She married a guy named Kevin Daniels out in Salt Lake City. It didn’t work out, lasted maybe a year and a half, and that was it.”

“Why didn’t it work?” Lich queried.

“It was her career. She didn’t want to stay at home and have babies, and he wanted that from her. She always said it was a big mistake. He wasn’t a bad guy. He probably thought he could change her, convince her to do the family thing.” Elliot shook his head, “But that wasn’t Claire then and never would have been. She was ambitious and intense about her career. Shit, I’ve never seen someone so intense about everything she does.”

“Perhaps that explains the DVDs,” Mac said.

“DVDs? What are you talking about?” asked Elliott.

“When we were looking around her place, we saw she has this cabinet full of DVDs of her work.”

“That’d be Claire,” stated Elliott, nodding and smiling. “She was very vain and a complete and total perfectionist. She was like a football player. She’d watch film of herself all the time. It’s why she was so damn good at what she did.”

• • • • •

The rest of the senator’s afternoon schedule was cleared. There wasn’t much on it, mostly lobbyists who would be more than happy to accommodate him and speak with him another time.

He couldn’t believe it. He’d been with her just the night before. She was fine when he left. The first question he asked was, “When? How?”

“She was found dead in her condo this morning,” Hines replied. “The media doesn’t have much, but I spoke with a few people, and apparently someone strangled her. They think sometime last night, although the police haven’t released anything official yet.”

Johnson and Hines sat in silence for a number of minutes. Hines broke the silence. “You saw her last night?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Johnson didn’t like the tone of the question. “What do you mean, what happened?”

“Easy. What did you and Claire do?”

“What do you think we did?”

Jordan knew what that meant. However, he was not only the chief of staff, but a former prosecutor, and he suspected now that his best friend might end up being a suspect.

“Did you use a condom?”

Johnson jumped out of his chair and screamed, “What?”

Hines put his hands up immediately to say, “I’m not asking what you’re thinking.” He put his finger to his lips and looked towards the door.

Johnson composed himself. “What do you mean you’re not asking what I’m thinking? You’re asking me if I used a condom. Yes, Claire and I had sex. I did not use a condom.”

“So, you left semen behind.”

It was a statement, not a question, and in that instant Johnson knew exactly where Hines was going. Not only had his lover been killed, he might be a suspect.

“I did.” Johnson responded in a soft voice, “But, Jordan, man, I didn’t kill her. I swear to God. She was alive and well when I left.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Around 1:30 a.m.”

“Did anyone see you leave?”

Johnson immediately bowed his head, running his right hand through his thick black hair. “Yes.”

“Was it someone you knew?”

Johnson exhaled, “No, it was someone walking along the sidewalk. I looked outside before I left to see if anyone was out there. I waited until after 1:00 a.m., so someone from the bar crowd didn’t see me. I didn’t see the guy, but I obviously missed him. He passed by me right under the streetlight.”

The senator realized he was in a pickle. Suddenly a ton of thoughts flashed through his mind all at once. If this got out, what would his wife say? What about the political implications? Could he survive? He didn’t kill her, but it would probably come out that he was seeing Claire. “So what’s gonna happen?”

“We’ll have to see. Assuming they find the guy who saw you, the police may want to interview you. How much they want to talk to you may depend upon cause of death, what time they think she died, who else she might have been seeing, who might have an axe to grind—that sort of thing.”

“What do we do now?”

“We call Lyman.”

• • • • •

Late in the afternoon, Mac and Lich left Channel 6. They drove in silence along I-94 heading back towards Daniels’s place. As Mac hit the Lexington Parkway exit and headed south towards Summit Avenue, Lich piped up, “So what do you think we learned?”

“Well, we learned she’s really well liked and respected,” Mac replied. “She doesn’t appear to have any enemies at the station. She was serious and committed to her work. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, she wasn’t working on anything that would cause someone to want to kill her. Nobody’s aware of anyone she was currently seeing.”

“We’ve also learned she’s a horny little minx,” Lich added, obviously enjoying the more salacious details acquired that afternoon.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to mention that. Elliott obviously enjoyed the fling they had,” Mac said. “But we learned she was passionate, maybe a little kinky, but not into anything unusual.”

“Elliott neutered the details,” Lich replied dismissively. “I imagine at some point he’ll be going through them in his mind again, probably to great delight.”

Mac couldn’t disagree, although he didn’t respond as he turned left on Summit and drove past the Victorian mansions and majestic cathedrals that dotted the avenue’s landscape. He zoomed by the sprawling Minnesota governor’s mansion on his right and stately William Mitchell College of Law on the left. Three more blocks east, Mac pulled into an open spot along Summit, a block short of Daniels’s place on St. Albans. As they got out of the truck, Lich remarked, “I can’t believe how warm it is.”

It was remarkably warm, Mac thought. It was 5:00 p.m. and still sixty degrees, which was extremely warm for November 1st in Minnesota. Might not want to mothball the golf clubs just yet, he thought.

They walked to the corner, turned right on St. Albans towards Daniels’s condo, and stopped to take in the scene. The crowd had thinned some, but the news trucks and reporters were milling around. While Lich was standing with hands on hips, looking towards the news media getting ready for their 5:00 p.m. live reports, Mac saw Green and Clark standing on the porch to Daniels’s place. Mac grabbed Lich by the elbow and nodded his head towards the two other detectives.

In a couple of minutes, they had threaded their way through the crowd, ignoring the many questions. The yellow police tape finally held the media back. Mac and Lich climbed up the steps to the porch. “What’s the status around here?” Mac asked. Clark gave them the rundown, all the people they interviewed and buildings cleared. “What about across the street?” Mac asked.

Clark answered. “We missed four units in the one right across the street. That was one of the first places we went, so the people may be back by now.”

“Okay. Lich and I can run over there quick before we have to head back downtown. Which units?”

Clark gave them the numbers, and Mac and Lich headed across the street. The three-story brown-brick apartment building rested on the southeast corner of Summit. It was one of many desirable red-and-brown-brick apartment buildings between Summit and Grand.

At the first apartment, there was still no answer. They would have to come back. Mac jotted a note on the back of his business card and slipped it under the door. At the second unit, Mac and Lich found a couple of women in their mid-twenties just home from work having a beer. One was a heavier-set brunette still wearing her blue business suit. The other was an attractive, petite blonde, wearing a tight T-shirt that showed her midriff and blue jeans. She made eyes at Mac immediately, which he tried to ignore, although it was difficult. Her name was Carrie. She said that she and her roommate had been at the Halloween party at Mardi Gras the night before. They left the bar around 12:30 a.m. and walked home along St. Albans and came in the back door along the alley. They hadn’t seen anything and might not have even if they were looking as both admitted to having a really good time at Mardi Gras. It looked like they were ready to get a good start today, as there were a couple of empty bottles sitting on the coffee table. After five minutes, it was apparent that they knew nothing. Yet, every time Mac got up to leave, Lich kept the conversation going.

As they finally left, Mac asked. “How come you kept that going?”

“Just trying to get you laid. She was attractive as hell and ready to be had,” Lich said, smiling. “Hell, she was throwing herself at you. They know nothing about the case. You should step back and get yourself a little.”

Mac appreciated Lich’s concern. He wasn’t the first one to make the comment in the last few months. It had been a while. His buddies kept telling him he needed to “Get back on the horse.”

In the next unit, they found a couple of William Mitchell law students. They had ignored Halloween altogether, having studied until 10:00 p.m. at the law school. Then they came home, had a beer and hit the rack around 11:45, after watching Letterman. They hadn’t seen anything and didn’t even know that Daniels lived so close.

Lich and Mac moved on to the last unit, which was on the third floor along the front of the building. They knocked on the door a couple of times. No answer. Mac slipped a business card under the door with a note to please call him. He and Lich turned to leave, were ten feet down the hall when they heard the chain unhook and the dead bolt turn open. They turned to walk back as a Hispanic man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

“St. Paul detectives,” Mac replied as he and Lich flashed their identifications. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Juan Hernandez. What’s going on?”

“There was a murder in the neighborhood, and we’re wondering if you knew anything about it?”

“No kidding? Where?”

“It was across the street, in one of the condos on St. Albans. The victim was Claire Daniels—you know, the reporter from Channel 6. We’re asking everyone who lives in the neighborhood if they saw anything,” said Lich. “And by the way, can we step inside?”

“Oh, sure.”

Mac, Lich, and Hernandez stepped inside his apartment into the living room, which was sparsely furnished with a couch, chair, coffee table, and TV. There were few if any personal furnishings displayed. Lich, looking around, asked, “Just move in?”

“Yeah, just a few days ago,” Hernandez replied. “When did it happen, the murder?”

“We think last night?”

“Oh, my,” Hernandez replied, putting his hand to his chest. “What time?”

“We’re not sure,” Lich lied.

“Hmpf.” Hernandez walked over towards the porch looking out onto Summit Avenue. “Is her place the last condo on the end?”

The way he said it caused Mac and Lich to share a look. This guy was leading somewhere. “Yes. Why do you ask?” Mac inquired.

“Well, I was having trouble sleeping last night, so I went out for a walk around 12:30 a.m. Thought maybe the fresh air would clear my head. So, anyway, I was walking up St. Albans and ran into someone in the street.”

“Who was that?” Mac asked neutrally.

Hernandez hesitated. “You guys probably won’t believe this.”

“Give it a shot,” Lich said.

“Mason Johnson,” Hernandez blurted.

That got their attention. “What? Mason Johnson? Senator Mason Johnson?” Mac replied, disbelieving, his heart skipping a beat.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” Hernandez replied confidently.

Mac shared a quick look with Lich that said, Oh, boy, the case might have just gone nuclear. “What time?” Mac continued.

“It was 1:30.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes. I thought it odd to see him so late like that on the street, so I looked at my watch. It was 1:30.”

“Where did you see him on the street?” Lich asked.

“He was coming down the steps of the condo, and he turned and walked right by me on the sidewalk. I even said hello to him, and he said hi back,” Hernandez said, remaining self-assured. “I don’t think he expected to see anyone on the street at that hour. He kind of ducked his head when he saw me coming. But he said hello, walked by me, and got into his car.”

“What kind of car?” Lich asked.

“Lexus, I think, white. He’d parked it down the street a ways. I kind of turned to watch him after he went past me. He got in the car and drove away. I remember thinking it was the darndest thing to have seen him on the street like that.”

“Mr. Hernandez, you’re sure?” Lich asked, a little unbelieving.

“Oh, yes. It was him. He’s on TV a lot. You couldn’t help but recognize him. I mean, he’s a pretty recognizable guy. You say Claire Daniels lived in that condo, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Mac replied.

“Kinda late to be leaving there.” Hernandez stopped for a second and put his finger to his mouth, and then quietly said, “Hmmm. I thought the senator was married.”

Mac was thinking the same thing and gave Lich another quick look, “Mr. Hernandez, we need you to come downtown and give us a statement.” Viper was parked on the north side of Summit Avenue, across the street from McRyan’s Explorer. That had been mere serendipity, as they were parked there when McRyan arrived in the late afternoon. They tried to move the van around all day, never parking in the same spot for too long. They even changed vans around noon, from the dark blue one to white. It wasn’t unheard of that a murderer would be watching the police work at the crime scene and get noticed. Viper wanted none of that, so they changed vans and locations throughout the day.

Viper wanted to make sure the crime scene developed as planned. If the police investigated properly, they would find what Viper wanted them to find. He checked on McRyan, and the word was he was a good young cop. So far, so good, as the young detective and his tubby partner were following the trail of breadcrumbs he left behind.

As he rubbed his eyes and yawned for what seemed like the hundredth time, he heard one of his crew exclaim, “Beautiful.” Viper knew what that meant. He moved over to the window and saw McRyan and his partner approaching the Explorer, along with a Hispanic male.

“Well that didn’t take long,” remarked Viper, a smile creasing his tired face.

Chapter Six

“Ever heard of Chappaquiddick?”

While Lich was taking Hernandez’s statement, Mac made a call to Linda Morgan for an update. The Daniels case had been on the fast track, everything else, other than the case of the serial killer, was pushed aside. Morgan confirmed that the cause of Claire Daniels’s death was suffocation by strangulation. While measuring time of death was a tricky thing, they had been able to narrow it down to between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m. She’d had sex, but there was no vaginal tearing. Rape was not indicated. They would be able to get DNA from the semen, but it would take a little time. There were prints from the scene, which had yet to be matched. That may quickly change, Mac thought.

“When will the autopsy be done? When can I have the official results?”Mac asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Anything else? I’m on my way to meet with the chief.”

“Nope. We’ll have the autopsy done and the results to you in the morning. Any ideas on who might match the semen or prints?”

Mac thought for a moment, he would have to run things by the chief and Captain Peters first, “I might have something for you on that later.”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell you yet. I gotta run that one by the powers that be. All I’ll say is, it could be tricky.”

Mac could hear the excitement in Linda’s voice, “Let me know as soon as you can, okay? It’d be really great to clear this one. Get the media off our asses.”

“That it would.” Mac hung up on Linda and shuffled over to a pay phone, flipping the White Pages open to the government listings. He found the number for Senator Johnson’s office. A staffer told Mac that the senator had been in town until this morning. Last night he was at a fundraiser in downtown Minneapolis that ended sometime around 10:30 p.m. The senator had been in town. Hernandez seemed legit.

Just then Clark and Green came down the hallway with a man in a red cardigan sweater with glasses hanging on a string around his neck. Green stopped while Clark took the man into an interview room. Green had an excited look.

“Who’s that?” Mac asked.

“Daniels’s neighbor, guy named John Chase. You’ll never guess who he saw leaving Daniels’s place two nights ago.”

“Mason Johnson.”

Green went blank. “How … how the hell did you know?”

Mac related the discovery of Hernandez having seen Johnson leaving the night before. Lich approached and Mac filled him in on Chase. Lich checked with Motor Vehicle Records. The senator owned a white Lexus with Minnesota plates. It was registered under Gwen Johnson, his wife, with an apartment address at Galtier Plaza in downtown St. Paul. Mac mentioned his conversation with Morgan and that he had confirmed that the senator had been in town.

“Mac, boy, seems like we got ourselves a prime suspect,” said Lich, pulling up his trousers and popping on the balls of his feet.

“We’ll see.”

“We’ll see, my ass. Don’t look a potential gift horse in the mouth.”

“Well, let’s go tell the chief about our prime suspect and ruin his night,” Mac said.

With Hernandez’s statement in hand, Mac and Lich headed up to the chief’s office. This would be an interesting meeting. It would include the chief, Captain Peters, Sylvia Miller, as well as District Attorney Helen Anderson. Mac had to chuckle, for as much as Chief Flanagan loathed the cameras, Anderson loved them. Anderson was something of a publicity hound. While an assistant district attorney would handle the case, the high profile guaranteed Anderson’s involvement. She was more a politician than attorney and held hardly concealed aspirations for higher office. She would love the exposure this case would bring, especially if it involved a sitting United States senator from the opposing Republican Party nonetheless. Take down a powerful Republican—now that was the way to rise in the Democratic Party.

Lich, as usual, was lighthearted about the situation, “This should be a circus if the DA’s involved, especially when you drop the senator on them.”

Mac agreed. “Yeah, she’ll want the spotlight.”

“She’ll pee her pants.”

It was 6:30 p.m., and while it was chaotic in the rest of the Public Safety Building, it was quiet around the chief’s office as most of the support staff had left for the day. Mac knocked on the door, heard a “Come,” and they walked in.

The Department of Public Safety Building was a city government building and, therefore, alcohol and smoke free. So naturally the chief had a lit cigar in his mouth and had taken his bottle of Irish whiskey out, with himself, Captain Peters, and even the DA having a touch. There was also a woman in a blue suit sitting with her legs crossed on the couch. She had red hair pinned back in a swirl, stylish dark-rimmed glasses, and what looked like a nice pair of legs sticking out from her skirt. She too had a drink in her hand. For some reason, she looked familiar to Mac, but he wasn’t sure where he had seen her. Flanagan was digging in his desk drawer. He looked up as Mac and Lich entered and stood with two drink glasses in his hand, “Hello, boys. May I offer you a libation?”

Lich readily agreed. After a moment’s hesitation, Mac decided, what the heck, he was done for the day and heading to the bar afterwards anyway. Besides, a drink would help him break the news.

Once everyone had a fresh drink, the chief made the introductions. “As you boys know, that’s District Attorney Anderson.” He waved towards the couch with his drink, “The young lady over on the couch is Assistant District Attorney Sally Kennedy. Looks like you boys’ll be working with her on the case once you have a suspect.”

Mac and Lich shook Kennedy’s hand. Mac exchanged a look with her, something familiar. The chief then prodded Mac, “Go.”

“Well,” Mac started, “we may have a pretty good lead.”

“Do tell,” the chief replied lightly.

“Well, it could be …” Mac grimaced, “… difficult.”

“Spit it out,” Peters interjected.

Mac exhaled, “We gotta witness who saw Senator Mason Johnson leaving Daniels’s place last night at 1:30 a.m. and another witness who saw him leave around the same time two nights ago. You put that with time of death between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m., and he starts looking pretty good for this.”

Silence. The chief pinched the bridge of his nose, and Peters’s mouth was agape. Everyone else had a look of disbelief on their face. After a minute, Anderson broke the quiet. “Whoa.”

“Yeah,” the chief added. “Mac, you better start from the beginning.”

“Yes, sir.” Mac related what Hernandez told them. He added in Chase and the other information regarding the senator’s car and the fact he was in town last night. Then he went into what he learned from Linda Morgan. They had prints from the scene that were different from Daniels’s. They had yet to be matched. But they also had semen from which they would be able to get DNA.

That caused Captain Peters to let out a long whistle. “Son, you’re telling me we’ll get DNA from the semen?”

“That’s what Morgan says.”

“And prints?” the chief added.

“Yes,” Mac replied. “We’ll need to see if we can access the senator’s prints. I would assume that, as a federal employee, they are on file somewhere.”

“They are,” replied Anderson. “We can go to work on that if you’d like, Chief.”

“I think we’ll need that, Helen.” Then to Mac, “Seems like your case is moving quickly in a certain direction.”

“At this point, yes. We’ll have to see the final autopsy report and think about how we’ll go about testing the senator’s DNA.”

“I don’t get it,” said Peters. “I mean, I’ve spent enough time around politicians. They always leave themselves a way out. What, he kills her and then just gets on a plane, heads to Washington and acts as if nothing happened?”

“Ever heard of Chappaquiddick?” That caused a chuckle, and Mac turned his head to look at Kennedy, who was smiling herself.

“She has a point,” said Mac, picking up on the line of thought. “Think this one out a little, it’s not that hard. Senator’s married. Maybe Claire says something about his wife. Asks, or better yet, demands that he get a divorce. He says no. She says, ‘If you don’t tell your wife, I will.’” Mac took a sip and continued, “Senator gets upset, says she can’t tell his wife. It’d ruin his career or at least do it a lot of damage. He just wants something on the side.”

“He’s a senator. It’s not unheard of,” Lich added.

“Yeah,” Mac replied, going on, “but Claire Daniels isn’t a woman to put up with that. She’s assertive, says she’ll do what she wants. They argue. It gets physical on the bed, gets out of hand. He grabs her around the throat. Can’t stop himself and strangles her.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy replied, thinking along with him, “something like that could have happened. He’s killed her. He panics. He can’t call the police. He can’t be seen with her. He’s got to get out of there and as far away as fast as he can.”

Mac finished, “So, he goes home, composes himself, and heads to Washington, acting like nothing happened.”

“Crime of passion?” offered Lich.

“Manslaughter,” said Mac, nodding his head agreeably.

“You bet, Detective.” Kennedy took a long swallow of her whiskey, leaned back into the couch, and casually said, “He doesn’t go there with any intent of killing her. He wants to get laid, nothing more. Daniels, as you said, is getting sick of being his bed sheet.”

She was blunt, thought Mac.

“So she says it’s either his wife or her. They argue, it gets physical, and before you know it, she’s dead.”

“Only one fly in the senator’s ointment,” added Mac.

“Yup,” said Kennedy, now looking right at Mac with a little smile on her face, a nice smile, he thought, “Juan Hernandez coming down the sidewalk. Bet he didn’t count on that.”

“No, Counselor, he didn’t. Hernandez puts him at the scene at the time of Daniel’s death.”

“But he’s gone too far down the path now. The senator can’t go back, so he has to keep going. Gets on the plane. Gets back to Washington. Hopes the guy didn’t recognize him. Maybe you and Lich don’t find him.”

“And you know what?” It was the chief now, making sure Mac and Kennedy didn’t monopolize the whole conversation, “if he were some average Joe, he probably wouldn’t have been noticed.”

Mac jumped back in, “But he’s not. We got Hernandez putting him there last night and the neighbor a couple of nights ago.”

“And we have samples of DNA and a print that, if they match the senator—” Lich started.

“He’s nailed,” Peters finished.

“I don’t know about nailed,” Kennedy replied, putting on the breaks. “We’re not even twelve hours into this thing. And we’re speculating here. There might be any number of ways this thing could go. But if we get DNA and print matches, it will be pretty tough—”

“—To create reasonable doubt,” said Mac, finishing Kennedy’s thought. “But …”

“What?” Kennedy asked.

“I keep thinking about what the captain said. I’m having a hard time believing Johnson did this. He’s too smart. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Politicians aren’t any smarter than anyone else, and in some ways they’re dumber,” the chief replied. “No offense, Helen.”

“None taken,” though her look said otherwise.

“Can we leak anything to the media? That we have a lead, a suspect, anything?” asked Miller, pleading, looking weary.

The chief picked up on Miller’s tone, “I sympathize, but not yet. It shouldn’t be long, but we have to wait.” Flanagan, moving back to the topic at hand, asked Mac, “When will we have the autopsy results?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Flanagan continued. “I assume we’re in agreement that, at this point, our prime, frankly only, suspect is the senator.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Okay. Helen, or I suppose Ms. Kennedy,” the chief looked at Anderson, who nodded, “tomorrow we’ll need to start looking into what kind of access we can get to Senator Johnson’s fingerprints.” Then he turned to Mac and Lich. “Mac, as soon as you get that autopsy report, you and Lich are back in my office. We need to move very carefully on this one. We’re dealing with a senator. He doesn’t get favorable treatment, but we don’t haul his ass in here without having our shit together. Understood? And not a word to the media about this.”

• • • • •

If you were in trouble with the law and you had money, Lyman Hisle was the man to call. His firm, Hisle & Brown, had eighteen attorneys, all very busy. Busy attorneys were profitable attorneys. The firm’s offices were on the top floor of the World Trade Center in St. Paul. Hisle & Brown’s success had provided for plush office space, large offices, ornate furniture, and art. The offices proved a powerful aphrodisiac when recruiting lawyers and clients to come to the firm.

Twenty years before, Lyman started out doing largely criminal defense work. His success led to a comfortable living for him, and his skills as a trial attorney had not gone unnoticed. Then he took on a sexual harassment case for a former client. Lyman had offered to settle the case for $150,000 prior to trial and was rebuffed by the employer. At trial, Lyman made the harasser look like a monkey in the witness box. The jury returned a verdict of $1.2 million. Following the verdict, Hisle & Associates, as the firm was known then, expanded its practice from criminal work to include personal injury and discrimination litigation, specializing in class-action lawsuits. The judgments and settlements were worth millions to the firm. As the firm’s founder and main litigator, Lyman had amassed an impressive fortune. Those lucrative judgments and settlements over a period of ten years allowed Lyman to do two things. One, enjoy an exceedingly high standard of living, and, two, return to the practice he truly loved, criminal law. He was the best in town and only took on interesting cases. The potential case of Senator Mason Johnson qualified.

Lyman had known the senator for years and he was a frequent campaign contributor. The death of Claire Daniels had been on the news all day. That his friend might somehow end up caught in the middle of the case was a shock to the system. Lyman heard the senator’s recitation of the facts. He told them to sit tight for the time being; he would call them back.

The quandary for Lyman was how to advise the senator. Maybe a drink would help. He went to the small wet bar in his spacious office. He dropped a couple ice cubes into his glass and poured himself a scotch. Back at his desk, he sat in his leather chair, kicked his feet up, and looked out his thirtieth-story office window south over the Mississippi River. He gave his options some thought. The key was whether the police had the senator’s name.

As Lyman saw it, he could have the senator sit tight and see if the police connected him to Claire Daniels, the thought being that there was no sense admitting involvement prematurely if the police did not know he was involved. They might never connect Daniels with Mason. If he was to be believed, and Lyman did believe him at this point, he had nothing to do with her death. The downside was that, if the police did connect him, he looks guilty not coming forward. They would have to call him in. Additionally, it would get out to the media that the senator didn’t come forward. It could do irreparable harm to his political career. Gary Condit came immediately to mind. If there were a murder trial, not coming forward would not be good for a potential jury pool.

The other approach would be to come forward voluntarily to the police. A man walking in front of Daniels’s place saw him on the street. The police probably had the senator by now, and while reluctant to call him in, they would eventually do so. If they went in voluntarily, offering information they had available, it might prove to be helpful to the investigation. Going this route, Lyman could get them to play ball, keep Mason’s name out of the media. Lyman may be a defense attorney, but he had defended St. Paul police officers on numerous occasions. He knew Charlie Flanagan well and could ask for discretion and would get it. Flanagan was as straight a shooter as there was, and he had no love for the media. If they went this way, it could save the senator’s career. And if there were a trial, at least he’d be able to say the senator came forward voluntarily. If nothing else, he might look better in front of a potential jury pool.

There was a knock on the office door. Summer Plantagenate, an associate specializing in criminal law, stepped into his office. She assisted him on a number of occasions where he had represented St. Paul police officers. Her last couple of hours had been spent calling her contacts in the department.

“Come in. Care to refresh?” Lyman asked, holding up the bottle.

“Yes.” Lawyers. The only bar they ever passed was the one for a license to practice law. Lyman filled a glass with scotch and walked it over to Summer, who had taken a seat in one of the deep leather chairs in front of Lyman’s desk. “Have your contacts been of any help?”

“No,” she said disappointedly. “I tried every way I know how, but the people I know aren’t involved in the Daniels case.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“The detective running the case is named McRyan.”

“Michael McRyan?”

“Yeah. Do you know him?”

Lyman smiled. “That I do. Mac’s fairly young, but he’s been a detective for a few years, I think.”

“In any event,” Summer continued, “he’s met with Chief Flanagan twice today. The last guy I talked to told me that he heard McRyan was up meeting with the chief tonight, along with District Attorney Anderson.”

“Anything else besides McRyan?” inquired Lyman.

“They’re keeping a tight lid on this one. Nobody seems to know anything.”

“Hmmmm. Does that seem unusual to you?”

“Yes, a little.” Summer took a sip of her drink. “You can usually get something, but nobody involved directly in the investigation is talking.”

“Do you think they have our client’s name?”

“If I were going to Vegas, I’d say yes.”

“Because nobody’s talking?”

“Yes. That, and the fact that the district attorney is meeting with Flanagan. That’s not something that happens on a normal case this quickly.”

Lyman got up and went over to the bar to freshen his drink. He raised the bottle towards Summer. She waved him off. He put the top back on the bottle. He sipped his scotch and looked in the mirror over the bar. He walked back over to his desk and picked up the phone and dialed.

“Jordan? Lyman.”

• • • • •

Viper took the elevator up to the office. The boss would be waiting for a status report. Viper had worked for him for over twenty years, and the man always loved his status reports. It wasn’t that he tried to quarterback things. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, he always wanted to be informed. It’s why he had always been so successful, which now made Viper a wealthy man and a loyal one as well. In fact, the boss had looked out for Viper for over the last twenty years. He’d do anything for the man.

It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, and he was ready to go home and get some sleep. It was always that way with a mission. The excitement, tension, and adrenaline of it kept you going, as if there was no recognition of the time passing. However, once the mission was over, the exhaustion hit. And he was older now, and the recovery time would be longer. Good thing he didn’t often have to run these operations anymore. In fact, he thought he was done with them altogether. Then Claire Daniels came snooping around, and he came out of retirement.

As he walked in, the boss was sitting behind his desk looking at some papers. He saw Viper walk in and put the papers into a manila folder. He walked over to sit down on the couch, and Viper joined him. The boss was having a drink. He offered, but Viper declined. A drink might put him to sleep.

“So, where are we at?” asked the boss.

Viper smiled, “We’re good.”

The boss gave him a long look, “How good?”

“Like I said, we’re good. Real good.” Viper kept smiling, a tired smile, but he was smiling.

“Ahhh, you’re telling me they already have the senator?”

“Yes.”

“The police did it all on their own, eh? We didn’t have to help them along at all?”

“No. They found our guy this afternoon.”

“Hmpf. That was quick,” said the boss as he took a drink.

“The kid running the investigation seems to know what he is doing.”

“So, this young McRyan seems on top of it?”

“From a distance, yes. He’s young, but he seems to have the respect of those working with him. His partner is far senior but seems to work with him without a problem.” They sat in silence for a minute. Viper looked out the window towards the Xcel Energy Center. It was well lit, and the crowd was strolling in. Must be a concert; the Wild were on the road.

Viper broke the silence, “What does your contact have to say?”

“I haven’t asked, as of yet, son. I’ll be getting to that, I assure you. Whatever I find out, I’ll pass along.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you have anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then to bed with you. You look tired. Are you getting too old for this sort of work?”

Viper gave the boss another tired smile and headed out. His bed was beckoning.

Chapter Seven

“Welcome to my world.”

Mac pulled the Explorer in behind the bar. It had been a long and exhausting day, yet exhilarating all at the same time. His first truly “big” case and in the first day his prime suspect looked to be a sitting United States senator. “Top that,” he thought. He doubted anyone in the bar could.

The bar was McRyan’s Pub, the other family enterprise and a true St. Paul institution. The Pub sat on West Seventh Street, just on the southern outskirts of downtown and one block from the Xcel Energy Center, home of the NHL’s Minnesota Wild. It was the favored watering hole of hockey fans, and the St. Paul police.

Opened in 1907 by Mac’s Great-Grandpa Pat, the Pub had a colorful history of serving drinks before, during, and after prohibition. The during prohibition occurred in the now infamous Patrick’s Room, located in the basement and hidden behind what looked like a typical built-in wooden buffet one might find in an older home. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet opened the door into a large, hidden room. During prohibition, the police, politicians, and citizens together enjoyed illegal drinks and fun. Currently, the inside of Patrick’s Room was adorned with black-and-white photos of that colorful era, while the outside was marked by a plaque denoting the room’s colorful history. Patrick’s Room was now used for private parties, meetings, and cop poker games.

Mac walked into the left side of the main level, a classic, old-fashioned bar, the counter of which stretched half of the length and width of the room, leaving barely enough room for people to stand three or four deep, as it was tonight. Behind the bar was a long mirror with MCRYAN’S PUB and a big green shamrock stenciled on it. Two retired cops were tending bar, pouring drinks and trading stories with the crowd, which, from the looks of it, was entirely made up of cops. The room was abuzz. There was plenty to talk about with the Daniels murder and the fifth serial killing.

Most nights, when Mac walked in, he went in like everyone else, got a few, “Hi” and “How’re ya doings” as he worked his way through the crowd of cops. Tonight was a little different. He got looks, stares, and nods. He was working a big case, one people all around town were talking about. Undoubtedly, the boys would be looking to grill him for the facts on the case, his list of suspects, and, for those cops not involved with the serial killer, queries if he needed any help.

He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Guinness. He preferred darker beers, especially if he was only going to have a couple before going home. That was his plan, too. Mac took a long swig, saw a couple bar stools open up and grabbed one.

“Mac, boy, mind if I grab a seat?”

Mac turned to find an old family friend giving him a tired smile. Pat Riley was having one of his specials, a Dewers on the rocks. Mac suspected it wasn’t his first, and he saw in Pat what he himself might look like in a month if he didn’t clear the Daniels murder.

Riles was heading the detail on the serial killer. After seven weeks of investigation, he looked worn down, tired, and tonight, properly drunk. The stress could be read all over his large, round face. A big man, Riles was six three, with a developing pot belly and a large mane of black hair. His face was jowly, and his five o’clock shadow made him look Nixonian. His bushy hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, and his face pale except the dark circles around his eyes. It had been a long couple of months for him.

Any cop in Pat’s position wanted more than anything to find the bastard who was killing these women. You lived with it twenty-four/seven. It consumed you, especially the longer it went on. Mac remembered his dad telling him that when he first starts working a case such as Pat’s, there was a certain excitement. But, if it went unsolved, the excitement went by the wayside, replaced by stress and pressure. These mounted with time.

Usually, the pressure started with the media. With a serial killer, the media pressure was constant, with daily stories and special reports. And now it was November 1st, a sweeps month for television. Investigative reports would be coming. The media pressure in turn created political pressure. Media stories scared politicians from the mayor down to members of the city council. Mac’s dad, Uncle Shamus, the chief, and Captain Peters all said at one time or another: a politician would never, ever, find a better job. They would do whatever they could to keep it, too. Consequently, they all had an innate, almost instinctive ability to apply pressure on the police, the fire department—whomever—to provide cover for themselves.

Naturally, when the media and the politicos got together, the pressure built on the detectives involved. Such was the case with Pat. The serial killer case was getting to him. Mac could see it. He was drinking more, sleeping less, and looking beaten down. No wonder. The case itself brought tremendous stress and pressure. Add media and political attention, and it was understandable why one would be driven to drink.

“Welcome to my world,” Pat said wearily.

“It has been an eventful day,” Mac agreed.

“Careful what you wish for, boyo. If your thing goes on like mine, it’ll wear on you.”

“You look beat.”

“Shit, this case is kicking my ass,” Riles replied, taking a sip of the Dewers. “You watch, it’ll do the same to you.”

Mac gave a little chuckle, “It’s only been one day, Pat. It better not get to me yet, or I’m not long for this line of work.” Mac thought he might mention something more about Pat’s drinking, but quickly put it out of his mind. It wasn’t his place.

“True enough. So, what’s up with your case?”

This was tough for Mac. He’d love to tell Pat about the senator and what they had learned about Claire Daniels. About what the autopsy report might say in the morning. But the chief had been clear; he couldn’t tell anybody anything about the case. Not the media, not fellow cops, not even his dog. Mac, however, couldn’t shut out Pat completely. That wasn’t the way it worked either. Quietly, he gave him pretty much everything but the senator.

“So, Pat, quid pro quo?”

Pat took a long sip of his Dewers and said, “Fair nuff.” The fifth victim was found in a vacant lot behind O’Neill’s Bar by a delivery driver. Like the first four, she had been strangled and sexually assaulted. The killer had used a Trojan condom when he assaulted the victim. Like all the other victims, a smiley-faced balloon had been left as a calling card.

“So, it’s number five, eh?” Mac finished.

“Looks that way.”

Mac hated to ask, “Anything new?”

“Nada, and that fuckin’ balloon,” Riles sighed. “Cripes, the guy’s mocking us with that damn thing.”

“You guys trace the balloon?”

“Yeah. You can buy them at forty-seven different locations in the Twin Cities by last count. No way to trace a specific balloon to a specific package or box. We’ve had guys go to all the stores, but we’ve got nothing.”

“What about this victim?”

“That’s one thing that’s a little different this time. This one was a CFO at a local company. The other victims weren’t professional, educated type ladies. We got a couple waitresses, one convenience-store clerk, and a gal who worked a drive-thru. This one was a professional. So, that’s a little different. The rest is pretty much the same.”

They talked for a few more minutes. Pat was running the show on the serial killer case and he already had a few meetings with the chief. The mayor was putting the pressure on about the murders and wondered if increasing the detail or changing the detail leadership would be necessary.

“What did Flanagan say to that?”

“What do you think he said?”

Mac smiled. “Told the mayor to go fuck himself, huh?”

A small smile creased Riles’s face. “Yeah. I’m sure there was a certain level of political-speak involved, but that’s basically what he said. Of course, he can only do that for so long. We need to bring this sucker home.” Pat took another sip from his drink. “Man, do we need a break in this thing.” He shook his head and looked down.

They chatted for a few more minutes. Pat was drunk. Mac made eye contact with the bartender and nodded towards Pat and made a steering motion with his free hand. The bartender returned the nod and scampered off. A minute later, Bobby Rockford, a member of Pat’s detail, ambled over and offered Pat a ride home. Well, it wasn’t really an offer, it was a “try to drive and I’ll kick your ass” proposition. Pat, too tired to argue, took the last sip of his Dewers and headed out with Rock.

Mac ordered another beer, grabbed a newspaper and menu from behind the bar and took an open booth by the front window, away from the crowd. His cousin Kelly came over and chatted him up for a few minutes, then took his order for a BLT. Mac flipped open the Business section when he heard, “Mind if I join you?”

Mac looked up to see Sally Kennedy. “Evenin’, Counselor. What brings you here?”

“Some friends were supposed to be here, but I’m a little late. They seem to have left.” Kennedy took a look around. She obviously wanted to have a drink, but who wanted to drink alone, other than George Thorogood?

Mac offered, “Grab a seat. I just ordered something from the kitchen. Hungry?”

Kennedy smiled her thanks. “No. What’re you drinking?”

“A Guinness. Can I order you one?”

“Sounds good.”

Mac motioned to Kelly, held up his glass and one finger. A beer was there thirty seconds later.

Kennedy thanked him and took a sip. “Quick service.”

“Helps when my cousin’s waiting on the table.”

Kennedy took a long drink. “I like the dark stuff. Especially if I’m only going to have one or two.”

“Exactly,” Mac replied. “If I have any more than three or four of these, I start getting full. I’ll usually switch over to vodka tonics or something.” Mac took a drink and a long look at Kennedy. “I couldn’t help but thinking that you and I met before?”

“We have.”

“Where?”

She smiled, and it was a nice smile. “Law School. William Mitchell. I knew who you were at the U of M because I went to the hockey games, but you’d remember me from Billy Mitch.”

Mac connected instantly. “That’s right! Now, I remember. We had a class or two together, I think, maybe third year?”

“Yes, I think that’s right. Stiffs and Gifts perhaps?” That was Estates and Trusts to most people.

“Could be.” Mac nodded.

“I remember seeing you over at Billy’s on occasion as well. I think with your wife.”

“Yeah, I was married back then,” Mac replied.

Kennedy sighed, “If it’s any consolation, Detective, I’ve been divorced a year myself.”

“Ahhh. So, I have joined elite company?” Mac replied ruefully.

That caused Kennedy to smile. “Why, yes, Detective, yes you have.”

Mac raised a mock toast, “To the newly divorced, and you can call me Mac. Everybody does.”

“Well, then, cheers, Mac. Call me Sally.” They clinked beers.

“Sally, let’s talk shop.”

“Good idea, but where’s your partner?”

“Lich? He stopped in briefly, but I think he went home. He’s in the newly divorced club as well, and not for the first time, either.”

“Man, marriage—not exactly a solid institution is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’re lots of people who make it work. I’m just glad we didn’t have kids. How about you?”

“Kids? No, although it’s probably what led to the end of things. He was ready. I wasn’t. We had a big blow-up about it, but I refused. Few days later, I come home to find he’s cleaned out his part of the closet and dresser. Said he was staying at a hotel. Couple of weeks later, I got papers from his lawyer and, as they say, the rest is history.”

“I remember now, you were married when we were in law school, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, my ex was a year ahead of me. We’re both lawyers. He figured he could continue with his career, and I’d stay home and be the happy homemaker. I was the prosecutor, in a government job making 50K, and he’s up for partner in Fitzgerald and Bush, making 150K. We didn’t need my salary, so I should just stay home.” Kennedy shook her head. Mac could relate to a spouse who didn’t value a job where one served the public good.

Mac’s food came just then. He took a bite of the sandwich. “You haven’t always been a prosecutor in Ramsey County, though, have you?”

“No. Just came over in the last couple of months. I was over in Minneapolis, with Hennepin County,” Sally replied, taking a pull from her beer. “Thing was, I kept running into my ex over there. He tries a number of cases. Knows the judges. I knew the judges. Too many rumors going around. Then he started seeing another lawyer I saw all the time, and it got to be a bit much. Ramsey County had a position open, and here I am. But enough about me.” Sally’s voice went quiet. “Let’s talk Mason Johnson.”

“Okay. What happens when Senator Johnson comes in?”

“You mean if he comes in?” Kennedy responded.

“Oh, he’ll be coming in. Question is, how he’ll do it. Voluntarily or involuntarily.”

“What makes you think he’ll do it voluntarily?”

“If I was him, I’d want to get in front of this, especially if I’m innocent, which I’m sure he’ll claim to be.” Kennedy furrowed her brow. “You disagree?” Mac asked.

“I’m not sure. I see what you’re saying. He’d look better if he came in to help.” Kennedy took a drink. “Thing is, he may not know if we know about him. He might be thinking, ‘Why implicate myself if the police don’t know about me?’”

“If that’s the case, he’s gambling we didn’t find Hernandez.” Mac took a sip of his Guinness, looked out the window and continued, “But I see what you’re saying. He’s got to anticipate we’ll find Hernandez. He’s got to think that maybe a neighbor somewhere saw him. That maybe Claire told someone at the station about the relationship, if there was one. Sooner or later we’d get to him. So, why not come out front. My question is whether he’ll seek legal counsel first. If so, how much will his lawyer get in the way?”

Kennedy smiled and nodded. “I’d be stunned if he didn’t show up with legal counsel. Good legal counsel.”

“Of course, Johnson’s an attorney, isn’t he? He might just show up himself.”

Kennedy waved him off. “You know what they say, Mac. A lawyer who represents himself …”

“… I know, I know. He has an idiot for a client.” Mac chuckled, remembering the old maxim from law school.

It was Kennedy’s turn to peer out the window. Then she said, “So how will you handle it if he comes in?”

“I haven’t thought about it much—yet. I suppose it depends upon when and where. I know the chief’s going to call either tonight or tomorrow. I won’t know much until that happens.” Mac finished his sandwich and wiped his fingers with his napkin. “Want another beer?”

“I was thinking about it, but it’s getting late,” Sally said, looking at her watch. “I should get home.”

“Where’s home?”

“I have a little place over in Highland Park. How about you?”

“I’m up on Summit. I have an apartment on the third floor of one of the old mansions, a couple houses south of the James J. Hill mansion.”

“Wow. That’s nice. How’d you swing that?” A hint of skepticism in her voice. Where did a detective get that kind of money?

“It actually doesn’t cost me that much. Family friend. I help out in the summer, mow the grass, trim the hedges—that sort of thing. I look after the place in the winter. She’s a snowbird. She charges me little rent. She doesn’t need the money. Of course, I do, so it’s a good deal.” Mac actually was just fine financially, but he didn’t want people to know that. They might start asking how a detective did so well, which was from a combination of factors, both the Grand Brew and the divorce. Mac had received all of the investments. Added to the McRyan Pub dividends and his salary, and he was living quite comfortably.

Getting back to business, he said, “I’ll tell you one thing. I’d like to keep my little visit with the senator quiet until we nail this down.”

“Press?”

With a sigh, “Yeah, I’m not a big fan of the media, especially television. And with Daniels being the victim, well, this is gonna get ugly.”

“You know, Mac, I’m a hockey fan. I had Gopher student tickets when I was at the U and you were playing. You didn’t seem to mind the media then.”

“That was different. The sports guys weren’t like the rest of the media. They like sports and for the most part knew something about it. They were mostly interested in the real story, especially when they were covering college.” Mac took a last drink from his beer. “Besides, it wasn’t like heads could roll because of them. But the media now?” Mac shook his head. “The newspaper guys are good. They usually take the time to get it right. I’ve always got time for them. Especially a couple of those old time scribes from the Strib or Pioneer Press that hang around the crime scenes. They’re kind of fun to talk to.”

“Guys who have been doing it for forty years?” Sally added.

“Yeah, exactly. But television? I don’t know about them. It seems like it’s all about entertainment, ratings, looks—less about real news. You have to tell the story, say about our serial killer, in thirty-second sound bites,” Mac said skeptically, shaking his head. “There’s no way to do a good job that quickly, and we usually come out on the short end of the stick. And the thing that really burns me is that, with the exception of a couple of them, most don’t know shit about police work.”

“They don’t know much about the law either,” Kennedy added. “I agree with you, Mac, but they’ll be a fact of life on this case.”

Mac sighed, nodded his head and ran his hand through his thick, blond hair. “I’m afraid you’re right. It’ll be a circus if word about the senator gets out. I’m not looking forward to that.”

Kennedy finished her beer, “You’re right about that. Shall we?”

“Yup.” As they both put on their coats, Mac looked back in the bar to wave good night and saw it immediately. Cops, seven or eight of them, had been watching him and Sally talk. He knew what they were thinking. He could see it in their eyes—Mac’s going to get some. Mac shook his head at them and, with his back turned to Kennedy, mouthed, “Fuck you.” They all just laughed. He turned to Kennedy, who hadn’t noticed, “Where are you parked?”

“Just across the street,” Kennedy nodded out the front window, “the Camry. You?”

“Out back. I’ll walk you across the street. You never know.”

She shared a warm smile. “Thanks.”

They walked across the street in silence. Mac stopped about fifteen feet short of her car. She dug out her keys and continued to the driver’s door. As she opened it, she looked back, flashed him a smile. “I suspect I’ll be seeing a lot of you now?”

The smile, the comment, the way she said that—which could be taken a couple of ways, one of which made Mac’s heart skip a little beat. He played it cool. “I suppose so.”

Kennedy nodded, flashed him another smile, and got in her car. Mac turned and walked back across the street. He would be seeing a lot of her most likely and that wasn’t an altogether bad thought. It had been the longest conversation he had with a woman since the divorce. As he was walking around to the back of the Pub, he looked in the front window through the MCRYAN’SPUB letters and saw his friends, laughing, waving their arms and giving him the look like he struck out. Mac chuckled. He imagined his couple of beers with Kennedy would be the talk of the town tomorrow. Cops—they loved the gossip. He thought about going back inside and trying to stop it before it started, but he knew better. He’d only make it worse.

• • • • •

Sally turned into her driveway, hit the garage door opener and pulled into her one-car garage. It was late, 11:30 p.m., but she smelled like a bar—smoky. She knew she couldn’t sleep like that. She took a quick shower. The warm water felt good, and she instantly knew she would sleep better.

She got out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dried her shoulder length hair. Looking at herself in the mirror, she liked what she saw. She was thirty-two and took good care of herself. The Stairmaster in the spare bedroom, used daily, helped. With no husband and a lot of extra time, she spent it on herself. Not that anyone could ever really tell when she was in her business suits, but that was the way she wanted it. The last thing she wanted to attract was another lawyer. But, she was starting to stir. The divorce would always be with her, but a lot of the pain was behind her now. She thought maybe she wanted to start seeing people, wanted to start dating. McRyan. She hadn’t spent that much time talking with a man in months, at least a good-looking one, and he was that. Might have to try to get to know him a little better, she thought.

Chapter Eight

“Will we grant their request?”

Mac pulled into the parking lot of the Cleveland Grille. Lich had suggested an early breakfast. The Cleveland was a greasy spoon if there ever was one. Breakfasts were fattening and the coffee thick. It had a classic seventies décor with vinyl booths, butt-ugly yellow-and-brown wallpaper, and a speckled tile floor. It was a total design disaster. It was also the best place in town to get breakfast. Mac loved the Cleveland Grille breakfast burrito. It was guaranteed to make lunch unnecessary.

When he walked in, Mac saw a couple of uniforms at the counter getting a cup of coffee to go. They nodded and smiled. Odd smiles?

Mac found Lich in a back corner booth, reading the Pioneer Press with a cup of coffee in front of him. “Mornin’, Dick.”

“Good morning to you.” Lich looked up and smiled, a shit-eating grin. “So … tell me … how’s Sally Kennedy?”

So that’s why the odd smiles when he walked in. Mac rolled his eyes. “Christ, that didn’t take long.” He looked back to find the uniform cops laughing. Cripes.

“Word is you two talked for quite a while last night.”

“Yeah, we talked, about the case.”

“Riiiiiight.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, don’t get defensive.” Lich took a sip of coffee. “I was glad to hear it. Get back on the horse, son. You can’t sulk about your divorce forever. It’s over and done with. Your ex was a bitch anyway,” Lich reasoned. “I’m secure in my masculinity, so I can say this—you’re a good-looking guy, Mac. Get out there and get yourself a little. Sally Kennedy? She’s a damn fine-lookin’ woman. Have at it.”

“I need to stop sulking? You bitch about your divorce all the time.”

“About the financial aspects, sure. The bitch cleaned me out. But I’m better off without her.”

Just then their waitress appeared. She was a late forty-something named Dot. She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world, but her ample bosom flowed out of her top that was two sizes too small. She looked at Mac, and then gave a big smile to Lich. No wonder they were here.

“What can I get you, Detectives?” Dot asked.

Lich went first, “Dot, honey, I’ll have my usual.”

“And you, Detective?” Her smile remained but turned businesslike.

Dot, honey, I’ll have my usual? Mac gave a long look at Lich and smiled, and then looked up to Dot. “I’ll have a CG burrito, an orange juice, and a cup of coffee.”

“Coming right up,” Dot replied. She gave Lich another smile and walked away.

Mac didn’t say anything right away. Instead he grabbed the sports section, checking out the latest on the Vikings. Dot came right back with the coffee and juice. Mac looked over his paper and saw Dot refill Lich’s cup, giving him another very pointed smile and a, “Let me know if you need anything else?” It wasn’t directed at Mac.

Mac kept reading for about another minute, then said, “So, ya seen her tits yet?”

Lich let out a rueful laugh, “Not yet, but rest assured, young man, I’m working on it.”

Mac cackled. Maybe Lich was right. If at fifty-two, or whatever his age was, he was getting back after it, maybe he needed to as well.

They talked about the case a little, deciding what they were going to be doing for the day. The autopsy report would be ready. Then they would canvass the neighborhood some more and try to catch up with some people they missed. And, of course, they would find out what they were going to be doing about the senator.

Mac finished his breakfast and paid his tab. He left Lich behind so he could make some time with Dot.

• • • • •

Viper awoke at 8:00 a.m. refreshed. Eleven hours of sleep would do that for a person. The boss wanted him at his house by 10:00 a.m. to discuss the status of the Daniels matter as well as a few other things. He imagined the boss was working his contacts to see where the police were at with the case.

The drive out took forty minutes. Viper didn’t mind. He owned a Corvette, and he was running out of days to drive it. Soon snow would fall, and Viper would have to break out his Land Rover.

The boss lived on Lake Minnetonka, twenty miles west of Minneapolis. Lake Minnetonka, or “The Lake” as residents who lived out that way called it, was prime home land for Minnesota’s elite. The lakeshore held some of the most valuable real estate in the Twin Cities. The boss’s house was on a three-acre, pie-shaped lot with three hundred feet of shoreline. The house was an impressive three-story mansion overlooking a tennis court, pool, and, of course, the lake. There was a long, winding driveway from the main road, which circled in front of the house. To the side of the house was an area for guest parking. Viper pulled the Vette into a guest spot and headed inside. A housekeeper took his coat and directed him up to the third-floor study.

The boss was on the phone. He waved Viper in and pointed towards a table containing refreshments and rolls. Viper poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed a croissant, and walked over to the window. The office offered an impressive view, looking out over a large lawn to the lake. It was even more impressive in the summer when the boats were out. Now, everything was buttoned up for the coming winter.

He heard the phone hang up, and Viper turned to see the boss head towards the coffee table and pour himself a cup. “Come sit,” he directed.

They engaged in idle chitchat for a few minutes, and then got down to business.

“So, what does your contact have to say?” Viper asked.

“Well, I have several contacts.”

“Yes, sir, but you know what I mean.” The boss liked it when Viper had to drag information out of him.

“My source confirms that they have zeroed in on the senator. They have Hernandez and a statement with the senator leaving around 1:30 a.m.”

“Anything else?” Viper asked.

“Well, as luck would have it, a neighbor has also given a statement that a couple of nights before the murder he saw the senator leaving Ms. Daniels’s place at a similar time, so that’s a break for us, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Viper, smiling. “Will the police be bringing in the senator?”

“Yes, but they want to keep it quiet,” the boss replied, taking a long sip of his coffee.

“When?” Viper asked.

The boss nodded. “That’s a good question. My source indicates they’ll be contacting the senator soon to request that he come sit down with the detectives investigating the matter.”

“Do we think he’ll come in voluntarily?”

“I suspect so.”

“Why?” Viper asked, not sure he agreed.

“He won’t want to draw unnecessary media attention,” the boss replied, buttering another croissant. “After all, he didn’t do it. He’s going to want to say that.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “He looks better if he comes in on his own. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he contacts them first.”

Viper thought about that for a moment, seeing the boss’s point. “If we assume they’ll keep their interview with him quiet, they won’t bring him downtown.”

The boss agreed, “No, a meeting outside the Department of Public Safety Building would allow him to fly below the radar.”

“The senator definitely doesn’t want the media on this,” Viper agreed.

The boss paused for a moment, “So, it would be rather unfortunate for him if the media were to find out about his involvement now, wouldn’t it?”

Viper looked at the boss, catching his drift, “Yes, it would now, wouldn’t it?”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich met with Linda Morgan. The autopsy determined that Daniels was strangled as they already knew. She also had sex prior to death. They had semen, which had been sent out for DNA testing. Then they would have to match it up. Mac and Lich suspected it belonged to the senator. The time of death remained between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.

Forensics found no further evidence of forced entry, Morgan reported. The key under the front doormat had two good fingerprints, a thumb and index finger. The prints were not Daniels’s. Crime Scene also found two sets of fingerprints in the bedroom. One set was Daniels’s and the other set matched those on the key. The DA was still working on getting the senator’s prints. Only Daniels’s prints were found on the back door.

Mac was most concerned with the time-of-death issue. He’d seen it picked apart in court on more than one occasion.

“How solid are we on the time of death?” Mac asked.

“It looks good,” Morgan answered. “We got to her fairly quickly after death. The conditions in her condo were good for preserving her body.” Linda considered her answer further, “Is exact time of death important?”

“Maybe,” Mac replied neutrally. They talked for a few more minutes, and then Lich and McRyan headed up for their meeting with the chief.

Chief Flanagan’s secretary saw them coming and said, “Go on in, but he’s on a call.” The chief saw them walk in and waved them towards the couch, the phone still pressed to his ear. The leather chairs from in front of the desk had been moved over to the other side of the coffee table and were across from the couch. There was a pot of coffee and some Styrofoam coffee cups waiting for them. Lich poured himself a cup and one for Mac. Mac took his cup and walked around the table and sat down on the end of the couch. He mixed in some cream and sugar and stirred it with a pink straw. Just then, Helen Anderson and Sally Kennedy came in.

Sally passed on coffee, having brought a bottle of Aquafina with her. She sat down on the other end of the couch and greeted Mac. “Good morning, Detective.”

“Mornin’, Counselor.”

It was Lich’s turn to stifle a laugh and a grin. He could just hear Lich asking, “Seen her tits yet?” Not that Mac had tried, he barely knew Kennedy, although Lich’s reprimand about getting back in the game had him suddenly thinking about her. Her red hair was up again, and she had the stylish glasses back. She looked good in a form-fitting gray plaid skirt suit, white silk blouse, and heels.

The chief hung up the phone and sauntered on over to the group, grabbing one of the leather chairs. His coat was already off, sleeves rolled up. He quickly poured himself a cup of coffee. “Peters should be here in a minute. We’ll get started then.”

The group engaged in some brief discussion about the upcoming Vikes game. Packer week would do that. Anderson, a Packer fan, was predicting a tough day for the Purple at Lambeau.

After a couple of minutes, Peters came in and quickly grabbed the last chair and poured a cup of coffee.

The chief looked at Mac, “So what’s the scoop?”

Mac spent the next few minutes giving everyone the rundown on the autopsy report and discussions with forensics. The last topic discussed was the lack of any evidence of forced entry. It had everyone focusing on the senator.

“Well that last phone call was with Lyman Hisle,” the chief stated. “Can anyone guess who his client might be?”

Mac smiled. He knew Lyman well, knew he didn’t represent just anybody, “A certain US senator who just might be implicated in the death of a prominent local television reporter?”

“I see that U of M education didn’t go to waste,” Flanagan replied, smiling.

Sally jumped in, “So, what did he have to say?”

“Oh, that his client, the esteemed senior senator from the state of Minnesota, is guilty. So, in an effort to avoid inconveniencing anyone and wasting hard-earned tax dollars he was elected to protect, what would be the best time for him to turn himself in and save us all the time and effort of a lengthy drawn out jury trial?” Lich replied wryly, causing everyone to have a good laugh.

“No, Dick, although, Lord knows, we could use it,” said the chief, still chuckling.

Anderson got everyone back on track. “So, what did he have to say?”

“He said his client had some information. That, since we might run across him as part of the investigation, he thought it’d be a good idea to get together,” the chief replied.

“When?” asked Mac.

“They’d like to do it tomorrow afternoon, 1:00 p.m., at Lyman’s house in Stillwater.”

“Why out there?” asked Anderson.

“My guess,” replied Sally, “is that he wants to keep a low profile. No media attention. If the senator shows down here at the Public Safety Building, the media’ll see him and wonder why he’s here.”

“Seems to make sense,” Peters piped in.

“Yeah, not to mention, if he’s trying to keep it from his wife, better if it’s not at a hotel, the airport, or even at this condo, where it might look odd if the police showed up to meet with him,” said Mac.

“Exactly,” said Flanagan.

“Will we grant their request?” Sally inquired.

“Yes,” replied the chief. “We play this one close to the vest for now.”

“Agreed,” replied Anderson, surprising everyone. “We keep it quiet. We don’t want to compromise the prosecution.”

“Good,” Flanagan replied. “We’re all on the same page. Mac and Dick, I want you guys to work with Ms. Kennedy to prep for tomorrow’s interview with the senator. She may give you some insight as to what Lyman will do. He’s apt to have a trick or two up his sleeve, and we may only get one shot at the senator before Lyman intercedes and says, ‘Prove it.’ So let’s be ready,” Flanagan said sternly. “And I want the prep work done outside the building, preferably after hours. I don’t want any attention drawn to this.” Chief Flanagan looked at Anderson, “Helen, I assume that’s okay with you?”

Anderson nodded her agreement. The chief continued, “You guys figure it out, but I don’t want you seen meeting around here. People’ll talk, think we have something solid. I told Hisle we’d keep the meeting quiet, at least for the time being. So, nobody in this room talks about this with the media or anyone else.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Mac? Green and Clark—do they know about the senator?” the chief asked Mac.

“Yes. They interviewed the neighbor John Chase first.”

“This comes from me—they don’t talk.”

“I’ll convey that message, sir.” Mac didn’t need to worry about those two, and the chief knew it, but he was covering all the bases.

“Dick?”

With his hands up, Lich replied, “I know, I know.”

“Okay then. You two and Ms. Kennedy here figure out what you’re going to do. And, Mac, you and Lich let me or Peters know if anything develops today.”

With that, the meeting ended. Mac, Lich, and Sally walked to the elevator.

“So, how do you guys want to do this?” Sally asked.

“My place is up on Summit, close to downtown,” Mac said. “Let’s all meet there at 7:00 p.m. I’ll order pizza.” Lich knew where Mac lived, but Kennedy needed directions.

“Sounds good,” replied Kennedy, “I’ll see you guys then.”

Mac and Lich got off on the second floor, heading to their desks. Kennedy continued onto the main level. Her office at the Ramsey County Courthouse was a five-block walk away.

After they got off the elevator, Lich let out a disappointing sigh.

“What’s up?” asked Mac.

“Tonight.”

“What about it?”

“Well, I gotta date with Dot. You know, that waitress with the major-league cantaloupes.”

Mac smiled, “Dicky boy, Dicky boy, what time?”

“Seven.”

Mac thought for a moment. He wasn’t even sure they really needed to meet with Sally yet, although she likely would have some insight on dealing with a shark like Lyman. The interview wouldn’t be much different than any other, and Lich was actually pretty good on interviews. Lich didn’t need to be there. “Look, we’re going out to Hisle’s place tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll have time to talk in the morning, so go ahead.”

“You sure?” asked Lich.

“Yeah, but I reserve the right to ask for details, at least about Dot. I can do without details about you.”

Lich chuckled. “Thanks, man.”

Mac took another look at Lich. He was wearing a brown suit, beat-up black lace-ups, and a faded yellow shirt with a brown-and-tan striped tie. It was not an impressive ensemble. “What’re you wearing tonight?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Promise me it’s not what you have on now?”

“What’s wrong with this?” Lich said, looking down at himself nonplused.

Mac rolled his eyes, shook his head, and kept walking, leaving Lich behind to examine his reflection in an office window.

Chapter Nine

“Will Hisle let his client talk?”

Lich was getting anxious. He was nervously tapping his pen on the desk, checking his watch every thirty seconds. Mac took a look at his watch, 4:45 p.m. “So, Dick. What do you and Dot have planned?”

“We’re meeting at the Grand Filet.”

The Grand Filet was, naturally, on Grand Avenue, not far from Daniels’s place. It was a small restaurant that would seem more in place two hours to the north of St. Paul. The Filet had a real Northwoods feel, with cedar-planked walls and the best walleye in town. It was perfect for them.

“Sounds good.”

“Yeah, the Filet, man. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

Mac laughed and thought of Dot’s rather impressive rack, “Dick, that is not the feast you’ve been thinking about all day.”

Dick grinned. “Fuck you.”

“Look, go ahead and bail. We’re not accomplishing anything right now.” They had been back for a half hour. In the morning they interviewed two people that Channel 6 station manager Mary Carpenter found for them. The two had individually threatened Daniels after investigative reports. Mac and Lich ran both men through the drill, but both had good alibis. Neither felt right. After the interviews, the two detectives spent the rest of the afternoon on follow-up canvassing the neighborhood around Daniels’s place. It was fruitless. Neighbors hadn’t seen anything on the night of the murder or anything unusual in the days leading up to it. A few people still weren’t home, and Mac left his card behind with a request that they contact him. The one big piece of news from the day was that the district attorney’s office obtained the senator’s prints, which had now been matched to the key.

“Have fun with Dot.”

Lich gave him a knowing smile, stood up, put on his coat, and headed out with a distinct spring in his step.

Mac smiled to think that Lich looked forward to a date at his age. Good for him. Well, if Lich wasn’t coming tonight, he’d better let Kennedy know. He picked up the phone, dialed, and heard, “Hello, you’ve reached the voice mail of Sally Kennedy. I’m either on my phone or away from my desk …” He hit POUND and left her a message. It was 5:00 p.m., enough time to get a workout in before getting home to meet with Sally.

• • • • •

Sally pecked away at a motion on her computer, a light-rock station playing quietly in the background. She wanted to polish the motion a bit more before finishing. It would be ready to file in the morning. She took a sip of her Diet Pepsi, when there was a knock on the door and she turned to find Helen standing in her doorway. Sally hit the DND on her phone, and Helen shut the door.

“So, with Johnson’s prints, he’s the prime suspect in the Daniels case, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“Are you all set with McRyan and Lich tonight?

“Yes.”

“What do you think of them?” asked Anderson, a touch of skepticism in her voice.

Sally gave it some thought before responding. “I don’t know yet. Lich’s been around, although it sounds as if he’ll occasionally talk out of school to the media.”

“What about McRyan?” Helen pushed.

“I haven’t seen him in action. The chief and Peters obviously think highly of him. I sense you have your doubts?”

“He strikes me as a lightweight,” Anderson replied. “I want you to call me tonight after you’re done to let me know. I can always press Charlie to make a change.”

Sally had to stifle a laugh. Helen Anderson would have absolutely no ability whatsoever to get Chief Charles Flanagan to change a detective on a case. Sally had seen first hand in the past two days—Flanagan ran his department his way, politics be damned. She rather liked it, too—doing the right thing as opposed to the politically expedient one. If the chief thought McRyan was right for the case, so be it. Nonetheless, she needed to keep her boss informed. “I assume I can reach you at home tonight.”

“No,” Helen answered. “Call me on my cell.”

“What, a hot date?”

“No,” Anderson replied coolly. “Fundraiser.”

• • • • •

Mac was late. He’d stopped for a workout at a buddy’s gym. He finished by 6:30 p.m., but then his buddy, Joe Ball, went into his stand-up routine. Joe was a classic, ten jokes at the drop of a hat. Mac couldn’t tell a joke to save his life. Joe’s stand-up routine caused Mac to lose track of time and suddenly it was 6:50. Mac rushed out of the club, got in the Explorer, and raced for his place. He pulled in right at 7:00 p.m. and ran up to his third-floor apartment. He got in and threw his gym bag in the spare bedroom when the doorbell rang. Sally.

Mac hit the buzzer to let her up. He needed to take a quick shower. But first he ran into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers, Grain Belts. As he was walking back in with the beers, there was a knock on the door. He opened it up. Whoa.

• • • • •

Since Lich was not going to be at the meeting, Sally had decided a quick shower and a change of clothes would be in order. She was attracted to McRyan and thought maybe it was time he saw her in something a little different than her business suits.

After her shower, she took a look in her closet and tried on a few different ensembles, settling on a pair of tight tan suede pants and a body-forming white-ribbed turtleneck. The outfit would allow appreciation of her figure. She let her fiery red hair down to its regular shoulder length, and put a little curl in it so it fell just over her right eye. Leaving her glasses behind, she popped in her contacts. The outfit was completed with some silver hoop earrings, soft red lipstick, and makeup, a bit more than she normally put on. Her mirror confirmed it—she looked good.

McRyan apparently thought so as well.

• • • • •

Mac’s heart skipped a beat, and he did a double take. He almost didn’t recognize her. She looked fantastic. “Come in,” he said, trying to be cool.

Sally gave him a little smile and walked by him and took off her coat. Mac finally remembered to speak. “I’m sorry. I went to work out. I just got home. I need to hop in the shower quick.”

“No problem,” replied Sally.

“Before I do that, I should order. Pizza okay?”

“Yeah, great.”

Mac asked, “Pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, what do you like?”

“I love garbage pizzas.”

Mac grinned. A woman after his own heart. “I’m on it. By the way, I grabbed a couple of Grain Belts out of the fridge.”

“Great. I could use a beer.”

“I’m … ah … going to hit the shower,” he waved his arm around his apartment. “What’s mine is yours.”

• • • • •

Sally walked around while Mac showered. She was pleased her outfit seemed to have the desired effect. Of course, this was a strictly professional meeting, and they needed to prepare for the senator. Nonetheless, she was having some fun again.

Mac had the whole third floor of the Summit Avenue mansion. It was a large space. She was a bit surprised that it was tastefully appointed with a large black leather couch with a matching love seat and two chairs. A big, weathered, antique trunk served as the coffee table. She perused a bookshelf. He had a collection of mystery and military thrillers and was obviously a fan of John Sandford and Vince Flynn. Next to the bookshelf were two large, framed, autographed posters. One was of Kirby Puckett, pumping his fist, having just hit the winning homer in the eleventh inning of Game Six of the 1991 World Series. The other was Bruce Springsteen, the best ever.

At the end of the living room on the right was the kitchen. It was small, had an old gas stove, a small fridge and microwave, but not much else. There was barely room for the sink and cupboards. What caught her attention, however, was the door out to a small deck.

The deck made whatever Mac was paying for the place worth it. The view was panoramic. To the right she had a view over the Mississippi River and the High Bridge. Straight ahead was downtown St. Paul, a perfect view of the skyline, as well as the Xcel Energy Center and Science Museum. To the left was the State Capitol, brightly lit. She imagined McRyan spent summer nights sitting on the deck, having a beer and surveying the city.

She could still hear the water running when she walked back in and sat down on the couch and started thumbing through a Sports Illustrated.

• • • • •

Mac took a quick shower, put on a pair of jeans, and threw on a black mock turtleneck. Sally had stunned him. She was not unattractive at work. In talking with her at the Pub the night before, he realized that underneath the professional veneer was a very attractive woman. But it was clear how much she dressed professionally and was all business while at work.

He stopped in his office and grabbed his notepad and then walked back out into the living room to find Sally sitting on the black leather couch. Mac grabbed his beer and sat down in one of the black leather chairs. “Pizza should be here in a few. Should we get started?”

“Yeah. Other than Senator Johnson’s prints, anything new today?”

“No.” Mac mentioned that the remaining neighbors didn’t seen anything, and that the few people who’d threatened Daniels because of her work did not look good.

“Anyone else you haven’t talked to?”

“A few people in Daniels’s neighborhood haven’t been home when we’ve knocked. They might be out of town. I left my card. I’m sure we’ll hear from them eventually, although at this point, I’d be stunned if anything came from it.”

“So, it looks like the senator’s the guy?”

“Looks that way,” replied Mac, grabbing his notepad and pen. “So, when we meet with the senator tomorrow, do you think Hisle will let him talk?”

Just as Sally opened her mouth to answer, the doorbell buzzed.

The pizza was a Classic Supreme with everything on it but anchovies and black olives from Classic Italian Pizza. Mac grabbed a cutting board from the kitchen on which to set the pizza. Plates, forks, and napkins were grabbed as well, along with two more beers. The spicy aroma of hot pizza made both of them realize it was getting late and they hadn’t eaten. The pizza didn’t stand a chance. Once it was devoured, they got back to business.

Mac started pretty much where they left off. “So, when we meet Johnson tomorrow, do you think he’ll talk or be a mute?”

That was the $50,000 question. Would Hisle let his client talk? “Were this a run-of-the-mill murder case, probably not,” Sally said.

“But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill murder case, is it?”

Shaking her head, “No, it’s not.”

Mac took a pull from his beer, leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “So, in this case, you think he’ll talk?”

“Some.” She said this thoughtfully.

He lowered his head and looked straight at her, “How much is some?”

“Part of that will depend on what he, meaning Hisle, knows about the case.”

“Meaning, how much the good senator has told him about it,” replied Mac, following Sally’s train of thought.

“Exactly. I bet I’ve spoken to a hundred defense attorneys who have told me their client didn’t tell them everything. I’m not sure why the senator would be different.” Sally took a last drink from her beer.

“Want another?”

“Sure.”

Mac got up to get her a beer but didn’t stop talking, speaking from the kitchen. He merely spoke a little louder to cross the distance. “So, if I’m hearing you right, what we get tomorrow will depend upon what Hisle knows about the case, and that’s probably based on what Johnson has told him?”

“Not necessarily.”

“‘Not necessarily’? What do you mean?” Mac asked as he came back in and handed her the beer.

“Well, Hisle might get some of his own information. I bet he or one of his lackey’s been working the department for information.”

“That would be Lyman,” Mac replied, nodding. “He has friends in our department who could feel like they might owe him.”

“Why’s that?” asked Sally, not understanding his point.

“Lyman’s big time, right?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s also represented a number of cops over the years. He may be a defense attorney, and cops hate most of them, but not Lyman. He’s helped out a lot of police, and he hasn’t always charged his full fee.”

“So … do you think any cops will talk?”

“If any of them knew anything they might. But to the best of my knowledge Lich, Clark, and Green haven’t needed to use Lyman for anything.”

“What about the chief?”

“Well, Flanagan knows Hisle pretty well. They’re friends. But I don’t think he’d give Lyman dick.”

Sally smiled. “Well I’d hope not. But what about information?”

Mac snorted. “Touché, Counselor.” Mac took a hit from his beer. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Hisle knows everything we know, or even what we suspect. Everything. The semen, time of death, no forced entry—the whole nine yards. “

“All right.”

“Assuming all that,” Mac continued, “will Hisle let his client talk?”

Sally thought for a minute. “Some.”

Mac smirked. “Typical lawyer, won’t answer the damned question. I know you think ‘some,’ but how much? What’s he going to tell his client to do?”

“He’ll probably allow the senator to answer questions about how he met Daniels and the nature of their relationship. He’ll probably allow him to admit they had sex because he’ll know we’ll probably match semen through DNA. He can’t be certain who she might have told about the relationship, so he’ll probably answer those questions.”

“How about, ‘Have you told your wife about your affair with Daniels?’”

“You should ask that question, but Hisle will tell him not to answer. That goes right to guilt and motive. Remember our theory the other day?”

“That Daniels pressured him about his marriage, about a possible divorce, and maybe she didn’t like the answer.”

“Exactly,” replied Sally. “That would be motive right there. I’d be stunned if Hisle allowed Johnson to answer anything near that. He’ll say it’s irrelevant and all that shit, even though it is.” She picked up her beer. “The only way I could see Hisle allowing him to answer that question is if the senator told his wife he was having an affair and she didn’t care or something like that. I can’t imagine Gwen Johnson going for that.”

“No,” Mac replied nodding. “From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t seem like the type to put up with that. Plus, she wouldn’t have to testify on that point anyway, would she?” Mac asked.

“That’s right. Marital privilege.”

“Anything else Hisle won’t let him answer?”

“You guys might go down the path of encouraging the senator to come clean, basically cop a plea. It wasn’t intentional. It was a heat of passion type situation—the manslaughter path.” She took another drag of her beer, “However, if you get to that point, Hisle won’t allow him to answer. He’ll shut him down. We’ll have to charge him before he entertains that. Again, that’s if the interview goes that way.”

Mac sat thinking for a minute, running this all through his head. “Okay. I’ve got a good feel for what happens if Hisle has all the info he needs. But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s flying blind?”

“Hisle wouldn’t fly blind. If he were that blind, he wouldn’t have called the chief.”

“Maybe he’s not completely blind, then. The senator’ll have given him some information. But you said it yourself—Hisle’s probably calling around the department, but he can’t get any information.”

“You’re assuming he hasn’t gotten any,” she replied.

“True.” Mac leaned forward in his chair. “But let’s assume he doesn’t.”

“Then, he won’t let his client answer any questions until you tell him what you have.”

“I don’t have a problem with that. I’d be happy to tell them,” Mac quickly replied. “What will Hisle do then?”

“At that point, he’ll decide whether his client has anything to say.” Sally looked away for a moment, and then continued. “He’ll ask for some time to confer with his client.”

“And then they’ll decide if he’ll answer any questions.”

“Right.”

“And if he doesn’t say anything?”

“Then we’ll decide what to do. Charge him, continue to investigate, whatever. You can give them the standard line that this is his chance to get in front of this, but Hisle will tell him not to answer. If so, we’ll just have to see …”

“But … we’ll know a lot more after tomorrow,” said Mac, finishing the thought.

“Yes.”

• • • • •

Lyman and the senator enjoyed a fine meal of steak, potatoes, Caesar salad, and red wine at Lyman’s house on the St. Croix. Following dinner they retired to the library to have a brandy, a cigar, and talk about the case.

“So, how do we handle this tomorrow?” the senator asked.

“We’ll have to find out where they’re coming from, Mason.”

“What if they won’t tell us?”

“Don’t worry about that. They will. They want you to talk. Like I said, when I called Flanagan, he was getting ready to call you.”

A frown came down the senator’s face, “If I read between the lines here, they have me in their crosshairs.”

“Perhaps,” mused Lyman. “But they haven’t charged you. They haven’t put your name out there. Heck, my contacts in the department don’t even know who they have for a suspect.”

The senator was skeptical. “These contacts, would they even tell you if they knew?”

“The people I’ve called, yes. They owe me for previous services rendered.”

The senator took a sip of his brandy. “So, if we find out what they have, what do I say?”

“We’ll see. I may not have you answer questions at all.”

“Lyman,” he growled, “I can’t do that. I do that and I’m done. I’m Gary Condit. The media’ll have a field day.”

Lyman knew his friend. He was concerned about his career. He didn’t necessarily see beyond that, and that had to change if Lyman was going to help him. “Mason, I’ll do what I can to protect your career. But we have to see what they have.”

The senator had a panicked look. “What? What the fuck are you saying, Lyman? What, you … you think I did this?”

“NO!” snapped Lyman. The next part would be difficult, he knew, so he took a long drink, a slow drag on his cigar, and walked towards his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. He exhaled slowly and spoke. “Mason, I’m with you, but we have to see what the police have. You didn’t do it. I believe you,” Lyman said, looking him right in the eye. “But look at the evidence they likely have. You were there that night. We have to assume they have the guy who saw you. Otherwise, how do they link you?”

“Yes, I was there. What does that prove, Lyman?” the senator growled, taking a chair.

Lyman sat down next to his friend and continued. “In and of itself, nothing, but they’ll have your semen. It wouldn’t even be worth a fight on the DNA. They’ll get it.” Lyman took a drink. “Now, like I said—in and of itself that means nothing, but …”

“But what would mean something?”

“Time of death, forced entry, and if there was a robbery. If there’s a robbery or forced entry, and time of death is 4:00 a.m., you’re in the clear. You merely help them with their timeline. If this is the case, then the police say thanks, and nobody ever knows you were involved.”

Mason Johnson looked hopeful for the first time. Lyman reassured him, “Your name came up. They have to talk to you. Simple as that. But if the evidence doesn’t point to you, you’ll be fine.”

The senator sighed and nodded. “Look. I didn’t do it. I need to say that.”

“And I may let you. But first, we need to see what they have.”

• • • • •

Mac and Sally finished up with how to deal with Hisle and the senator around ten. Mac offered one more beer, and Sally accepted. She was easy to talk to. They talked about sports, politics, and lawyers. They had similar interests. They were both career focused. She wasn’t stopping at assistant district attorney. She had higher aspirations.

Mac could feel his attraction to her growing. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and it was a nice change. He had ignored women since the divorce. It wasn’t that there couldn’t have been some. There had been plenty he could have taken home from the Pub. More than one had sauntered on up to make a pass at him, and he almost took a couple up on it. Sooner or later, he figured he’d finally break down and do it. But it never seemed right.

Sally was interested. She was attractive as hell, with pretty dark-brown eyes and a bright smile. She was intelligent and liked to laugh, yet she had a little edge, some street to her—which he liked.

She’d been checking out the Springsteen print all night. “So how’d you get Bruce to sign it?”

“You like the Boss?”

“Is there anyone better?”

“No. I’ve never seen a better live performer.”

She got up to look at it more closely. “So, how did you do it?”

“A buddy of mine, Wren Frane, runs the non-hockey events at the Xcel Energy Center. He got me backstage for the second half of a concert. It was pretty unreal. I saw Bruce, Clarence, Little Steven come off the stage, and it was cool just to see them. Anyway, the arena had emptied, and Wren and I were the only ones left backstage. We’re just talking, concert’s been over for an hour, and here comes Springsteen out of the dressing room, looking to see if they can get a few more beers. Most everyone’s gone, but Wren scares up some brews, and the Boss says thanks. He sees the poster and asks if I wanted it signed.”

“No way!” Sally replied in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah. Pure luck, but I met the man.”

They transitioned to Helen Anderson. “She can’t be easy to work for,” Mac said.

“That’s somewhat true. She’s demanding of everyone’s time and efforts. But at the same time, she generally let’s you do your job.”

“Probably because she never did it herself,” Mac intoned.

“Well, there might be some truth to that,” Sally replied, smiling. “She’s more a politician than a lawyer.”

Then they got to Lich. “By the way, where’s your partner?”

Mac chuckled, “Dickey boy is on a date with Dot.”

“Who’s Dot? Should I know her?”

Mac shook his head. “No. I just met her this morning. She’s a rather, shall we say, buxom waitress at the Cleveland Grille.”

“Ahhh. So, your partner’s on the dating scene, huh?”

“That he is. I have to give him credit. His last wife absolutely cleaned him out.” Mac just shook his head.

Sally looked around the apartment. “It would appear you didn’t get cleaned out?”

“We parted amicably.” Mac didn’t want to talk about his divorce. He caught his ex-wife having an affair with a married partner in her law firm. Mac threatened to expose the affair unless he got the better of the marital assets, which he had. To change the topic, he got up, picked up their empties, and asked, “One more?”

Sally looked at her watch, 11:30 p.m. “I’d like to, but it’s late.”

Mac looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time, “Geez. You’re right.”

They walked to the door, and Mac grabbed her coat, helping her put it on. She said, “Thanks.”

“I’ll walk you down.”

As they were walking down the stairs, Sally said, “So, you’re ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Mac replied enthusiastically.

Sally picked up on it. “You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

Mac looked at her. “You’re surprised by that?”

“It’s a murder case. Yeah, a little.”

“Tomorrow’s why you do this job. Cases like this don’t come along too often. I probably won’t sleep much tonight. But, yeah, as morbid as it sounds, I can’t wait. I can just feel the adrenaline flowing.”

They were at her car. Mac stayed back a few feet. She reached in her purse for her keys and opened her car door before looking back. They stood awkwardly, staring at each other for a moment.

Mac finally spoke. “So, I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will.”

He held back. It didn’t feel right yet. Sally smiled at him and got in the car and started the engine. Before she closed her door, she said, “Good luck tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of you.” She closed the door and backed away from him, turned, gave him a wave, and drove off.

Chapter Ten

“Good cop. Bad cop.”

Mac, along with Lich and Captain Peters, climbed into Mac’s Explorer, headed out of the Department of Public Safety ramp and worked their way quickly to Interstate 35E, driving north out of downtown St. Paul on their way out to Hisle’s place in Stillwater.

The morning had been a blur, spent in a number of meetings. It started with a meeting with Captain Peters, which then moved to the chief’s office for his daily briefing. Sylvia Miller sat in on that one to discuss what to do if the media showed.

Before they left for Stillwater, Mac finally had time to meet with Lich about last night’s meeting with Sally. They discussed her theories about how Hisle might handle their interview with the senator. Lich snorted, “In other words, she acted like a typical lawyer and didn’t really answer your question.”

Mac had to chuckle. Given his divorce terms, Lich had caskets of animosity stored up for attorneys. “She was a little evasive. Yes, but that’s because we don’t know what Hisle’s going to do anymore than he knows what we’ll do.”

“So,” Lich said, grinning, “how evasive was she?”

“Evasive?”

“Listen, son, you put the wood to her or what?”

“Jesus,” said Mac, giving Lich a disbelieving look.

“Sheesh, you really are out of practice.”

“Well, how’d you do with Dot?”

“A hell of a lot better than you did,” Lich said with a big shit-eating grin.

Mac winced, suddenly developing a bad mental picture of bald old Lich and big-breasted Dot flopping around. “Spare me the details.”

Mac exited 35E, onto Highway 36 for the drive east to Stillwater. The drive would have been a lot prettier three weeks earlier when the leaves were orange, red, and yellow at the peak of the fall colors. Now, the ride out towards Stillwater was strewn with leaves blowing across the highway, the trees barren, waiting for the coming cold and snow of a Minnesota winter.

Stillwater, a burgeoning suburb twenty miles east of St. Paul, was located on the St. Croix River, which also served as the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. Up on top of the bluff overlooking the St. Croix was “new” Stillwater, with big-box retailers and various other suburban amenities. The amenities were surrounded by suburban homes with large yards and three-car garages. The part of Stillwater sitting two hundred feet below the bluff and right on the St. Croix was the quaint old downtown. A lumber town, Stillwater had morphed into an elegant tourist trap of old red-brick and stone buildings full of little antique stores, restaurants, and marinas for river boats.

Lyman lived just north of Stillwater, with a place on a little cliff overlooking the river. Once off the road, Mac took a long driveway that might have been a hundred yards long that circled in front of the house. The house itself was a sprawling prairie-style rambler, the back of which overlooked the river. Lyman undoubtedly had a groundskeeper of some sort in the summer, as there were flower beds and trimmed bushes appropriately scattered over the grounds. The flowers were now in hibernation, but the bushes were all in well-trimmed condition, rounded and squared appropriately. It was impressive.

“Representing criminals pays, don’t it, Mac?” Lich commented.

“Yeah, but Lyman’s a good guy.”

“Maybe I should have hired him for my divorce.”

They dropped the Explorer just past the front door. As they approached the house, Lich asked Mac, “Just thought I’d ask, you know, so we’re prepared and all, how are you going to handle this?”

“My guess is the senator isn’t going to be so impressed with a young buck detective running things. If so, you look at me when we start, my look will let you know. Let’s play on that and see if we can’t get him riled up.”

“Good cop, bad cop?” Lich said.

“Exactly.”

Lich smiled and moved to push the doorbell. Before he could, Hisle opened the door. “Good afternoon, Detectives. Please come in.”

They entered into a large open foyer. “I thought we’d head into the library,” Lyman said, pointing down a hallway to their right.

The library was exactly that. There were windows that looked out over the river. The rest of the walls were built-in bookshelves, with an impressive collection of works. Mac saw an old collection of Charles Dickens tales. There were a few shelves with old legal treatises. Lyman also liked more modern fare, with many bestsellers.

In the middle of the library was a long conference table with four high-backed leather chairs on either side and one on each end. The floor was wood, but a large Persian rug sat in the center under the conference table. As they entered the library, Mason Johnson stood looking out the window. Casually dressed in tan slacks, he also wore a navy blue sweater and white button-down collar shirt. Handshakes were exchanged, coffee poured, and they moved to the conference table. Johnson shook Mac’s hand, held it briefly, gave him a long look and smirked just slightly as they sat down. Inside, Mac smiled. So, the senator isn’t exactly impressed with me. Mac sat down next to Lich, smiled slightly, and nodded. Let’s go with the game plan.

Lyman opened. “Marion, how should we proceed?”

“It’s McRyan’s case,” Peters said, nodding towards Mac.

Lyman looked at Mac and asked, “Well?”

Mac, pleasant to start, said, “I appreciate your and the senator’s willingness to meet with us. We were hoping the senator might be able to clear up a few things for us.”

“Like what, Michael?” Lyman asked.

“For example, was he at Ms. Daniels’s place the night she was killed?”

The senator looked at Lyman, who nodded. “You know I was.”

“What time did you leave?” Mac asked.

“Around 1:30 a.m.”

“Why were you there?”

“I was seeing Claire.”

“Describe ‘seeing,’ senator,” Lich asked.

“Claire and I were … involved,” Senator Johnson responded evasively.

“In other words, you were having sex with her,” Mac said bluntly. It was a statement, not a question, intended to push.

“Yes,” Johnson replied tersely.

“Did you use a condom?”

“No.” That made DNA less of an issue.

“How long had you and Ms. Daniels been sleeping together?” Mac asked.

“A couple of months.”

“How did you meet?” Lich inquired pleasantly. The senator spent fifteen minutes detailing his relationship with Daniels, where they had met, and how the relationship had grown over time.

Mac thought about asking whether the senator’s wife knew about Daniels, but because Sally had said Hisle would likely shut that down, he decided to wait. Instead, he asked, “Were you there two nights before Claire was killed?”

“Yes, I was.”

Mac, gratuitously, trying to push just a little, “Getting a little action that night as well?”

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business,” the senator replied sharply. Lyman grabbed his arm. Mac smiled. The senator didn’t like him.

Lich, good cop, jumped in all calm and respectful, “What time did you leave that night?”

“Similar time, around 1:30 a.m.”

“I was wondering … how did you get in the last night at Daniels’s place?” Lich asked.

“Claire let me in.”

Lich, conversational, “Was that always the case? How about the other nights, how did you get in those times?”

“Claire would let me in or I’d use a key she left under the front doormat.”

The senator relaxed a bit, so Mac decided to push a little again, “How’d Claire like it?”

Senator Johnson stared at him. “Like what?”

“Having sex. A little rough perhaps? Kinky?” Mac asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Johnson growled.

Lyman jumped in. “My client isn’t going to answer that.”

“Fine, Lyman,” Mac replied, then turned back to the senator. “Ms. Daniels seeing anyone else besides you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Only me.”

“How can you be so sure? Did you ever ask her if she was sleeping around?”

“Yes, I did. She said I was it. I had no reason to doubt her.”

“She tell anyone she was sleeping with you?”

“No. She understood that it had to be kept quiet.”

That comported with what they’d learned about Daniels. Nonetheless, Mac kept the heat on, pushing, digging. “Yeah, because if word gets out about this, that could play havoc with your political career and the little missus at home.” Again, it was a statement more than a question. The senator glared at Mac but didn’t respond.

Lich, good cop, stepped in. “Did Daniels ever mention any problems she had with her neighbors, ex-boyfriends, people she reported on or with, anyone prowling around her place?”

The senator, turning away from Mac and towards Lich, replied, “Not that I recall.”

“You ever see anyone hanging around that didn’t look right? Anyone suspicious? Weird?”

“No, not at all.”

Mac took over. “And the night Daniels was killed, you left at 1:30 a.m.”

“Yes.”

“Anyone know you were at Claire’s that night?”

“No.”

They worked the facts for another half hour, working through the details, time of arrival, how the senator entered, the nature of the relationship, time of departure. Senator Johnson held tightly to his story, finishing with, “Like I said, I left at 1:30 a.m. and went home to my condo downtown.”

Mac paused, folded his arms, and stared at the senator for a moment. He had been there that night, admitted leaving at the right time, and didn’t force his way in; they’d cemented everything, including his departure at the time of death. So, how did Daniels die? Time to ask. “Senator, I have a feeling you’re not telling me everything.”

“What?” the senator snapped, disbelieving.

“You’re not telling me everything. You’re leaving things out.”

“Listen, Detective, when I left Claire’s place, she was alive.”

“I don’t think so,” Mac replied, arms folded, rocking in his chair, a smirk on his face.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear, Detective McRyan,” Senator Johnson replied angrily. “She was alive when I left her place. I’m here to help you guys, and now you call me a liar.” He looked at Peters and pointed towards Mac. “This is the guy you having running the case?” Mac smiled inwardly.

Lyman put his arm in front of his client, and spoke to Peters. “Look, the senator is concerned because his friend was found murdered. He came here in good faith, to help you out. He’s been cooperative.” Pointing towards Mac, he continued, “McRyan is out of line, and if he continues in this fashion, we will be done here.”

“Sorry, Lyman,” Mac replied flatly. “But before you try to pull the plug, let me tell you what we’ve detected thus far.” Mac flipped his notebook back a few pages. “Daniels was found dead Tuesday morning in her bed by her housekeeper. Her windpipe was crushed. There was extensive bruising around her throat. Someone got on top of her, straddled her, and pressed down on her throat like this,” Mac put his hands out in front of him, thumbs pointing up, demonstrating the grip.

He took a sip of his coffee, pausing for effect, and then lowered the hammer. “Time of death, confirmed by autopsy, occurred between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m.” Mac looked directly at the senator, who sat back in his chair at the comment on time of death, his eyes going wide, a look of horror replacing the one of derision. Mac expected more of a worried look and wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. He hesitated for a moment, then continued. “She’d had sex the night she was murdered. We have a single male semen specimen of which we will be doing DNA testing. It undoubtedly belongs to you, Senator.”

Mac stopped briefly, took another hit of his coffee, and while looking at his notes, continued, “We have no evidence of forced entry into her home. We have no evidence of robbery. Nothing is missing. The house wasn’t ransacked or disrupted in any way. The housekeeper confirms that. Whoever killed her had a key or was let in.” Mac paused, waiting.

A barely audible, “Oh, my God,” escaped the senator’s lips. Mac noticed the look of horror replaced with disbelief.

Lyman lightly grabbed Johnson by the arm, and quietly asked, “Anything else?”

“That’s what we have,” Mac replied, then looking squarely at the senator, ticking off his fingers. “I have you leaving her place at the time of death. I have your prints and will get your DNA. I have no evidence of forced entry or robbery, but you had easy access. I have a murder victim dying a violent death, strangled by someone of obvious strength. I have you, tall, strong, and physically capable.” Then back to Lyman, “I’ll agree with you, the senator’s been cooperative. The only thing he hasn’t confirmed is that he killed Claire Daniels, but the evidence says he did.” Mac folded his arms and sat back in his chair, “So, at this point it would seem that Senator Johnson might want to think about helping himself, not us.”

The senator, flushed, glaring at Mac, growled, “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“Believe it,” replied Mac flippantly, pushing, pouring gas on the fire.

“Mason, quiet,” Lyman ordered in a sharp voice.

Mac smelled blood, pressed, leaning across the table, getting as close as he could without leaving his chair, a little extra gravel in his voice. “I’ve got you leaving her place around the time of death. I have prints all over the place—yours. I’ve got semen—yours. You killed her, Senator. Fess up.”

With the senator looking as if he was going to jump across the table after Mac, Lich jumped in, putting his arm in front of Mac and pulling him back. With a calm, smooth, respectful voice, he said, “Look, you’ll have to excuse my partner here. He could stand to dial it back a little.” Lich shared a knowing look with Mac. Then, conversationally to the senator, “But, the point he’s so indelicately trying to make is that this is an unfortunate situation. If it was an accident, now’s the time to get out in front of it and give us your side of the story.”

Lyman tried to stop him, but the senator, raging, was not to be controlled now. He plowed right through. “What side? Seems like you guys, especially your little prick partner here, have pretty much already decided what happened.”

Lich, in his even tone, said, “Senator, tell us what happened Monday night?”

As the senator opened his mouth, Lyman both ordered and pleaded with his client, “Don’t answer that, Mason.”

Senator Johnson was having none of it. “Nothing. She was alive when I left. I got there just after 11:00 p.m. and left at 1:30 a.m. She was alive when I left. I had not one thing to do with Claire’s death.”

“Well, Senator,” Lich said, his arms spread out, leaning back in his chair, “given what we’ve found thus far, we have good reason to suspect that you did kill Ms. Daniels.”

Lyman grabbed the senator’s arm firmly and, with a sharp biting voice, said, “Don’t respond to that.”

Senator Johnson had already opened his mouth, but he listened. He sat back in his chair, calming some.

Mac stirred the pot again. “Your wife know you were fucking Daniels?”

“Michael!” growled Lyman.

“You arrogant little fuck,” replied the senator.

“I’ll take that as a no,” smirked Mac, adding, “There’s motive right there, along with everything else.”

Lich, back in the old calm pro, said, “Look, Senator, the question really is, did your wife know about your relationship with Daniels?”

“Mason, you will not answer that question,” ordered Hisle.

Lich kept going, talking over Hisle, “Say she doesn’t know, maybe the more relevant question is, did Claire ask about it?”

The senator leaned forward, wanted to answer, about to answer, but Hisle stopped him, “Don’t.”

“That’s okay,” Lich continued conversationally. “But what we were wondering is if perhaps Claire started putting on some pressure, for a divorce or something like that?”

“Or, better,” Mac, combative, interjected, “if you don’t tell your wife, maybe she will. Claire’s sick and tired of being your bed sheet. So, she puts the wood back to you: tell your wife or she will.” His voice rising, “Now as these things go, that’s not good for a husband cheating on his wife. All you want is a little something on the side, especially something as hot as Claire Daniels. But you can’t have that little something stirring up problems at home. It wouldn’t be good for the political career.” Mac pointed at the senator. “And we’ve seen time and again how that political career, that power, that ambition outweighs everything else.”

Lich back in, calm. “So, you two naturally start to argue. But it escalates. It gets physical. It goes too far and, before you know it …” And then quietly, “You didn’t mean for it to happen, Senator. It was an accident.”

Captain Peters, having admired the performance of his two detectives, spoke directly to Hisle, “Manslaughter. Work with us and the district attorney will go that direction.”

The senator rolled his eyes. “Helen Anderson? I bet she’d sign off on this and file for my office the next day.”

“Mason, enough,” growled Lyman, obviously upset with his client. To the detectives, “You will excuse us.”

With that, Mac, Lich, and Peters headed out of the library and stepped outside.

• • • • •

Lyman and Senator Johnson headed downstairs to his game room. The senator was about to speak, but Lyman waved him off. This conversation would require some courage. He went to the bar, grabbed two glasses and put them up on the counter. He snagged the bottle of Wild Turkey off the back shelf and poured each glass a quarter full, shots. The senator sat down on a barstool, grabbed his glass, and knocked it back. Lyman did the same. Lyman looked at his glass and thought for a moment, another one? He decided the better of it. “Mason, we have issues here.”

“I’m sorry, Lyman. I spoke too much, but that little punk—”

“Did a number on you. And so did his partner.”

The senator jumped back in his barstool, thought for a moment, cognizance dawning. He nodded. “Yeah, they did.” He lifted his glass and Lyman poured him another small drink. He slammed it. “What do we do now?”

Lyman gave his friend another long look. “They’ve got you nailed pretty good, my friend. Do we need to discuss the offer made upstairs?”

The senator gave Lyman a quizzical look. “You think I did this?”

Lyman ignored the pleading voice, his own voice deep, hard. “I’m asking you this once, do we take the deal?”

The senator didn’t hesitate. “I did not do this.”

Lyman gave him one last long look and decided he believed his friend. Even if he didn’t, so what? He was the lawyer. He now had a job to do and a big one at that. “Okay, then, my friend. First thing you’ll do is shut the fuck up.” He couldn’t say that to most clients. Mason was his friend, and he needed a serious dose of reality. He couldn’t act like a United States senator anymore. He needed to listen to, instead of give—hell, ignore—direction. He’d also have to give some thought to giving up his seat, but that wasn’t Lyman’s call. That was one for the political people. Johnson just nodded, and Hisle continued. “I’m going to tell the detectives that we’re done.”

“They’re going to arrest me, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon. You were there that night. You admitted you had sex with her. And we learned a few more things.”

“Like?”

“No forced entry, nothing stolen, and, most importantly, time of death between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m.”

The senator pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we beat this?”

“Don’t know yet,” replied Lyman honestly. “We have a lot of work to do to create reasonable doubt.”

“Reasonable doubt?” growled Johnson. “Shit, reasonable doubt ain’t going to cut it. My career. Shit. My life is fucked if we don’t find who did this.”

“We’ll try, Mason,” Lyman replied.

“I’ve been fucking set up.”

“Like I said, we’ll try, but you better think about something else right now.”

“What’s that?”

“Gwen.”

• • • • •

They stepped outside, and Peters closed the door. Still standing on the steps, he took one long look at Lich and McRyan, smiled, and stated, “Boys, that was good work in there.”

“Shit,” replied Lich, laughing out loud. “Mac, just so you know, I wouldn’t expect a Christmas card from the senator.”

Mac smiled. “No, I don’t imagine I’ll make the list.”

Peters, chuckling along with his detectives, said, “Jesus Christ, Mac. ‘Your wife know you were fucking Daniels?’ I thought he was going to lunge across the table.”

They all shared a brief little laugh, and then Mac, back to business, said, “What’s next?”

“Well, much to your enjoyment, I’m sure,” replied Peters lightly, “you’ll be working with Sally Kennedy on writing up the summons and complaint.”

Mac wanted to say, “Fuck you,” but one didn’t respond that way to a captain. “You think we’re ready to go?”

“Yeah, I do.” Peters was going to say something else, but looked beyond the two of them out to the road, “Ahh, shit.”

• • • • •

Viper had followed them out from St. Paul. Once they’d reached Hisle’s, he’d scoped out his current position, half a mile away, standing in a park on the bluff, two hundred feet above. There were swing sets, slides, and sandboxes all over, abandoned since kids were in school and the cool weather of November had rolled in. He was by himself, looking down from the bluff with a pair of high-test binoculars. He would have been able to look inside Hisle’s house if the shades weren’t drawn.

Once he found his spot, he made the call. The boss wanted the heat turned up and fast. The first call was to Channel 12 and then to Daniels’s Channel 6. Once the call was placed, it took the Channel 12 news truck forty-five minutes to get out to Stillwater. Just as he saw the truck coming out of downtown Stillwater, the detectives walked out the front door. He was briefly concerned, would the media miss them? No. They weren’t leaving. Rather they were loitering around in front. The one Viper had learned was named Peters was standing on the front steps, facing him while McRyan’s and Lich’s backs were turned. Peters had a smile on his face, and it looked like the group was enjoying a laugh. Things must have gone well inside. Viper moved his head to the right and down slightly, picking up the van as it pulled up. He looked back up to Peters, and saw his smile vanish when the news van pulled up. He could read Peters’s lips, and while his smile may have vanished, a small one creased Viper’s face.

The front door opened, and Viper saw Hisle look out. Hisle saw the news van as well, and a grim look overtook his face. The detectives and Hisle went back in the house. The Channel 6 van pulled up just then. A reporter and cameraman got out. All four of them stood around talking, waiting for something to happen. They didn’t have to wait long.

• • • • •

Hisle carefully closed the front door before he turned to the three men. “When did they get here?”

“They just pulled up,” Peters replied.

“I guess it was inevitable,” said Hisle, and then a little suspiciously, “How do you suppose they found out?”

Peters gave Lich a little look. Did you talk? Lich gave a little shake of his head. No. “I don’t know, Lyman. They didn’t follow us, we made sure. I don’t know how they found out.”

Lyman shrugged. It was all going to come out anyway. “What will you say on the way out?”

“I assume that means we’re done?” asked Mac.

“Yes, it does. You’ll do what you have to do. Again, what will you say to the media?”

“For now, nothing,” replied Peters. “But we’ll be charging the senator, and that’ll be news. I’m sure the department and district attorney’ll have something to say.”

“I imagine so,” said Hisle with a wry smile. “I can’t imagine Helen Anderson missing time in front of the camera.”

Everyone shared a knowing smile. With that, the three of them left. Mac took the circular drive back out towards the main road. The media stood in the middle of the road. As he pulled up, Peters let his window down from the backseat. The blonde reporter was from Channel 12. Mac had seen her many times but couldn’t remember her name, Polly something or other. She stuck her microphone inside. “So what are you doing out here, is Senator Mason Johnson a suspect?” she asked.

No we’re out here enjoying the fall colors, Mac thought.

“We have no comment right now,” replied Peters.

Channel 6, a brunette, yelled, “Will you be arresting Senator Johnson?”

A better question, thought Mac.

“Again, we have no comment right now. You can contact Sylvia Miller later today. She’ll have something to say.” With that, Peters put his window back up, and they pulled away, heading back towards St. Paul. The media futilely yelled questions at the Explorer as they drove off.

Chapter Eleven

“The Cross files, right?”

The media was waiting for them when they got back to St. Paul at 5:00 p.m. Mac understood the attention that was coming. This was a big story: a United States senator implicated in the murder of a news reporter. It was going national as a story and would turn into a circus before all was said and done. Mac called Sally on the way in to let her know what had happened. They would be working late, he thought.

Once back, they headed up to Chief Flanagan’s office. Sylvia Miller met them in the hallway. They knocked and headed in.

The chief saw them come in and didn’t wait for them to sit down, “Tell me.”

“He did it,” said Peters.

“He admitted that, of course,” the chief replied wryly as he came from behind the desk and waved everyone towards the couch.

“Oh, yeah, all the way down to crushing her windpipe,” Lich chimed in as he found a spot on the couch to sit.

“Good, just in time for the media cabal out front.”

Everyone laughed a little. Sally Kennedy and Helen Anderson walked in just then and joined them over by the couch. The chief, down to business, asked more seriously, “So, what really happened?” Peters nodded to Mac.

He gave Flanagan the run down for the next several minutes. He stuck strictly to the facts. Peters, pimping his detectives, jumped in a couple of times to talk about the good cop, bad cop routine Lich and Mac had put the senator through. At the end, the chief was smiling. Mac liked Flanagan and so it was good to see a smile crack his face. It had been a long week for him.

“So,” the chief asked Mac, “we have our killer, do we?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess?”

Mac hesitated, “No. Probably our guy.”

The chief pressed, “You don’t seem so certain, boyo. What gives?”

Mac thought for a moment and decided, what the hell, he’d play devil’s advocate. “It’s too easy.”

“Hah,” Lich bellowed. “What’s wrong with easy? I love easy.”

“That explains Dot,” replied Mac with an evil grin. Lich scratched his nose with his middle finger. Kennedy saw the juvenile display between the two of them and giggled.

“Who’s Dot?” Peters asked, clueless.

“Nobody,” replied Mac. “I still can’t get over the fact that a guy this smart did this. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“When does murder ever make sense?” replied Lich. “I’ve spent twenty years dealing with it, and very few have ever made any fuckin’ sense.”

Mac nodded, “I know, I know. But something’s bothering me about this, and I can’t for the life of me put my finger on it.”

“Shit,” replied Lich dismissively. “The senator looked guilty as the day is long.”

“Agreed,” said Peters.

“I agree with you both for the most part,” Mac replied, scratching his head. “But there was a couple of times during the interview where I almost felt like he was …” he was grasping, “… I can’t explain it.”

Sally gave it a shot. “You felt like he was telling the truth?”

Mac pointed at her. “Yeah. Something like that. It was just a feeling I had a couple of times. That he had genuine emotion, not of guilt, but of loss. I can’t even tell you what triggered it.”

“Son,” the chief interjected, “I’ve seen guys who murdered their wives, girlfriends, best friends. After they did it, they felt a sense of loss, but you know what? They were still murderers.”

“And, Mac, if he didn’t do it,” Sally said quietly, thoughtfully, “who did?”

“Well, that’s the issue now, isn’t it?” Mac said. “Like I said, it was a feeling I had. I have no evidence, zero, zip, nada, to point at anyone else. It’s probably silly to have even have brought it up.” Mac sat back on the couch, exhaling, wishing he hadn’t said a thing about it. Lich was probably right. What’s wrong with easy?

The chief picked up on his disappointment, “Don’t feel bad about it, boyo. Senator’s been a convincing guy for a long time. You’re just reading a little too much into things, which happens.” The chief then smiled. “Bottom line is you and Lich have done a hell of a job here.”

Helen Anderson jumped in, “So, we charge him?”

“Mac?” Flanagan asked, prodding.

“We’d be idiots not to.”

“Agreed,” replied the chief, shooting Mac another big smile. “Helen, I think Ms. Kennedy, Mac, Lich, and Marion here need to get together and write it up.”

“I’ve already started, but I need the detectives to fill in some blanks,” Sally replied. “Who’s going to arrange for the senator to come in?”

“I’ll make the call,” said the chief. “We’ll work it out so that he can turn himself in voluntarily. Shall we make it tomorrow?” he asked in a hopeful voice.

“Yes, later in the morning,” replied Sally.

“Good,” and to Mac, Lich, and Peters, “You boys off with Ms. Kennedy. I’ll call you with the particulars on when Johnson’ll be coming in.”

“Any chance you’ll have to go and arrest him?” Anderson asked.

“Nah,” replied Peters. “That’d only add to the media attention. Johnson’ll want to start working the jury now.”

“Which means that he’ll be ever so cooperative,” added Sally. “Let’s get this thing written up.”

The chief said, pointing to Mac, Lich, and Peters, “You heard her, go to work.”

“What about a statement for the media?” asked an excited Sylvia Miller. “We could make the 6:00 p.m. news.”

Mac couldn’t blame her for being excited. It had been a rough week for her as well.

“We can talk about that, Helen. Why don’t you stick around as well,” the chief replied. “Boys, good work.”

• • • • •

Viper and the boss had been watching from his office, sitting on the couch, having a drink. The boss had a bank of seven televisions mounted into a built-in cabinet—a large screen in the middle and three smaller screens on each side. They had on all of the local stations, plus CNN and FOX News. Senator Johnson’s impending arrest for Daniels’s murder was on every television. The media circus began in earnest with Viper’s little tip to news stations earlier in the day. The media had footage of the detectives leaving Hisle’s place in the Explorer, as well as pulling into the Department of Public Safety. “A wonder why they didn’t just follow them with a van or chopper,” said the boss.

The highlight, at least for Viper and the boss, was the joint statement of Sylvia Miller and Helen Anderson that they would be arresting the senator for the murder of Claire Daniels. Anderson was particularly giddy, loving the attention. She apparently was prepared for the press conference as she was immaculately dressed in a blue power suit, her hair perfectly placed with just the right amount of makeup. She was good on camera, not a parsed word in her statement. Sylvia Miller, on the other hand, just looked relieved, which probably was the view of the entire department. Between the Daniels case and the serial killer, it had been a rough week for them, Viper thought.

“It’ll be crazy tomorrow,” mused the boss.

“Yes, sir, it will.”

“Will we rest easier now that the senator has been charged?”

Viper thought for a moment and replied, “Not just yet.”

The boss nodded, “The Cross files, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we at on that?”

“We’ve been searching. We can’t find them, assuming the original files are still out there somewhere.”

“We need to assume they are.”

“Yes, sir.” The Cross files could hang them all. They mistakenly fell into the hands of the company’s CFO, who had been dealt with as well. They had a copy of the Cross files, but the originals had proven elusive. The concern was that the originals had been shared with or were in Daniels’s possession.

“The files were not at Daniels’s place. I looked everywhere.”

“And what about our dearly departed CFO?”

“Nothing. I went through her place twice, both before and after and found nothing. We have checked through our contact at her bank—no safe deposit box. There was nothing on the laptop or work computer. We searched her mother’s place in Arizona and her sister’s place in Florida; nothing. We searched her house and have been tracking her mail; nothing.”

“So, where are they?”

“I don’t know, sir. We’ll keep looking.”

“What about Channel 6?”

“We had someone there the night we took out Daniels, two nights before and every night since. He’s on the cleaning crew,” Viper answered. “If we assume there is a file or box with 437 pieces of paper in Daniels’s work area or somewhere around the station, he would have found it by now,” he added, shaking his head, skeptical. “He’s going to try again tonight, but I think it’s a dead end. If they had the files, they’d have used them. If someone found them and was trying to make sense of it all, we’d have heard about it.”

“You think they don’t exist?” the boss asked with a raised eyebrow.

“All I know is we are looking everywhere and haven’t found anything.”

“Well, all I know,” replied the boss irritably, “is that we better find those damn documents before someone else does or we’re dead. Until they are found, we keep searching everywhere.”

Viper shared his boss’s irritation. If the files existed and were found by the wrong people, he would be on the run for the rest of his life. He prepared for the eventuality of that. He had plans in place to be on the run for years, both while in government service and out. These were options he didn’t want to exercise. Living somewhere in South America would be tolerable. Someplace warm and sunny would be fine. But, he liked his home in Minnesota, the winter retreat in the Caymans, the Vette, and his hefty salary. He hated to have to give all that up.

“We’ll keep looking.”

• • • • •

It had been another long night spent with Sally. They finally got started putting together the complaint around 7:00 p.m. Mac reflected on the fact, that despite his reservations, they had an awfully solid case. They had charged, and obtained convictions, with far less. Of course, Lyman Hisle usually wasn’t on the other side. Nonetheless, seeing it all laid out on paper made him feel more comfortable. The chief was probably right; he was over analyzing the situation. It’s like Lich said, “What’s wrong with easy?”

Speaking of easy, Lich was the first to leave. Dot paged him, and he was raring to go again. He left around 9:00 p.m., quietly promising Mac that he owed him big time. Captain Peters hung around. He’d been through this a thousand times and made several useful suggestions about putting the complaint together. Sally had done this many times as well. Mac was, by comparison, a little green with the process and humbly realized he still had plenty to learn.

Around 10:30 p.m., with the complaint pretty much done, Captain Peters left. “You two get going soon. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow.” Sally said she wanted to go through it one more time, and Mac, being the most familiar with the case, stuck around to answer any questions. Convenient how that had worked out, he thought.

“Tomorrow will be exciting,” Sally said, while typing away, making a few changes. It had been fifteen minutes since she had said anything. Mac remembered how a law professor once said that a legal document is never written until it’s been edited and polished five times. Sally was proving that axiom a couple of additional times over. Focused and intense, the flirtations of the night before were suppressed. She was all business, and well she should be. Much of Mac’s work was over, but hers was only beginning. Not to mention that she would be going up against Lyman Hisle and Senator Mason Johnson. She had best get her game face on now.

“Yes, hopefully I’ll avoid much of it,” replied Mac.

“Not gonna happen. This is your case. You’ll be front and center.”

He sighed. “I imagine so.”

“Read through this one more time for me,” directed Sally as she left the office.

The State of Minnesota vs. Mason Johnson. The complaint laid out their evidence, and the case looked solid. Mac wondered what Lyman would do to create reasonable doubt.

Chief Flanagan called to let them know that the senator would turn himself in voluntarily at 10:30 a.m. Mac and Lich were to be there. He would be processed like any other suspect. After that, a bail hearing was set for 3:00 p.m. The chief and Helen Anderson had also decided to do a perp walk. Mac didn’t like that.

You did a perp walk when you wanted the public to see that you had arrested someone. This would involve walking the senator out in cuffs, putting him in an unmarked car, and driving the five blocks from the Department of Public Safety Building to the Ramsey County Courthouse. Then he’d be walked into the courthouse in cuffs and would appear in front of the judge. The whole process would be on the news. There would be pictures in the paper, and the media would yell questions at the senator while he was cuffed. It would be a spectacle.

Mac understood why the chief was doing it. It had been a hard week on the department and on Flanagan. Although he wasn’t good himself in front of the media, he knew that his department needed some good press. Especially since the serial killer had yet to be caught. Sylvia Miller probably would have pushed for the whole thing even if Helen Anderson hadn’t already approved it.

Sally reappeared, and Mac got a little whiff of perfume. Was that for him or the result of a long day and wanting to smell fresh? “This looks good,” he said.

“You feel better about the case now?”

Mac nodded. “Yes.”

“You should,” Sally replied, and then shifting gears. “I wish I could have seen the interview today.”

“You know, this shouldn’t be the case, but …” Mac hesitated.

“But what?”

“It gave me a charge, getting to the senator the way I did.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I heard he called you an ‘arrogant fuck.’”

“That he did.”

Sally nodded. “I get the same feeling on a good cross examination. You get someone to admit something they didn’t want to or you box them in, and it feels good. You get a high from it.”

“Exactly,” Mac replied.

She took one last quick look at the complaint. She looked satisfied with it. “What time is it?”

“Twelve fifteen.”

“Holy cow. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Me to.” He helped her put her coat on. “Where are you parked?”

“I’m across the street in the Vincent Ramp.” The Vincent Ramp, despite the efforts of its owners, was the darkest parking ramp around, with low ceilings, lots of pillars, and plenty of places to hide. It wasn’t the safest place in the middle of the day, let alone after midnight.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

The crisp, cool November air greeted them outside. It felt good after a night in Sally’s cramped and stuffy office. The Vincent Ramp was kitty corner from the courthouse. They took the elevator up to level four where her Camry was parked close to the elevator, under a light.

“Where are you parked?” Sally asked as she unlocked the car.

“Back at the department.”

“Jump in. I’ll give you a ride.”

They made small talk as they circled down to the ramp exit. It would be a short ride, five blocks. She took a right onto Wabasha and stopped at the light on Sixth, and her demeanor changed instantly. “So. Did my little outfit last night throw you for a loop?”

Mac bolted upright from his relaxed position. It had then, and now she’d done it to him again. He did some quick mental gymnastics. He didn’t want to say no, since that would turn her off and he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to come off cheesy either. He decided she was back in flirting mode, so why not join in. “Let’s just say I noticed.”

“Did you like what you saw?”

No screwing around obviously. “Yes.”

A little smile creased her lips. “I thought so.”

She turned left and the Public Safety Building was on the right with the parking garage just ahead of them. Unfortunately, a lot of uniform cops were hanging out front. Mac knew them all. Wherever this little conversation was heading, it would have to wait. If they got close here, he’d never hear the end of it. She pulled past all the cops and up close to the parking ramp entrance. Mac didn’t give her a chance to go any further. He opened the door and swung his leg out before he looked back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sally was smiling at him, the kind of smile that said you’re not going to get away so easy next time.

Chapter Twelve

“Where do you suppose he’s going?”

Mac and Lich stood on the front steps of the Public Safety Building and watched as Hisle’s limousine pulled up punctually at 10:30 a.m. The media was punctual as well, having been camped out since the crack of dawn. The arrest was a national story, with all the networks and cable news channels present and accounted for. The local channels were there as well, battling as best they could for space. FOX politicos like Fred Barnes and Mort Kondracke were already opining on what impact the senator’s involvement would have on party politics. Mac could never remember seeing so many microphones and cameras or so much hairspray in all his life.

Mac and Lich and a couple of uniform cops walked down to the curb. The senator would require an escort, not because Mac wanted any airtime, although Sylvia Miller kept saying it would be good for the department to be seen on camera arresting the senator, but more so because, if they didn’t, the media might crush him.

Hisle got out first and issued a perfunctory, “Good morning,” to Mac and Lich. He examined the crush of media forming around them.

“Sorry, Lyman, not much we can do,” Mac said as he leaned down into the open door to see the senator sliding over to get out. He looked back at Hisle. “Are you guys going to say anything to the media on the way in or—”

“Just get us in,” Hisle replied.

Mac looked back down at the senator, who was obviously not happy to see him. Mac ignored it. “Senator, when you get out, we’re just going to plow through them. Keep your hands on my back. Lyman’ll be on your side and Detective Lich and the uniform cops’ll be behind you.”

The senator nodded and climbed out of the limo. Everyone looked ready, so Mac turned and headed up the steps, everyone right behind him. They plowed through the media. Mac was hit a couple of times by microphones, and he pushed a camera guy from CNN a little harder than he would have liked, causing him to fall to his knees, hearing a, “Hey, man,” as he pushed past. They eventually got inside, the doors closing the media out.

“This way, Senator,” Mac said, pointing to an elevator that would take them down to booking. Johnson and Hisle had a brief discussion, and Mac heard Hisle say, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” That would be the arraignment hearing.

The rest of the process, including pictures and fingerprints, took a good hour. Since the senator was going to the arraignment this afternoon and was likely to get bail, they didn’t put him in jail clothes. Once the processing was complete, Mac and Lich walked the senator to an isolated jail cell away from the rest of the general populace. He entered the cell and stood with his back to them, hands on hips, surveying his new temporary digs.

“We’ll be down for you in a couple of hours,” Lich said.

Mac and Lich took the elevator back upstairs. “I want to see if I have any messages,” Lich said. Mac chuckled, figuring Lich was looking for something from Dot. Old Dick Lich had a definite spring in his step the last two days. Instead of complaining about his divorce, he was focused on work and had been masterful the day before with the senator. Mac was starting to see why people said Lich had been a good detective. Lich’s new-found vigor caused his mind to briefly drift to Sally. She had been flirting again last night, and he’d basically admitted his interest. Bill Clark snapped him out of his daydream, handing him a pink message slip.

“This guy just called in,” Bill said. “He lives in an apartment along the alley behind Daniels’s place. You left your card for him.”

Mac searched in the back of his mind for a moment, “Oh, yeah, out of town or something.”

“Right. Anyway, he called.”

“Say anything?”

“Nope. He just said you should call him.”

Mac dialed the number.

• • • • •

The senator sat on the bed and looked at the floor. Two days before, he had been lunching in the Senate dining room. Now, he was sitting on a bed in a gray cinder-block jail cell, with no window to the outside world, accused of murdering the woman he loved. How had it come to this?

Somebody set him up. They would have to figure out whom. He realized his political career was probably over. Even if he was acquitted, the taint would never go away. If Lyman could actually prove he was innocent, well that might be a different story. However, at the moment, he feared that he might not be able to do that. But if he could, it might help save his career for some future point in time. Of course, if he ever did run again, this whole thing would be brought up. And, even proven innocent, it would be known that the woman who died was his mistress; at least that’s how the public would perceive it. He was cheating on his wife, caught red-handed. While not fatal if already in political office, it would make it a hell of a lot harder to get back in.

Lyman set him straight the night before. For now, he had to forget about his career. They needed to focus on keeping him out of jail. He was looking at a life sentence. This was what had to be avoided. This would be Lyman’s focus. Hisle had already hired a private investigator to look into other possible killers.

Mason leaned back on the bed, his head against the cold cinder block, closed his eyes, and thought about his last night with Claire. He’d never been with a woman like her—beautiful, energetic, passionate. She said she was probably coming to Washington. He had been so happy.

Telling his wife about all of this had been awful. He suspected Lyman heard her screaming from the other end of the house. Not only did she find out that her husband had been cheating on her—no, that wasn’t bad enough—but her husband, having embarrassed her in that fashion, was now implicated in the murder of the woman. Not only that but Mason waited too long; she heard it first from a reporter and not him.

He admitted to the affair; no sense hiding it now. He had intended to ask for a divorce. The timing just hadn’t been right to do it. “Don’t you worry, the divorce will be coming,” was her response. There would be no supportive wife through this.

He just had to get through this somehow. He had plenty of money put away. Between what he inherited from his parents as an only child, and his private sector and Senate earnings, he was in good shape. Gwen earned more than he had for years, so the divorce would not be financially crippling. Upon reflection, if he could beat this, he could go somewhere far away and live. It would not be the life he envisioned for himself two days before, but things could be worse—he could be living in a cell like this for the rest of his life. An island somewhere, with the ocean, the sun, and a cocktail; while not the Senate dining room, it beat the alternative.

Get through the arraignment, arrange for bail, and get out of the Twin Cities. He decided to go up to his cabin afterwards. It was only an hour or so away, so if he had to drive in to see Lyman, he could. Better yet, he could have Lyman come out there. He could ice fish, snowshoe, cross-country ski, and snowmobile. There were other cabins around, but he had ten acres to himself. The isolation would be good. He felt better just thinking about it.

He took his suit coat off, loosened his tie, and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to nap. About the time he felt himself dozing off, the steel door to the cell opened, and the older detective, Lich, appeared with another detective he hadn’t seen before.

“Time to go, Senator,” Lich said.

“Where’s your partner?” the senator asked.

“He’s working on something.”

• • • • •

It took Mac a minute to realize that Paul Blomberg was worth a look. Blomberg lived in an apartment building that backed up to the alley that split Daniels’s block in half. He had left for Las Vegas on the morning they found Daniels’s body and didn’t know anything was going on. He returned late the night before and found Mac’s card. He wasn’t sure what he saw exactly, but it might be easier to show him.

Blomberg was the typical late-twenties single professional living on Grand Avenue. His apartment was like many found in the area, a one-bedroom job, wood floors, built-in wooden buffets, and tiny kitchens. Blomberg had just gotten back—his suitcase was sitting in the middle of the apartment, three days of newspapers and mail stacked on top. Blomberg may have been a professional, but he looked worn out, his hair disheveled, a few days of growth on his beard, and dark circles around his eyes. He was drinking coffee out of an oversized mug.

After shaking his hand, Mac asked, “You always look like this?”

“Funny guy,” replied Blomberg, “Vegas for three days’ll do this to you.”

“I imagine it might. How’d you come out?”

“About even. No good at the craps table, but the sports book wasn’t bad.”

“Yeah? What treated you good there?”

“The Wild, man.”

Mac smiled, “Put a little money on the road win at Colorado, did you?”

Blomberg returned the smile, “Man knows his puck.”

“I know a thing or two about the game,” Mac replied. “So, tell me about what you couldn’t explain on the phone.”

Blomberg waved him back to the kitchen. It was small, a little fridge and stove and barely enough counter space for a sink and microwave. There was a side window overlooking a parking lot. A small dinner table in front of the window had a toaster and a wood spire that held four mismatched coffee cups. Mac looked out the window. On the other side of the parking lot was Kozlak Foodmart, where Mac often grocery shopped.

“So?”

“Well, she was killed when?”

“Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“Hmm. I wonder,” Blomberg said.

“What did you see?”

“It was 2:45 to 3:00 a.m., and I was up. Just couldn’t sleep. Wish I could have that night, too, because there wasn’t much to be had in Vegas,” Blomberg said, and he paused, his mind obviously back on the Vegas trip again.

“Yeah, so?” Mac replied.

“Anyway,” Blomberg said, sipping his coffee, “I decided I’d make a piece of toast and have a glass of milk, figuring maybe that would help me sleep.”

“That’s nice,” a little impatient.

Blomberg picked up the pace, “Anyway, as I’m waiting for the toaster to pop, I see this van pull up in the parking lot, lights out. Kind of odd at that time of night, I thought.”

“So the lights are out. What happened then?” Mac asked, peering out the window.

“Anyway, it pulls up, and it looks like the passenger-side sliding door opens.”

“What do you mean looks like?”

“If you look out the window, you’ll see. The van turned away from me. It pulled up parallel to the guardrail there. As it was turning to go to the guardrail, the door looked like it started to open.”

Mac peered down, then looked back at Blomberg. “Then what?”

“Some guy came from across the alley, jumped in, and they pulled away.”

“Some guy?”

“Yeah, he just ran from over there on the right, across the alley, and jumped in the van, and they pulled away.”

“Did you get a look at the guy?”

Blomberg shook his head. “It was really dark, and he was dressed in dark clothes.”

“See a face, anything like that?”

“No. Not at all. Like I said, it was dark.”

“Tall, short, heavy, slight?”

“Sorry, man. I couldn’t make any of that out.”

Mac took a look out the window. The lot had parking spaces on the east and west side, as well as a row down the middle. There was a short guardrail that separated the parking lot from the alley. The guardrail prevented someone from pulling into the lot from the alley. “Let’s go down and take a look.”

They got down to the parking lot, and Mac walked to the guardrail at the back. He looked up to the apartment and Blomberg’s window.

“So the van pulled up here?” Mac pointed to the area in front of the guardrail.

“A little further away.”

Mac walked another ten feet, “Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now where did the guy you saw come from?”

“I didn’t see where he came from really. I saw him come from the alley and jump in the van. The van pulled away pretty fast, and I don’t think the door was even closed when they drove away.”

“Show me where he was in the alley when you saw him.”

Blomberg climbed over the guardrail and stood in the middle of the alley. “I didn’t see where he came from. I was watching the van, and I noticed him out of the corner of my eye.”

Mac walked over to where Blomberg was standing. He looked back east down to the other end of the alley and the left turn into the back of Daniels’s place. Mac walked down the alley towards Daniels’s place. The alley was narrow, but there were all kinds of garages along the left side and a few interspersed between the various businesses and apartments on the right. There were several tall trees and a couple of large weeping willows. Mac thought about when he was a kid playing kick the can. He could have hidden forever in this alley.

Whomever Blomberg saw could have come from anywhere, Mac decided. He could have been coming from a party, the Mardi Gras bar, maybe getting a little action from someone in one of the apartments. He could have been robbing one of the businesses. Of course, he could also have killed Daniels. How likely was that? Mac scratched his head, looking around. Blomberg seemed on the level. “What time was this again?”

“Two forty-five to 3:00 a.m. Something like that. I remember looking at my clock when I got up, and it was 2:45. I’m not sure how long I was in the kitchen.”

“Why didn’t you call it in that night?”

“It didn’t seem like that big a deal to me. You see all kinds of weird stuff these days. I see people get picked up in the alley all the time. They’re going on a date or getting dropped off from one. Just didn’t seem like much at the time.”

Mac thought a little more. Time of death was between 1:00 and 2:00 a.m., and they had the senator leaving her place at that time. There was no evidence of forced entry, no evidence of anything being stolen, no evidence that anyone came in the back. Odd though. Mac figured it was probably nothing, but he would have to go back and write it up.

• • • • •

Viper and another member of his crew, Allain Bouchard, trailed McRyan. When McRyan came down with the guy and walked to the guardrail in the back of the lot, Viper got nervous.

He climbed out of the van and walked over to the Foodmart. There was an awning that ran one-third of the way along the east side of the building, offering cover for the entrance. Underneath the awning was a Pioneer Press newspaper box. Viper popped in a quarter, took out a paper, and walked to the far edge of the awning. He could see where McRyan was walking around and looking at the alley and where they had pulled the van up on the night they took out Daniels.

He saw the guy point to the exact place they had stopped the van, then climb the guardrail and stand in the alley. Viper had come from the garage on the other side. McRyan joined the guy in the alley and then began walking down towards Daniels’s place. Too close already, Viper decided not to follow any further. Five minutes later McRyan came walking back. The guy and McRyan walked back towards the front of the apartment. McRyan didn’t go back inside the building, instead stopping on the sidewalk, jotting down some notes.

Viper dropped the paper in the garbage can and walked back across the street as McRyan climbed back into his Explorer, pulled out, and did a U-turn in the middle of Grand, and headed back towards downtown. Viper jumped back into the van. “Follow him.”

McRyan dropped the Explorer off at the Pub and walked the three blocks to the courthouse. Viper looked at his watch—2:55 p.m. The arraignment hearing would start in five minutes.

“So, what do you think?” Bouchard asked.

“I gotta talk to the boss.”

• • • • •

Mac was late for the bail hearing. He saw Lich and went to sit next to him. Lich said, “It just started. I think the judge is going to knit the flag.”

Mac immediately realized Lich was right. Generally, the few times Mac had been to these hearings, the judge would dispense with these motions with little fanfare. Not today. Judge Jedediah Mattingly was in the spotlight, and he wasn’t going to waste it. There were media galore in the courtroom. The judge, his hair usually a little unkempt the times Mac had seen him, was immaculately dressed, a sharp dark-blue tie and white dress shirt under his robe. Mattingly introduced the case with great drama, talking about the importance of justice and the seriousness of his role. He then motioned towards Sally, “The prosecution may proceed.”

Sally stood up, “Thank you, Your Honor. May it please the court …” She looked great in a black power skirt suit that formed perfectly to her slender body. Her red hair was swirled perfectly in the back. She looked great. The cameras would be all over her.

Whereas the judge made a spectacle of himself, Sally did not. It was like any other case. She made her arguments in a straight-forward manner, emphasizing what Mac thought were the key points. Bail of one million dollars would be in order, given the nature of the crime, she argued. The judge’s eyes shot up at that.

“One million dollars, Ms. Kennedy?”

“It’s murder one, Your Honor. The state feels that accurately reflects the nature of the offense and the ability of the defendant to pay. The defendant surely has the means to flee. This bail is fair and appropriate.”

Sally had told him the judge would never set bail that high, but she wanted to make a point. She thought it more likely that bail would be set at $500,000, only ten percent of which would have to be put down with the bail bondsman.

The judge turned to Lyman, “Mr. Hisle.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The defendant has no intention of fleeing. He has every intention of proving his innocence and will be here for trial.” Hisle went on to make several other arguments. Again, Sally nailed it on the head as to what Lyman would do. “Therefore, your honor, we feel bail in the amount of $100,000 would be more appropriate.”

Each side made some additional rebuttal arguments, and Judge Mattingly drew it to a close. Before rendering his decision, he engaged in more grandstanding, orating on the seriousness of the case, the fairness of the justice system, and the gravity of his responsibilities. “Auditioning for Court TV, I think,” Lich quipped.

“He wants Judge Judy’s gig,” Mac replied.

With great drama, Mattingly finally, and thankfully, announced, “Bail is set at $500,000.” He pounded his gavel, “Court is adjourned,” and with great dramatic flair he exploded out of his seat and through his chambers door. Sally had hit it right on the head.

The media, en masse, burst out of their seats to head outside for their news reports. Mac looked at his watch, 3:50 p.m. Conveniently, everything was completed in time for the 5:00 p.m. eastern time news shows. Undoubtedly this would be a top, if not the top, story.

Mac and Lich followed the press out, and someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Sally. He grinned at her and said, “You were right on the money.”

“Seemed like the right number,” she said, and then she whispered, “Are you going to the Pub later?”

In fact I am, Mac thought. “Yes.”

“See you there?” she asked.

“Yeah, maybe we can grab some dinner?”

“Sounds good,” she replied with a smile.

As they came out of the courtroom, the media were swarming. There was a bright glare from the lights. Questions were being yelled from all angles, and there were microphones and cameras everywhere. Helen Anderson was holding court, saw Sally, and waved her over. Helen wanted the attention, but the media probably wanted to speak with the prosecutor who would actually be handling the case.

Mac quipped, “Your public awaits.”

Sally replied with a mock flip of her hair, “How do I look?”

Mac whispered in her ear, “I like what I see.”

She gave just a little giggle and a smile and walked over to the cameras and microphones. Mac and Lich ducked into an elevator, trying to get away before somebody wanted to talk to them. Amazingly, when the elevator closed, it was only them and a couple of uniform cops. Lich naturally didn’t miss a thing. “Won’t be long now.”

“What won’t be long?” Mac replied wearily, knowing what was coming.

“You and Kennedy.”

“Jesus.”

One of the uniforms, Norb Rodriguez, joined in, “Hell, Mac, I thought you hit that already. She’s a looker. You see that suit?” His partner nodded along with a big smile.

Mac just shook his head. “Since when did I become National Enquirer material?”

“Hey, us married guys like having something to talk about,” replied Rodriguez.

“Face it, boyo,” said Lich, doing his Chief Flanagan impersonation, “you’re a popular guy who everyone likes, and frankly, you need to get laid.” Lich held his hands out, “What can I say? People just want to see you happy.”

Mac replied, rather lamely, he thought, “I wasn’t aware I was unhappy.”

Lich rolled his eyes. “You’re joking, right?”

Mac shook his head. The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and they walked out. He thought they avoided the media, but he was wrong. Sylvia Miller and the chief were conducting a press conference, and they got dragged in. In front of the cameras, Mac and Lich received the appreciation of the chief and the entire department for so quickly making an arrest. Thankfully, they weren’t required to answer any questions before Miller and the chief brought it to a close.

Mac was already taking a lot of shit because of Sally; it would only double now. He could just hear it at the bar tonight, his Uncle Shamus would undoubtedly be leading the ribbing, “Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the savior of the St. Paul Police Department, a fine Irish lad, Michael McKenzie McRyan.” Before Mac and Lich left, Chief Flanagan wanted them to stop by his office. Mac knew happy hour would be getting an early Friday start.

As they walked back to the station, Lich asked, “So what happened this afternoon?”

Mac related what he’d learned from Blomberg. Lich was unmoved.

“It’s probably nothing, but you better let Kennedy know.”

“I imagine I’ll get the chance at some point,” replied Mac. “And I’m sure our conversation will appear in the gossip column the next day.”

Chapter Thirteen

“They say there are three periods in a hockey game.”

Mac and Lich spent a happy hour with the chief, Captain Peters, and Sylvia Miller in Flanagan’s office. They watched the replays of the evening news, laughed and applauded about what everyone had said on camera. Helen Anderson and Sally had been effusive in their praise of the police department, of Lich and Mac in particular. The cadre hooted at the TV when the senator and Hisle declared innocence, confident that when the evidence was presented, Johnson would be found innocent. Lich was his usual humorous self. “He’s guiltier than my second wife.”

Everyone had a drink, except the chief, who had at least two. Mac could understand why. Flanagan looked like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. That feeling would be short-lived, of course. With the serial killer still at large, the headaches would start up again first thing Monday morning. But that was Monday, and it was Friday—time to celebrate.

After having finished their drink, Mac looked at Lich, who nodded, time to go. They shook hands with everyone on the way out. Flanagan walked them through his door out to the waiting area, obviously happy, “Off to the Pub for you, boys?”

“At least for me,” Mac replied.

“What about you, Dick?”

Mac jumped in, “Well, Chief, I think ole Dicky boy here has a hot date with Dot.”

Lich gave him a dirty look. The chief was amused. “Haven’t learned your lesson yet?” Lich’s messy divorces were the subject of many a humorous story, usually told by Dick himself.

Lich shrugged his shoulders, “Chief, I’ve found that women are the one mistake continually worth making. Something my partner should realize.”

Flanagan laughed, a happy laugh, and put his arm around Mac’s shoulder, “I’m sure our young friend here will get around to Ms. Kennedy sooner or later.”

Even the chief knew about this, good grief. Mac stared at Lich who had another one of his shit-eatin’ grins on his face. Pay back was a bitch, boyo. Mac decided to cut his losses and turned to leave, “Come on, Dick Lick, give me a ride to the Pub.”

The chief laughed again, patted them both on the back, “You guys have a good time tonight. You’ve both earned it.”

They left Flanagan behind and jumped in Lich’s little purple Dodge Neon. Mac laughed every time he saw the heavyset Lich get behind the wheel. He made the Neon look like a toy car. Mac looked in the backseat. It looked as if half of Dick’s closet was in the backseat. “Geez, you livin’ in the car?”

Lich smiled and said, “I haven’t been home much this week.”

“Does the backseat maybe turn into a Murphy Wall-bed?”

Lich laughed, “I’ll mention that to Dodge. Maybe that could be an upgrade in this thing.” Lich dropped him off in front of McRyan’s Pub, “Have a good one, Mac.”

“You, too.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, boyo.”

Mac closed the car door and Lich was off. He walked in the front door and took in the crowd. Friday night was always a good night for the Pub. Cops always stopped off for a beer before heading home. Beers were cheap for any cop on Friday night, a never-ending happy hour. But this night was different. There were cops everywhere, double—maybe triple—the normal crowd. Mac could tell immediately that a cloud had lifted over the department. Everyone was in a good mood. Mac tried to reach the bar unnoticed. No dice. Once he was spotted, the place erupted.

As expected, Uncle Shamus made a spectacle of his nephew. There were backslaps all around, and Mac knew he wouldn’t have to pay for a drink all night. Of course, there was plenty of good-natured ribbing for being on television. Bonnie Schmidt, who had been at Daniels’s the morning they found her body, was in a happy mood. “You looked great on television.”

“Thanks, Bonnie, although I’d just as soon avoid the attention.”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

Mac winced. He didn’t want to be some billboard for the department. He shoved that aside; it was Friday night, time to celebrate.

He soaked it up and enjoyed the next hour.

• • • • •

The boss took the news calmly. The operation on Daniels had been planned in three days. They only had that amount of time to conduct surveillance and form a plan. They were lucky that the senator was involved. It had created great cover. But with that narrow of a window, any number of things could go wrong. McRyan checking out their pick up point was one of those things. The unearthing of their pick up spot had not stopped the hearing from going forward. Viper seriously doubted that finding it would have caused that. However, McRyan would make a report of what he had learned, and it would be disclosed to counsel for the senator as part of defense discovery. The defense would obviously investigate other scenarios. Once they started looking, what else might they find?

“You’re concerned about this?” the boss asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you really think this would be enough to create any sort of reasonable doubt on the case?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. But once they start looking—”

“Who knows what they will find,” the boss finished it for him and took a sip of coffee. No drinks. This wasn’t a happy hour. “I think it’s obvious what we need to do.”

• • • • •

Mac had a few beers and enjoyed himself thoroughly. Backslaps and thanks came one after another. He wanted to advance on merit as a cop. He wanted to live up to his father’s name. On this night, he felt like he’d done that. A couple of veteran detectives came up and gave him the, “Your dad would have been proud today,” making the night that much sweeter. Any doubts he had about the case had been washed away by the last couple of hours. People a lot more experienced than he were happy, so why shouldn’t he be? The beers had given him a little buzz, and he was feeling good.

He was standing in the back when he saw Sally come in the front. She’d dropped her hair down, and her glasses were gone. Nonetheless, she was immediately recognized and swarmed once inside, taking in some of the good cheer from the crowd. She’d said nice things about the police on TV. Any prosecutor who did that would earn goodwill, and tonight, free drinks.

They made eye contact, and she slowly worked her way back to him. She looked at his beer. “Buy me one of those?” Mac looked at the bartender, holding up his beer. Another one appeared immediately. She took a long drink.

“A pretty happy group in here.”

“I’d say so.” Mac took a quick look around. Lots of people were looking his way.

“You look happy too,” Sally said.

“I am. It’s been a good day.”

They both took a drink. He took a long look at her. She was attractive. She was interested, and he had pretty much admitted the same. Enough screwing around, it was time. “Everyone seems to think you and I are an item.”

“So I hear,” she replied with a little smile and put her beer up to her lips.

“Well then, why don’t we act like it?”

She dropped her beer from her lips and gave him a serious look.

“I’m parked out back.”

She nodded and put her beer on the bar. At this point, neither of them cared if anyone saw them leave. They walked down the back hallway, and Mac said, “My place?”

“Okay.”

Mac held the back door open, and she walked through. Mac followed, and she stopped, turned around and kissed him, deeply, a long, slow, soft, wet kiss. Months of hurt and frustration were released. They stopped and looked in each other’s eyes. He lightly took her hand and led her over to the Explorer, opening the passenger door for her to get in. He went around and got in, and they embraced again.

“We better go,” she said after a few minutes.

He pulled out of the lot and made his way over to Ramsey Avenue and across the I-35E bridge and up the hill towards Summit. She leaned over and kissed him on the neck and nibbled on his ear as he drove, sending a shiver down his spine. Turning right onto Summit, he accelerated the two blocks to his place. Once the Explorer was inside the garage, he undid his seatbelt and pulled her to him.

“Take me inside,” she whispered breathlessly, her mouth a centimeter from his.

They got out and walked briskly arm in arm to the back door. They made it halfway up the backstairs before they embraced again. Carefully he moved up her skirt and picked her up so she was straddling him, carrying her up the rest of the steps, while she nibbled, breathing heavily in his ear. He dug in his pocket for his keys while she kissed him on the neck. The door opened, and Mac dropped the keys on the table, shutting the door with a back kick. Quickly they moved to the bedroom, where they feverishly took off each other’s clothes and fell into bed.

• • • • •

The senator managed to fly beneath the media radar long enough to get away to his cabin on Cedar Lake, an hour west of the Twin Cities. It was a large A-frame cabin that had four bedrooms on the main level and a loft that slept six more. It had been his parents’ place, and, since he was an only child, he had inherited it upon their deaths. He arranged to have it stocked with food and drink at all times. Upon his arrival, he went immediately to the liquor cabinet and found an unopened bottle of tequila. He was going to get drunk, plain and simple. Tomorrow, Lyman and his crew were going to come out and start discussing defense strategy. They would be there at 10:00 a.m., but for tonight, he was going to take the bottle of tequila, watch television, and drink his problems away.

He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and the ice bucket from the counter. He filled the bucket with ice, headed for the couch, sat down, and poured a drink. He knocked it back and poured himself another and put that one down as well before grabbing some ice and pouring a drink for sipping.

A classic movie was in order, and he grabbed the remote. A little channel surfing struck pay dirt. To Catch a Thief was on, a Hitchcock classic with Cary Grant and the hypnotically beautiful Grace Kelly. An appropriate movie, he thought, since it was about a man framed for a crime he did not commit. His feet up on the coffee table, he leaned back on the couch and took a long drink from his glass.

• • • • •

Mac and Sally slept for a couple of hours until the sound of the furnace kicking in caused her to wake. She snuggled her head on his chest. She felt good, like a woman again. It had been a long time. A year and a half, she thought upon reflection. She’d let off a lot of pent-up frustration and pain.

The first time had simply been sex; both of them so horned up, ripping their clothes off, struggling with each other on the bed. The first time was always awkward, she thought. Not that she’d had lots of first times. She had some friends who went through a lot more men than she had, who always said the first time was awkward. Her friends said that if the second time was bad, he was probably no good in bed.

She wasn’t sure she subscribed to that theory, but she didn’t need to worry. The second time, which occurred about fifteen minutes after the first, had been much better. McRyan knew what he was doing; there was no doubt about that. He was an energetic lover. The second orgasm was a result of McRyan bringing her there. She couldn’t help herself when it happened. He’d given her a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time. She smiled inwardly, she felt good, although her breasts were a little sore, and she realized it was probably beard burn. He’d certainly gone for them time and again.

She felt a little shiver and moved her body a little closer to his. He was warm, and she moved her arm slowly up and down his chest, playing with his chest hair. He awoke. She turned her head to him and gave him a soft little kiss. She stroked his face and looked into his dark-blue eyes. They were attractive eyes. “Sorry I woke you.” She didn’t really mean it.

“That’s okay.” He rolled slightly onto his side. “Are you warm enough?”

“I’m fine.”

He leaned down and gave her a little kiss. He lingered there, and she kissed him back, holding the kiss, sweeping with her tongue. She was ready for a third time. She couldn’t remember ever wanting or even going a third time. “You know,” she said as she rolled on top of him, and kissed him a little more deeply, “they say there are three periods in a hockey game.”

“Yes, there are,” he replied, lightly moving his fingers up and down her back.

“Well, we’ve only played two,” she said as she could feel him stiffening beneath her. She kissed him again while reaching back down to slide him in.

“Let’s play hockey.”

Chapter Fourteen

“I’m a regular crime fighting hero.”

Mac woke up and looked at the clock: 8:00 a.m. The sunlight blazed through the shades of the windows. Normally an early riser, he couldn’t remember the last time he slept in so late. He rolled his naked body slowly to the side of the bed, not wanting to wake Sally.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes a little and looked for his boxers. It took a few minutes to find them as their clothes lay everywhere. Finally, he saw them over by the door. Quietly, he pushed himself out of bed, walked over and pulled them on. He grabbed his robe from the hook behind the door.

Looking back at her, she looked wonderful. Her shoulder-length hair falling across her face, the blanket covering only the lower half of her body. The rays of light coming through the shades brushed across her, making her look almost angelic. He tiptoed out of the room and headed for the bathroom, engaged in some morning mechanics and left a new toothbrush out for Sally. Once finished, he headed for the kitchen.

He was tired and exhilarated all at the same time. It had been quite a night. His legs felt heavy—sex legs, they had called them when he was in college.

He started a pot of coffee and went down the steps to the back door to grab the newspaper. The arrest was front-page news, with Mac and Lich pictured above the fold, side by side with a picture of the senator and Hisle. A smaller picture below the fold had Sally and Helen Anderson from their press conference. As he walked back up the steps, he scanned the stories, reading the facts that had already become intimately familiar. Inside the front page, the political wags were frothing at the mouth, discussing all of the possible political ramifications. It was speculated that Senator Johnson would need to resign in the very near future.

By the time Mac wandered back to the kitchen, the coffee was ready. He poured a cup and grabbed the sports page, wanting to see the Gopher hockey score. He had tickets for tonight’s tilt and wondered if Sally would want to go. He wouldn’t need to wait long to ask.

Sally was up and walking down the hall to the bathroom. He heard her laugh, probably at the toothbrush, and heard the water start running. A few minutes later she came walking into the kitchen, wearing his white dress shirt. She’d managed to fasten a button or two, and the shirt hung mid-thigh, revealing her thin, shapely legs.

“Good morning,” he said, handing her a cup of coffee. She leaned up and kissed him, then took the cup.

He handed her the front page, and she went over to the small kitchen table to sit down and read. “We both received front page treatment,” he said, pointing out their pictures. They spent a few quiet minutes reading the paper.

“So,” she said, looking up directly at him, “what are we doing here?”

“Drinking coffee, reading the paper,” he replied, momentarily ducking the question.

“You and me here, buster. Is this a one night gig?”

She was direct, and he rather liked it. It was not a one-nighter. Mac liked her, but he didn’t really know her yet. He wanted to change that. “Well, I thought we could go to breakfast,” he replied.

She smiled. “That’s a start.”

“I have tickets to the Gopher game tonight.”

“St. Cloud State?”

“Yup.”

“I’m game.”

“Well, why don’t we get dressed, I was thinking of the Cleveland Grille.”

“A big, greasy breakfast?”

“I need it, woman, because you wore me out. I haven’t checked the bedroom yet, but I think we embedded the headboard into the wall.”

She smiled, stood up, and slowly walked over to him. She pulled the string on his robe, allowing it to fall open. She put her hands around him, burying her head in his chest. They silently held each other for a minute. “Last night felt good,” she said quietly.

“Yes, it did.”

She pulled back, looked up, and kissed him, lightly at first, and then deeply. He undid the few buttons keeping her shirt closed, pushing it open to her shoulders. She pulled her arms back and let it fall to the floor. He admired her beauty. She had a wonderful body and looked incredibly sexy, her hair falling messily around her face. He pulled her close again, kissing her. He picked her up and carried her back to bed.

Two hours later, they were off for a late breakfast at the Cleveland Grille. Mac wanted a greasy breakfast burrito to get some fuel into his system. And he had another reason for hitting the Cleveland.

He saw Dot as he walked in, and he looked to his left. Lich was sitting back in the corner, his usual spot, reading the paper and drinking coffee. Sally looked at Mac with a sheepish smile, and he nodded his head to walk back. Lich looked up to see them coming, a big smile spreading across his face. “Well, what are you two doing here on this fine morning?”

“We couldn’t get in anyplace reputable, so I said we’ll go to the Cleveland and eat with Dick Lick.”

Lich cackled, “Fuck you,” and to Sally, “How are you, Counselor?”

“Fine, thanks. Reading your press clippings?”

“That I am. I’m a regular crime-fighting hero. They’ll be putting the statue downtown in Rice Park any day now.” Lich grabbed the front page and looked at it, pointing at the picture of Mac and himself, “Of course, I’d be a hell of a lot happier if they’d just used my photo. My partner here is just bringing me down.”

It was Mac’s turn to cackle, “Yes, we all know how big and bald sells papers.”

“I’d imagine they’re selling tons this morning,” another voice piped in. It was Dot. “Good morning, Detective, and I assume this is Ms. Kennedy?”

“And you must be Dot,” replied Sally.

Dot flashed her a smile. “What can I get you two?”

Sally took a quick look at the menu. “I’ll have a ham and cheese omelet and coffee.”

Dot looked at Mac, who had no need for a menu. “I assume you’ll have your usual?”

“Absolutely.”

“Coming right up.” With that, Dot turned and went to hand in their order.

Lich didn’t waste any time. He seldom did. “I figured you would finally get together last night.”

“Why is it,” Sally asked curiously, “that Mac and I have become such a topic of gossip?”

Lich smiled. “Well, Ms. Kennedy, I can’t speak for what’s going on around your office, but us cops, we happen to like our boy here. We just want to see him happy. This morning he looks happy.”

Mac wasn’t going to argue the point. The world felt a little different today. Lich was right. Women were a mistake worth making. He planned on making more mistakes with Sally. But first, he wanted to eat.

Their breakfast came, and he and Sally dug in while Lich continued to sip his coffee, reading the paper. They had a good time, laughing, Lich telling old stories. He was funny and could spin a yarn. The last week had given Mac newfound respect for him. He’d worked the case hard and had been masterful in the interview with the senator. Lich was back to being a good cop, working the job, and Mac liked it.

They finished their breakfast, and Mac was waiting for Dot to return with his credit card, when his cell phone burped. He looked at the number. The Public Safety Building. “McRyan,” he said, his body going cold. He listened a moment, then said, “You’ve got to be kidding.” That caught Lich’s and Sally’s attention.

Sally asked, “What is it?”

Mac put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “Mason Johnson’s dead.” Then into the phone, he said, “Where? How do we get there?” Mac gestured towards Lich, who handed him his notebook and pen. Mac jotted the directions. “Take us about an hour. Right. Thanks.”

“What the fuck?” Lich said.

“Hisle heads out to the senator’s cabin this morning, apparently to start working on the case. He shows up, looks in the back door and sees the senator hanging there. Suicide. Cabin’s out on Cedar Lake by Annandale.”

Sally put her hand up to her mouth. “I guess he really did it, didn’t he?”

Lich, regaining his composure, “I knew he did, but man, I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” Mac replied. “I’m heading out there. You guys coming?” They both nodded.

It took them a little over an hour to get to the cabin. As they drove west, it was apparent the sun wouldn’t last long. Clouds were rolling in, and the radio talked of rain mixed with snow later. They stopped in Annandale to grab coffee and cups as they doubted there would be any at the scene. From their stop in town, it took five minutes to get to the cabin. A sheriff’s deputy was working the end of the road. Mac let the window down, and flashed his badge, “St. Paul detectives and Ramsey County district attorney.”

“They said you were coming.” The sheriff’s deputy took a quick look at the ID to confirm and waved them through. Mac noticed a news van pulling up behind him as he rolled through.

They took the winding road up to the cabin. It was probably five hundred yards. “Pretty isolated,” Mac remarked.

They came to the cabin clearing and found three Chevy Tahoes with the Wright County insignia on them and an Annandale squad car. There were two other vehicles, one probably the senator’s and the other likely was Hisle’s. Mac parked the Explorer near a Tahoe, and they all climbed out. Mac saw Hisle sitting by himself on a picnic table and walked over to him. Lich and Sally followed.

It was rare you saw Lyman Hisle shocked. He saw Mac walk up, but a blank stare remained on his face. Mac put his hand on his shoulder, “You gonna be okay, Lyman?”

He nodded his head, looking out towards the lake. After a moment he said, “I guess you were right.”

“Lyman?”

Hisle looked up to Mac, shock and sadness on his face, “He did it. Why else do this?” he said, gesturing towards at the cabin.

“I’m sorry, Lyman.”

Hisle just shook his head and put his face into his hands. Lich looked at Mac and tilted his head towards the cabin. He was going to go take a look. Mac silently mouthed, “I’ll be a minute.” Then he leaned to Sally, quietly saying, “I think Lyman could use a cup. It’s chilly out here.” She nodded and headed back for the coffee.

After a moment, Lyman, more composed, spoke again. “I gotta tell ya, hell of a shock to find him that way.” Sally was back and handed him a cup of coffee. Lyman took a sip, some color returning to his face, some life to his expression. “He had me convinced, though. I thought we were going to trial with you, Ms. Kennedy.”

“You were inside?” Mac asked.

“Yeah. He hung himself from the rafters. Stood on a barstool, tied himself up, and kicked ‘er out.”

Mac looked at Sally and nodded for her to sit with Lyman. “I’m going inside.”

As he walked inside, they were lowering the senator’s body. Mac saw Lich in the front of the cabin, talking up the sheriff.

“Mac, this is Wright County Sheriff Rick Hansen.” Hansen was tall, well over six feet, in his early forties, with a developing pot-belly. He was a jovial guy who warmly shook Mac’s hand. “Thank you for your call, Sheriff.”

“You’re welcome. Saw plenty of you boys on the news last night,” Hansen said. “Hell of a deal here. I met the senator a few times. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Guess he did that murder, though.”

“That he did,” replied Lich.

Mac looked at the coffee table. There was an empty liter bottle of Jose Quervo and an ice bucket, half full of water. A drink glass was tipped on its side. “Looks like the senator required a little liquid courage first.”

Hansen walked over, “Yes, he did.”

“A whole liter? That’s a lot of courage,” Mac replied.

“True enough,” Hansen replied.

He took another look at the ice bucket, half full of water, “Must not have used much ice.” Mac looked at the bottle a little closer, being careful not to touch it. The paper seal for the cap on the neck of the bottle looked freshly opened, “Seal looks pretty fresh, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Drank this whole thing, huh?” Mac replied a little skeptically. A liter of tequila was a lot of liquor, forty-percent alcohol by volume. “Polishes this thing off and can still get up on the stool?”

Hansen caught his tone. “Yeah, we’re going to get a blood alcohol as part of the autopsy.”

Mac took a look at the rope, a real hangman’s noose with good tight knots. “He did a nice job on the rope.”

“Must have been a Boy Scout,” Lich quipped.

“Hmpf.” Mac nodded and walked over to the bar stool the senator used. “So, he stands on this, puts the rope around his throat and kicks it out?”

“That’s what we think,” replied Hansen.

Mac couldn’t argue with that, the stool was high enough that the senator could have used it. It was lying in the right place on the floor for him to have kicked it out. He probably tied the rope and hung it first, then got drunk on the tequila. Mac got ready to head out. “Thanks again, Sheriff, for the call. Will you send me a copy of the autopsy report?”

“Be happy to.”

Mac handed Hansen his card, shook his hand, and headed out with Lich. They walked back over to Lyman, who was talking with Sally.

“Lyman, was Johnson a big tequila drinker?” asked Mac.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Empty liter of tequila on the coffee table. Looks like he got himself pretty liquored up before he did it.”

“He wasn’t a teetotaler, I know that,” replied Lyman.

Mac nodded and looked around. The wind blew and sent a shiver down his spine. He flipped the collar up on his leather coat and put his hands in the pockets. He took a walk around to the front of the cabin. From the front, it was a flat seventy-five yards down to the shore. There were far fewer trees in the front, as compared to the sides and back of the cabin. They had been cleared out to provide a clear view of the lake. He walked to the edge of the trees and looked back. You could see right into the cabin, see the rope hanging down.

• • • • •

“Yeah, McRyan, you can see right in, can’t you?” Viper said under his breath, watching with binoculars from a boathouse across the small lake. McRyan was standing twenty feet from Viper’s perch the night before.

“He can wonder about it all he wants. We’re clean,” Bouchard said. “No prints. The rope’s clean, and we used gloves. Nobody touched the bottle or ice bucket. No forced entry that they could detect. He can guess and speculate all he wants, he ain’t going to find shit. They’ll have no choice but to call it a suicide.”

At least Bouchard sounded sure. Viper would wait and see. McRyan eventually wandered back to Hisle and put his hand on his shoulder. Hisle nodded his head, and it looked like he said, “I’ll be okay.” McRyan didn’t go talk to the sheriff again or snoop around any further. Instead, along with Lich and Kennedy, he headed back to the Explorer, got in, and drove away.

“Do you feel better now?” asked Bouchard.

“A little.”

• • • • •

They were all quiet for a while as they headed back east on Highway 55 towards the Cities. Sally finally spoke, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. “I guess that wraps up that.”

“Yeah, Ms. Kennedy, you lost your shot for the big time,” Lich replied.

“There’ll be others, I’m sure,” she replied wistfully.

Mac just looked at the road ahead, wondering.

Chapter Fifteen

“Yeah, he’s a smart fuck.”

Two Weeks Later

Mac pulled up to the Grand Brew for his usual. He got out of the Explorer and put his gloved hands in his trench coat pockets. Before leaving, he put the wool liner in his coat for some extra warmth. He would need it. The cold, windy November days were leading up to the Minnesota winter to come. This time of year, most days were cloudy, damp, and windy, the sun rarely making an appearance.

These days, he needed his hot caffeine injection to start his day more than ever. Since he started seeing Sally, there had been many late nights, and that was a good thing. Mac often thought the last couple of weeks that a person didn’t realize how lonely he was, until he wasn’t lonely anymore. Whether it was going to the Pub after work, to dinner or a movie, it was nice to have someone to spend time with again. He was still getting to know her, but it was good to be, as Lich put it, back in the saddle again.

Mac needed his caffeine shot for another reason. He and Lich had been assigned to Riley’s detail on the University Avenue Strangler. They started that very morning, and he was perversely pumped. The Daniels case was over and done. A new senator had been appointed with a special election set for the following fall. Word was Helen Anderson was already angling to run.

The serial killer was still at large, and the political and media pressure was once again mounting on the department. Mac, having brought the Daniels case home, was the flavor of the month. This was especially the case after, at the chief’s request, he gave an extended interview to the Pioneer Press about the Daniels case. After the article, questions began to surface from the media, wondering if Mac would become involved in the serial killer investigation. Flanagan, seeing a chance to take some heat off, put Mac and Lich on it.

Mac was of two minds about it. He welcomed the chance to work the case. Cases like this were why he wanted to be a detective in the first place. It was the kind of case his dad would have loved.

However, Mac worried about his friend Pat Riley, who was heading the serial killer detail. The case was beating the shit out of him, and now they were putting the new hotshot on the case. Thankfully, Riles had made it easy, seeking Mac and Lich out, welcoming them, saying the case could use a fresh set of eyes. Pat gave them both a file, the “Cliff Notes” version he called it, to get them up to speed. They could spend time with the full case files in the days to come.

The short file told Mac that they were dealing with a cold, calculating killer. There had been six deaths to date. The last two had only been seven days apart, and the concern was that the killer was picking up his pace. Mac remembered thinking that the Daniels case would take the heat off the chief for a while. It lasted all of four days until they found the sixth body on the following Tuesday.

The file revealed that the investigators, despite six murders, had little solid evidence on the killer, just speculation.

The one certainty seemed to be the victims. With the exception of one, they were working-class women. They worked shifts that usually ended between 10:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. They were physically similar women, nondescript in appearance, medium height, thin, and not physically strong.

Once he had the women, the serial killer strangled and then sexually assaulted them. He used a Trojan condom. Other than that, he left no traceable evidence behind. He wore gloves. He never left pubic hair, and they suspected that he shaved the area around his genitals, or perhaps was using a prop to complete the sexual assault. After strangling and assaulting the women, the asshole would dump the bodies in vacant lots in close vicinity to University Avenue. When he dropped the bodies, the killer left his signature, a balloon with a smiley face—”Have a Nice Day.” Riles said it was his way of rubbing their faces in it.

The FBI had been brought in to complete a profile, and their opinion was chilling. Their killer was a white male, since all of the victim’s were white, and serial killers tended only to kill women of the same race. The killer was of strong build and good agility, able to take the women quickly without being seen or heard. He was likely a loner who lacked social skills and has struggled with women.

The victims were very average or ordinary looking women. The killer likely considered himself to be in this category as well, yet had had little success with such women or women in general. He likely sought out women of this type because of some past stressor or experience in his life with a working-class woman or women. This past experience, likely involving rejection of some kind, had stuck with him, something that he hadn’t gotten over, that ate away at him and had finally come to the surface and caused him to seek out and kill these women. Nonetheless, he likely needed to have a woman in his life, despite his failings. In this regard, he might still live with his mother.

The areas where the women were found suggested he was a resident of or worked in the area. The killer, if he worked, did so during the day, as the women generally were abducted at night. His ability to get away undetected suggested he had watched the women for days ahead of the abduction, which required surveillance at night. It was likely that he prowled from place to place, looking for his target. Once identifying the target, he spent nights watching her every move, looking for the best place to take her. He then found privacy, perhaps in a van, or at some other location, maybe even his home, to commit the sexual assault. The dump locations and the leaving of the balloon was a way of feeling superior, pulling off the killing and being able to leave a calling card behind.

The sexual assault provided evidence of someone looking to have dominance over women. Poor, unsuccessful relationships or ones in which he was dominated were likely what caused him to act out in this fashion. In his life, he hadn’t been able to get women to do what he wanted. Once he strangled them, killed them, he had dominance over them, he could do what he wanted, however he wanted. Then, once the assault was complete, the final act became symbolic—dumping the body like garbage in a vacant lot, the dominance over the woman complete.

His ability to identify his victims, abduct them, and get away almost completely undetected suggested some level of training, perhaps police or military. The ability to leave no evidence behind also spoke of some level of training or education in this regard.

For Mac, the scariest part of the profile was the opinion that the killer had a taste for the killing now, was perfecting his work, getting better at it. He would not stop. The FBI suggested the killer would keep a diary of the events, preparing to share his work with someone at some point in time. He likely spent time with the diary, reliving his acts, reveling in them.

Having seen the FBI’s success with profiling, Mac suspected much of what the FBI said was true. Unfortunately, following up on the FBI’s profile had proven unsuccessful.

Outside of what they knew about the victims and the FBI profile, direct evidence on the case was thin. The best piece of evidence they had was that he was probably using a van. Witnesses on two occasions had seen a van in the vicinity where a body was dumped. One witness saw a man run out of the vacant lot and get into a van. Problem was he was at least a block away. He couldn’t see plates or any other identifying features of the van, other than the taillights, which flashed and were thought to be for a Ford Econoline. The investigative detail didn’t have a color of the van, other than dark, probably black, brown, or blue. It was a van like a thousand others seen on a daily basis anywhere in town driven by delivery or repair guys.

The detail had run Minnesota license plate searches for felons with a history of sex crimes, who owned vans and perhaps had military or police training. There were a couple of hits, but they’d been quickly eliminated. There was more for Mac to read, but the condensed version got him up to speed for at least his first day.

Mac dropped the Explorer in the parking garage and walked into the Department of Public Safety Building. There was a detail meeting set for 8:15 a.m.; it would be his and Lich’s first. As Mac walked in, he heard a horn beep behind him; it was Lich. Mac waited, and Lich quickly got out, wearing his old beige topcoat, replete with dirt and coffee stains. Columbo wouldn’t have been seen in it. He didn’t have it buttoned, couldn’t over his potbelly. A gravy brown fedora covered his dome. However, the suit was the prize, faded green, with a faded yellow dress shirt and green tie with large gray stripes. His shirt needed collar stays as the tips flipped up.

Mac shook his head. “You don’t let Dot see you like this, do you?”

“What?” Lich replied, holding his hands out.

Mac cackled. “What? What? I shouldn’t even be seen with you.” Mac wasn’t necessarily going to be in GQ, but he looked good, dressed in a charcoal suit, gray dress shirt, and dark black tie. The tie was new, his first gift from Sally.

“Dot’s only interested in what’s on the inside, bitch,” Lich replied, grabbing his crotch. Fifty-two, and he talked like he was twenty-two.

Mac shook his head and walked inside. Riley’s detail had taken over a large conference room. At one end was a whiteboard that contained notes, facts, and information regarding the case. The detectives assigned to the case were listed, along with assignments. Lich and Mac were listed on the bottom, nothing assigned to them as of yet.

On the other end of the conference room was a bulletin board that included a detailed St. Paul street map. The homes of the victims were marked with blue pins, their work sites with green, and the locations their bodies were found in red. The victims were marked with numbers one through six, and information about each was typed on white sheets posted to the right of the map. In the middle of the conference room was an industrial metal table with old metal chairs that had green vinyl padding on the seat and backs. The conference table had three telephones, three thermoses, and two stacks of Styrofoam cups. There were a couple spare packs of sugar and a nondairy creamer container, crushed in the middle from over use. The room smelled faintly of body odor, the product of numerous hours of work on the case.

Members of the detail, eight strong—now ten with Mac and Lich—started to file in. They walked over and warmly welcomed the two new detectives. Mac had worried about the reception, but he imagined that Riles had laid down the law. As everyone milled around and exchanged pleasantries, Mac looked at the dump spots on the map.

Bobby Rockford, one of the detectives on the detail walked over, “Mornin’, Mac.” Rock was big, six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds, shaved head, with bright white eyes that contrasted against his black skin. He was scary when he smiled, with a gap you could drive a truck through between his two front teeth. A former Division II defensive tackle at Mankato State University, Rock was not a man to be trifled with. Paired with Riley, who was also at least six foot three, they were a physically imposing pair.

“Hey, Rock,” Mac said, then looked back to the map. “Checking out where he’s dumped the bodies.”

“Yeah, he’s a smart fuck,” Rock gestured with his coffee cup “Every location has at least three ways out. The asshole probably never leaves the same way he goes in.” He took a sip of his coffee. “In each spot, he only has a block or two to get back onto University, where a van—if we’re right about that—wouldn’t be viewed as being out of place, no matter the time of day.”

Mac nodded, “I imagine he probably scouts his drop locations as well. He’s probably familiar with the area—who lives there, who drives what vehicle, who’s up at late hours.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Rockford replied, nodding. “You read the FBI Profile on this guy right?”

Mac nodded.

“They think he might be some sort of ex-military or ex-cop, the way he conducts surveillance, attacks them in ideal spots, leaves nothing behind, and gets away undetected. He’s good, the fucking prick.”

Mac looked at his watch, 8:25 a.m. He wondered where Riles was.

Just then Riles came in, looking harried and anxious. He looked out to everyone and announced, “We have a balloon. Vacant lot on Myrtle, between Cromwell and Hampden. Let’s go.”

The air was sucked out of the room immediately. On a cold and blustery November day, number seven was awaiting their efforts. Nothing like baptism by fire, Mac thought.

Chapter Sixteen

“They haven’t caught a break yet. Not one.”

Myrtle Street was located in the industrial end of University Avenue on St. Paul’s northwest side. That end of town was dotted with an assortment of manufacturing operations behind small sidewalk stores, ethnic shops, and numerous small bars with names like Ace’s Place and Pete’s Canteen. Mac and Lich drove over in their department-issue gray sedan, turning left at the GasUp station on the corner of Hampden and University. They went one block and hit a dead end, the only way they could go was right on Myrtle and the vacant lot was half way down on their left. A coroner wagon, two squads, and Riley’s unmarked were already there.

The body had been dropped in a vacant lot filled with knee-high weeds and brush. Bottles, cups, rusted barrels, newspapers, an old recliner, and dirt piles littered the landscape. There was one sickly tree and the outline of the old foundation of a house that once had occupied the lot. The uniforms had taped off a large area around the body as well as along the street.

On both sides of the vacant lot were chain-link fences covered with vines, tall unkempt shrubs, and weed trees. The combination of vegetation made it virtually impossible for nearby houses to see into the vacant lot. The back wall of the Hancock Foundry spanned the backside of the lot. There were no windows and one lonesome set of double doors, with a dumpster to the left, one lid up and one down.

Across the street stood old two-story, white, wood-sided houses with steep, pitched roofs. They all had a solid, bland, wood front door and single picture window on the front with a metal awning. All the same style, built some seventy years earlier. The metal awnings and front doors were all different colors, the only thing differentiating the houses. The properties were not well tended, most having untidy yards. It was a poor, working-class neighborhood.

Riley was crouched by the side of the body, taking notes, while two crime scene techs examined the body, one of them speaking into a Dictaphone. Mac and Lich stood fifteen feet away. Mac couldn’t make out much about the victim, other than she was nude, wrapped partially in plastic. He could see her legs and she fit the profile—thin, medium height. The balloon, tied around her ankle, bobbed and weaved in the November wind, smiling at him. Jeering.

The rest of the detail arrived shortly thereafter. Riley saw everyone coming and got up out of his crouch. He nodded for them to follow him over to the street. Everyone gathered around. Riles quickly gave out orders. They needed to canvas the area around the lot.

“Who found the body?” somebody bellowed.

Riles looked down towards the other end of the street towards the city workers digging up what looked like a sewer line. “One of the guys came over here to take a piss and saw the body. He’s over working with his crew. I’ll take Lich and McRyan over to talk to him.” Everyone else spread out to take up their assigned tasks of what would likely be another fruitless search for anything on this guy.

A uniform fetched the city guy who had found the body. His name was Myron Dix, a large, rotund African American who looked to be in his early fifties, with a bushy gray beard. He was wearing his City of St. Paul hardhat and orange work vest over his tan canvas work suit, a smoke hanging out the side of his mouth. Mac admired the canvas work suit; it undoubtedly was warm, and he was already chilled. It was forty degrees, but with the wind howling it felt more like twenty.

Dix and his crew had arrived for work at 7:00 a.m. They had gone to work and didn’t notice anything right away. “Anyway, around 7:45 a.m. or so, my two cups of coffee hit me, and I needed to piss,” Dix said. “I’d usually get into the truck and hit a gas station or something, but with the vacant lot so close, I wandered over there.” Never mind the fact that urinating in public was against the law and this guy was a city worker.

“What did you see?” Riles asked.

“Well, there’s the one tree over there. I went behind it and did my business. On my way out, I looked over to my right and saw the balloon. That’s been in the papers. I got a little closer and saw a leg. Another step or two, and I got the whole picture.”

Lich jumped in. “Did you touch the body, anything like that?”

Dix put his hands up and shook his head. “No. No. No. Figured that killer was at it again. They say he dumps the bodies in vacant lots.” Dix waved his left arm towards the lot, “This shithole qualifies. I ran back to the truck and called it in.”

They went back over it again. Time of arrival, did he notice anything out of the ordinary, any vans in the area, anyone else walking through the lot? Dix had nothing to add. The two other guys on his crew were of no help. As they were walking away, Mac asked one last question, “You guys start today?”

“Naw, man,” Dix replied. “Noon yesterday.”

Mac and Lich stayed with Riley and continued on with the canvas. It was painful watching him work it. You could see it in his eyes as the day went along. House after house, witness after witness, nobody saw anything. The case was beating down on Riley, and the despair showed on his face, as they developed nothing other than their seventh dead body. Mac overheard a couple of conversations Riles had with the chief. It wasn’t pretty.

Midday they learned that the victim’s name was Charlene Murphy. She worked at the Hole-in-the-Wall, a diner that wasn’t but five blocks away. She left work at 11:00 p.m. the night before, and the diner’s morning workers found her car in the back of the parking lot, with her keys lying underneath. The strangler likely attacked her there, dragging her back into the alley and to the van they assumed he had. A canvas had been started behind the restaurant, but it was unlikely anyone saw anything. A ten-foot-high fence ran most of the length of the alley. Not only couldn’t anyone see anything, but the fence also created an excellent sound barrier.

At 4:00 p.m., Riles ordered everyone downtown, leaving two men behind to catch people as they came home. Mac and Lich headed for their car. When Mac got into the car and turned the key, he noticed the gas gauge was nearly empty. Lich saw it too. “Let’s hit the GasUp on the corner.”

Mac pulled up to the line of pumps closest to Hampden Avenue, got out, and started filling the tank. “I’m chilled to the bone, man. Grab some coffee.”

“Will do,” Lich answered as he headed inside.

As the tank filled, Mac looked out onto University and watched the traffic pass by. Not much going on other than normal traffic for this part of town, delivery trucks and vans, beat up cars of working-class folks, the occasional cab. Not much pedestrian traffic, especially on such a cold and ugly day.

He looked back inside and could see Lich at the coffee pots. The GasUp station was big for the neighborhood, with four islands of gas pumps, four pumps per island. A large canopy with the big orange GasUp sign on it rested overhead. Mac looked up and noticed the surveillance cameras looking straight down on each set of islands. He looked up at the one for his island and it was bent, pointing out towards the corner of Hampden and University.

Hearing the pump pop, Mac looked inside and waved. Lich paid for the gas and the coffee.

Mac got back in the car, and Lich was there a minute later, with a steaming hot twenty-ounce coffee.

“Mucho gracias.”

“I’d have gotten you a cerveza,” Lich cracked, “but we’re on the clock.”

Mac took a drink and immediately felt better, the Styrofoam cup warmed his cold hands, and the coffee quickly heated his insides. Taking another sip, he looked up at the camera one more time and wondered. He started the car and instead of taking a right onto Hampden to go to University, he took a left, back towards the dump site.

“Where the hell are you going?” Lich asked.

“To check something out.” Mac drove back to the construction site, where the crew was still working, minus Dix, who’d gone downtown to give a statement. The road was dug up completely from side to side and into the yards on either side. The hole was down nearly ten feet where they were repairing a sewer line. It blocked the entire street.

Mac got out and approached the crew. “I was talking to Dix earlier, and he said you guys started yesterday, round noon, right?”

A short guy with a wind-reddened, pock-marked face named Borowicz responded, “Yup, uh huh, that’s right. Started right after lunch.”

“How late did you work?”

“We were off the clock at 4:30.”

“How big a hole did you have going at that point?”

“Pretty good size,” Borowicz said.

“What’s pretty good size?”

“Oh, we had the street dug up good, you know, you couldn’t go past. We had the road-closed sign up on the other side so people on Cromwell wouldn’t turn in. She was big and deep.”

“You’re saying no way anyone could get by.”

“Nah, unless they were drunk and wanted to drive through the yards and stuff. Why would anyone want to try that?”

Exactly, thought Mac. “Thanks, guy. Stay warm.”

“I fuckin’ wish,” replied Borowicz, heading back to work.

They walked back to the car. “What the heck was that all about?” Lich inquired.

“I’ll show you.” Mac backed up and turned back towards the GasUp station. “This morning I was looking at the big map of the city where they plotted out all the locations where the victims were found, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Rock and I were looking at it, and he made the comment that the guy always leaves himself multiple routes out. He goes in one way and probably out another.”

“So?”

“With Myrtle closed like that, the only way in and out of here is Hampden. We take Hampden in, one block it’s a dead end, and you can only go right on Myrtle. Now, if Myrtle isn’t closed …”

“He can go any number of ways.”

“Right. He can go straight ahead on Myrtle then right or left on Cromwell.”

“But, as far as I know, Riley had the gas station canvassed.”

“Right. And there was nothing,” Mac replied. “But let me show you something.”

Mac pulled back into the GasUp station, this time in front. They got out, and Mac said, “Look at that.” He pointed up at the camera he had been looking at earlier, under the canopy, pointing right out to the corner of Hampden and University. There was a large street light on the corner.

Lich, seeing it, turned to look at Mac with a little grin, “Long shot.”

“Humor me.”

The store manager was taking inventory in one of the aisles, making notes on his clipboard. His name was Harold, a short, curly-brown-haired guy dressed in a white shirt, orange tie, and khaki’s that had seen better days. He wore glasses with large, round, clear, plastic frames ten years out of style. Mac imagined the job didn’t pay enough for new ones. Mac and Lich identified themselves.

“A couple of your guys were in earlier. I gave them the names of our people who worked last night.”

“So, the store’s open twenty-four hours, right?” Mac asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are the security cameras always running?”

“Yeah, far as I know,” Harold replied.

“Did our guys ask about those?”

“No.”

“How come the one on the far left out there, underneath the overhead, is pointing out to the street like that?” Mac asked.

“Ohh, is that what this is about?” Harold replied, shaking his head, exasperated. “Guy who changes the gas pricing numbers hit it with a ladder the other day. I’ve warned him about that before, that he could hit it and sure ‘nuff, he did,” Harold stated, satisfied that he’d predicted it right. “I have a call in to get it fixed, but it might be a day or two.”

“Is it still operating?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Mind if we take a look?”

Harold waved them to the back of the store. “Would I have a choice?”

“No, but it’s all right for us to let you think you have one,” Lich quipped.

Harold took them into the security room. After a store clerk in northern Minnesota was abducted and murdered a few years back, convenience stores started putting in more cameras, and GasUp had gone the whole nine yards. Two monitors that showed eight cameras, four inside and the four outside. “Here’s the one you’re looking for,” Harold said, pointing to the upper left-hand corner of the right screen.

It was camera five, and it was looking right out at the corner. A truck pulled in front of the camera as they were watching. You could see most of the truck and the back end. You could even make out the plate. Of course, it was still daylight and that helped immensely, but the picture quality wasn’t bad for black and white. Mac felt his heart skip a beat.

“Harold … do you mind if I call you Harold?” Mac asked.

Harold didn’t mind.

“Do you record?”

“Oh, yes, we keep it back several weeks.”

“What do you record on? Video tape?”

“No, no, no,” Harold replied, shaking his head with some pride, “We actually have a pretty good system. We record onto these DVDs. You can store a lot more on them and if you need to review them, the quality isn’t bad.”

Mac and Lich exchanged a look and a little smile. “Still a long shot,” Lich said.

“Harold, my friend,” Mac said, and right now he was liking Harold a whole lot, “we need to borrow the DVDs for the last week. What do you say?”

“Would I have a choice?” Harold asked, a little smile coming across his face.

“No,” Mac replied.

“And in this case, I’m not gonna even let you think you have one,” Lich added.

They grabbed the DVDs and signed a form for Harold. He’d been helpful, and they wouldn’t want him to get in trouble with GasUp management. Mac could feel the adrenaline running through him as he bounded out the door to the car. Lich picked up on it, but cautioned, “Don’t get your hopes up, son.”

Mac knew he was right, but he didn’t care. “Have you read the file on this case yet?” Mac asked back.

“I read the Readers Digest version Riley gave us last night. Not much there.”

“That’s right. And you know what? They haven’t caught a break yet. Not one,” Mac replied. “Well, maybe they just caught one. Lord knows Riles could use it.”

Lich picked up on the feeling, “That he could, my friend. That he could.”

Mac wasted no time getting back downtown, taking University over to Robert Street into downtown, and pulled into the parking garage. He finally had some warmth returning to his body, having already put much of the twenty ounces of coffee away. Once inside the building, he began to feel human again. They headed for the detail conference room. Riles and Rockford were inside, looking at the map, putting pins in for where the victim lived, worked, and where they’d found the body. Mac assumed the others were working the phones or maybe had already gone back out. Riles saw them and had a slightly perturbed look on his face. “Where have you guys been?”

Mac explained what they’d found. He could see just a little color return to Riles’s face. “You’re not suggesting we’re going to see anything on there? I mean, I’d never get that fucking lucky in my lifetime.”

“What have you got to lose, Pat?”

“Only my hair, a clump of which I found in the shower drain this morning. Pretty soon I’ll look like Lich,” Riles replied ruefully and with his first smile of the day.

Chapter Seventeen

“Those ain’t pine trees.”

Mac, Lich, Riles, and Rockford spent a few hours putting together a list of vehicles from the neighborhood and then went to forensics to watch the video.

Riles was pumped. If they were right about the Ford Econoline and that Hampden was the only way back to the vacant lot, there was a chance they would see the van. Could they get anything else of use off the video? Well, that would be another story.

Mac had planned to spend the night with Sally. When he called, she understood and was excited. “Call me if you guys find anything,” she said. She had been assigned as legal counsel to the detail. Of course, she managed to torture Mac a bit, mentioning her disappointment that he wouldn’t see what she’d bought at Victoria’s Secret over the lunch hour. “That’s playing dirty,” he said.

Linda Morgan stayed to help them, and popped the disk for the previous night into the computer and projected it onto a larger screen.

Rockford, in his best boxing announcer voice, said, “Let the tedium begin.”

And begin it did. Black and white video of a surveillance camera pointing out to a street corner—can’t get much better than that. They started the video at 10:00 p.m. store time, 8:00 p.m. their time, and let it run real time.

The GasUp station was plenty busy for the first couple of hours, with vehicles coming and going. Many turned on Hampden to get to the GasUp and many then left the station on the Hampden Street exit, turning right and then going either left or right on University from the corner. There were a few dark-colored vans that turned into the GasUp station. None of them looked promising. None of them were Ford Econolines. They took down license numbers anyway. When the vans would leave the station, if they turned left on University they could see the back of the van and, if the lights for the plate box on the back were on, they could just barely see the plate, although not the license number.

“A little enhancement on that and you might make it out,” Riley mentioned.

“Possibly,” Morgan replied. “It’ll be tough.”

About midnight on the video, 10:00 p.m. their time, the action started slowing down. They started slowing down as well. Lich was out, sitting in a plastic chair, his head tilted back and snoring. Rock was doing the head bobs of impending sleep. Mac was fine, being a night owl most of the time. Riles was with it as well, desperate for something to break. Yet a fifth pot of coffee was brewing in the corner.

Two hours later, 2:00 a.m. GasUp station time, Lich got up and said he was going home. He would see them in the morning. Rockford woke up as well. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He stared at his watch.

“Rock, if you want to go, go,” Riles said. “We’ll let you know if we see anything.”

Rock nodded, staggered up out of his chair, put on his coat, and left without saying a word.

Thereafter, the action on the video was almost nonexistent. There was an occasional car that turned onto Hampden and went by the GasUp station. At 2:47 a.m. on the video, 12:47 a.m. their time, a minivan turned onto Hampden and went by the camera. Mac checked their notes. “Didn’t we have someone who said they got home between 2:45 and 3:00?”

“Yeah, what was her name? Something funky. Oh, yeah, Lemonjello Hardy.”

“Lemonjello?” Mac replied quizzically.

“Yeah, spelled just like lemon Jell-O, but run together,” Riles replied with a tired smile.

“Unbelievable.”

“Nope. What’s unbelievable is that she has a sister that lives with her, guess what her name is?”

“What?”

“Orangejello.”

“No way,” Linda replied. Mac just shook his head. First Dick Lick and now the jellos. What next? Someone names their daughter ESPN?

At 3:25 a.m. GasUp Station time, another vehicle looking like a van went by. “Anyone coming home around this time?” Mac asked.

Riles yawned and consulted his notes. “Yeah,” he took a sip of coffee and flipped a page in his notes. “Mike Moriarity, dropped off by Kevin McReynolds, who drives a Ford pickup with a topper.”

Morgan replayed the DVD and got close to the screen to look at the truck as it went by. It looked like that’s who it was. Playing the DVD another minute or two confirmed it as the truck came back out and turned left onto University.

Virtually nothing passed after that. At 2:50 a.m. Riles got up and hit the head. Mac, who had started to nod off a little, sat up and rubbed his eyes. He put his coffee up to his lips when he saw it go by. “Linda, run that back.”

Morgan yawned first, and then did as ordered. Mac got up and stood in front of the big screen. The van turned left onto Hampden from University. The headlights were square. The headlights on an Econoline were square. This van had a snout nose on it. An Econoline has a snout-nosed front. He couldn’t see the plate at all. The left side of the front bumper looked to be caved in. The time in the lower left hand corner was 4:33 a.m.

Riles came back into the room, “What?”

“Anybody dropped off around 4:30 a.m.?”

Riles flipped through his notes, then shook his head. “Nope.”

Mac pointed to Morgan. “Again.”

Morgan replayed the video. Riles stood next to Mac and watched the van go by. “That’s a fucking Econoline!”

“You sure?” Mac asked.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve studied those damned vans for weeks. That’s an Econoline.”

They let the DVD run, checking their watches. It seemed like an eternity. The van came back out at 4:42 a.m., nine minutes later. It came into the screen and turned left onto University Avenue. They could see the back and the license plate holder was partially lit, but they couldn’t make out the plate. Morgan took it back and ran it again. But it was too far away, and they couldn’t make it out other than the tiny white speck of a box on the dark big screen. She rewound it a third time, and they practically put their faces up to the screen. No dice.

Riley went nuts, pacing around the room, waving his arms, “Fuck, fuck, fuck! That’s our asshole, guys. That’s our asshole.” He kept pacing and waving. “We gotta find someone or something. See if we can enhance that.”

Morgan shook her head, “That’s going to require a lot of work and equipment we don’t have.”

“Who does?” Riles asked.

“The BCA,” Morgan replied. “Jupiter Jones is the man we need.”

“Jupiter,” Mac added, nodding and smiling. “He’s definitely what we need.”

• • • • •

Jupiter Jones was a longtime friend of Mac. He had met Jupiter in a computer science class at the University of Minnesota. While Mac went on to major in business and criminal justice, Jupe kept up on the computer studies. He was a computer genius.

Jupiter and a math wizard friend of his had started a little computer software business after college. Jupiter developed an intelligence program that helped businesses determine what their customers bought, when they bought it and how much they would spend. His math wizard friend was able to add mathematical equations to the program. Within five years of his graduation, Jupe’s little company had grown to one hundred fifty employees. However, running the business required long hours and business acumen he didn’t have or really care to develop. He sold the company for sixty million dollars, which he and his partner split. After taking care of many of their employees with severance packages, they each walked away with twenty million. Jupe didn’t need to work.

What Jupiter had done since he sold his business was explore what could be done with computers and video. He had started another small business that developed programs to convert video into numerous uses, but it didn’t eat up a lot of his time. So, to keep busy, he also worked freelance for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, helping when computer and video skills were needed. Now was such a case.

Mac looked at his watch, 3:40 a.m. “Jupiter’s going to love this,” he said as he dialed him up. Jupiter answered on the third ring.

“Whoever this is,” a sleep-slurred voice said, “it better be good.”

“Still wearing Tough Skins?”

Silence on the other end for a moment. “Mac?”

“Jupe, I need a big favor. I need it right now, and I think you can help me.”

“With what?”

“Identifying a serial killer.”

• • • • •

The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA) was located on Maryland Avenue, just north of downtown St. Paul. Jupiter, who lived half an hour away, arrived to find Mac and Riles waiting in the lobby with coffee and a bag of donuts. A smallish man with messy, blondish hair and round glasses, he looked like the computer geek he was.

“This’ll challenge all of your skills, Jupe,” Mac said.

“Hmpf,” Jupe snorted. “We’ll see about that,” he replied cockily as he unlocked the door into a computer and video lab. Jupe slung a bag off of his shoulder.

“What’s in there?” Riles asked, pointing at the bag.

“Some of my own equipment. From what you said on the phone, we might need to independently upgrade the state’s equipment to flesh this out.” He gave a knowing wink.

Mac handed Jupiter the DVD, and Jupiter put it into his computer drive. He pulled the image up and watched the key section a few times. He kept playing it back and forth.

“Well. It’s awfully grainy, but I might be able to clean it up some.”

“How quickly, Jupe?”

“It’ll take some time.”

“How much?” Mac pressed.

“Not sure, buddy. Gimme me six, maybe eight hours, and we’ll have a better idea. It’s very grainy, and it is from a long, long, long way away. As I look at it, you can only really make out the right side of the plate.”

They looked at the video. Jupiter pointed, “See, there’s a little shading there. I don’t think you’ll get the left side of the plate. But I might be able to get something off the right side.”

“Thanks, Jupe,” Mac said yawning.

“You boys are free to sack out here,” Jupe pointed to some cots stacked in a corner.

“Thanks, man, I owe ya.”

“You kidding, Mac? I live for this shit.”

Jupiter sat down and started to go to work. Mac and Riles looked at one another and their watches—5:25 a.m. They lifted down a couple cots from the corner.

“The state, always providing plush accommodations,” Riles muttered.

• • • • •

Mac woke up startled, momentarily trying to get his bearings. “Oh, yeah, I’m at the BCA,” he groaned, yawning and scratching his head. He looked at his watch 12:05 p.m. Holy cow, he’d slept a while. He woke up to find the computer screen showing a program running but no Jupiter. Pat was still sleeping, and Mac let him keep going. Sleep had been hard to come by for Riles as of late.

Just then Jupe came back in, carrying a tray of coffee and some sandwiches. Mac grabbed one of each, and Jupe quietly explained how he had been breaking down the frame that had the best view of the van’s plate. He had then been working the area of the picture where they could see the license plate. He was refining the picture, trying to get the most out of the pixels. The last picture showed the plate, and Jupe had been right. They would only be able to see the right side of the plate, which was usually numbers. Right now it was still very blurry, three black, squarish blobs on the screen.

“The program I’m running it through now should clean it up as good as I can do anyway,” which was probably as good as anyone could do. “Should take another twenty minutes or so.”

Mac took a bite of his sandwich and looked the picture over. Riley started to come alive, rolling off the cot, smelling the coffee and sandwiches. “Anything?” he asked anxiously.

“Not yet,” Mac replied.

“We’ll know soon,” Jupe added.

They talked for twenty minutes. Jupe was interested in the Daniels case, and Mac gave him the run down. Jupe asked about women, and Mac gave him the scoop on Sally.

“She sounds like a nice gal,” Jupe said.

“Yeah, she is.”

They talked a little longer about nothing in particular. Finally Jupe said, “Let’s see what we have.” Jupiter maneuvered the mouse and opened a program, and there it was.

It was still a little fuzzy, but it wasn’t numbers. They had letters, and they were clear enough to Mac, “F-M-G.”

“That’s odd” Riles said, “These are reversed.”

Mac looked a little closer. He was right; the numbers should be on the left side, “Looks like maybe we can make out a number there.”

“What is it?” Jupe said, squinting at the picture.

“It’s a five or a six, I think,” Riles said, also squinting.

Mac took a closer look at the upper right-hand corner of the picture. Along the top of the license plate, above the letters, was what looked like a grainy circle with a house or, wait, the angling of the roof? Mac pointed to it, “Riles, what’dya make of this?”

Riles looked, moving his head closer and squinting at the screen, “Those ain’t pine trees.”

“Yeah, looks like a barn and a farm scene,” Mac replied, and added, “and the letters are on the right side.”

“What in the hell are you guys talking about?” Jupe asked.

Riles and Mac smiled at each other and then looked at Jupe, uttering in unison, “Wisconsin.”

Chapter Eighteen

“This one looks interesting.”

Riley called in the partial plate number while Mac drove well over the speed limit back to the station, his flasher and siren parting traffic like the Red Sea. Jupe had come through big time. They finally had a break. Mac could hear the excitement in Riles’s voice as he called into Rockford. Mac also heard the obligatory, “You gotta be shittin’ me,” rejoinder shouted through the phone.

“God, I hope that plate matches up,” Riles said when he hung up. “Rock’s already starting a computer search.”

Mac and Riles walked into the conference room with Rock and the rest of the detail waiting with an extra bounce in their manner. They had a break, and everyone was ready to go. They practically wanted to reach through the computer monitors to grab the information. The printer was spitting out reams of paper.

“Rock, what’ve you got going here?” Riles asked.

“Report, Wisconsin Econoline vans with F-M-G and a five or six,” Rock replied. “We’ll make copies and start working through them.”

The printer burped out the last piece of paper. A detail guy grabbed the paper out of the printer and sprinted out of the room. He was back within five minutes with a stack of reports.

• • • • •

They got started working through the reports, and Lich chuckled out loud.

“What?” asked Rockford.

“Mac.”

“What about him?”

“He’s got a horseshoe up his ass.”

“Thank God,” Riles added.

Mac cringed. “We haven’t found anything yet, boys.”

“It’s there. I can feel it,” Riles replied.

“Cases are like anything else. Sometimes you get hot,” Mac mused. It was pure luck that he’d looked up at the video camera and noticed it pointed out at the street. It was pure luck that the camera was pointed at the perfect angle. It was pure luck Jupiter could get a partial plate. “I’m seriously considering getting on a plane to Vegas.”

“You should at least go out to Mystic Lake Casino,” Rockford added. Mystic Lake Casino was an Indian casino in Prior Lake, a southwest suburb of the Twin Cities.

Mac started working through his report. Rock had printed all records for vehicles with F-M-G and either a five or six and Ford Econoline vans. That brought them fifty-three records, which everyone started reading through. Each record contained information such as date of birth, height, weight, eye color, address, occupation, income, and employer among other things.

The reading was tedious. There were a couple of possibilities yelled out, with everyone turning to the specific record. One was an address in Prescott, and another in Grantsburg, both in western Wisconsin. The vans were both lighter colored. One was registered to a woman. They were close enough that they were put into the possible pile.

One of the guys ran across the street to Wang’s for take out. Gut bomb Chinese food—nothing better. They emptied out the pop machine to wash it all down. The conference table was full of empty white boxes and soda cans. The coffee machine was started, and a few scattered white Styrofoam cups littered the table. It was not a good diet mix. Everyone was belching, and more than one person asked about Tums.

Then they had a real hit.

Riles shouted, “Forty-six looks interesting.”

Everyone started flipping pages. Mac was on record forty-four at the time, turned the page and read out loud, “Forty-six. Dirk Knapp. Age twenty-nine. Resides in Hudson, Wisconsin. Has a 1997 Ford Econoline Van registered in his name.”

“What’s he do?” someone yelled, not yet to the page.

Mac scrolled down the page with his index finger. Bingo. “He’s employed as a driver by Quick Cleaners on University Avenue,” Mac answered. He grinned.

That got everyone’s attention. Quick Cleaners was a large dry cleaning shop and did a huge volume of clothing and uniform dry cleaning. It would not be uncommon to see a Q Cleaner van anywhere in St. Paul and especially on University. In fact, their main location was on University.

There was a buzz in the room. This was a good possibility. Everyone broke into conversation, people fighting to speak over one another. Mac sat back and took it all in. It was the sound of guys who, after working a case for a couple of months with no success, finally saw a ray of light. They had a lead, and excitement simply took over. Any semblance of order was momentarily lost.

Finally, Riles jumped in, “Hey, shut the fuck up. We have some others to go through here, so let’s settle down,” then to Mac, “Anything else?”

“Was in the Marines, medically discharged in 2000. No criminal record.”

“Medical discharge? Anything on that in the record?” someone asked.

“Not that I see,” Mac replied, shaking his head.

“Okay, make a note of that,” Riley ordered. “If we need to, we’ll see if we can get those records. How many more do we have to go through?”

“Seven.”

“Okay. Let’s get through them. Then we’ll get back to Knapp.”

Of the seven remaining records, there was one other mildly interesting candidate from Elk Mound, but nothing as close to what they thought they should be looking for as Knapp. Consequently everyone in the room was keyed up to take a closer look at Dirk Knapp. It was 7:45 p.m., and everyone felt like it was 7:45 a.m. with a full night’s rest under their belt.

Rockford said what was on everyone’s mind, “Road trip to Hudson anyone?”

• • • • •

Hudson was twenty miles east of St. Paul just across the St. Croix River and into Wisconsin. The Wisconsin counterpart to Stillwater, Hudson was a quaint town, with a main street and old brick-front stores and shops. In the summer, the private marinas filled with river pleasure boats. The shoreline was dotted with numerous restaurants and bars with docks so that people could stop in while boating and have dinner and drinks. Now that it was November, the river, docks, and restaurants were quiet. Knapp’s address put his home just north of Hudson, resting along Wisconsin State Highway 35.

They made a convoy to Hudson. All that was missing was, “This is the Rubber Duck and a 10-4, good buddy.” Eight detectives made the trek out. More had wanted to come, but Riles held them off, wanting to get a look at Knapp’s place before half the St. Paul Police Department camped outside his front door. At 9:30 p.m., they all stopped in the parking lot of an Italian restaurant on the north side of town. A call ahead to Hudson was made and the police chief met them in the parking lot. “Whatever you boys need, let me know. We’re glad to help.” He gave them a rundown of the road ahead and where Knapp’s place was.

Riles, Mac, Lich, and Rockford left the others at the restaurant and cruised Knapp’s place, which was another half mile up the road on 35.

Knapp’s house sat on the west side, one hundred yards back from the road. There was a bright yard light that illuminated an old white, two-story, clapboard farmhouse, two out buildings and a large red barn. A faint light peered through the front picture window. In addition to the van, Knapp also had a 1999 Grand Am registered in his name. They saw neither vehicle. It looked as if nobody was home.

They slowly drove by, taking a look. There were few trees obstructing the view, and recently harvested farmland surrounded the home. Farm equipment was noticeably absent. There were no homes nearby on that side of the road.

“Should be pretty easy to see him coming and going,” Rock remarked.

“If we can find a place to sit and watch. We can’t exactly sit at the end of the driveway unnoticed,” Mac replied.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Riles added.

A housing development was springing up a quarter mile up the road on the right side, opposite Knapp’s place. Riles drove down to the development and turned right. Three homes were under construction on the right side of the street. Between the second and third was a vacant lot that eventually would hold a home. It was a pile of dirt for the time being. Riley turned the van around, and they pulled along the curb. They could see through the vacant lot to Knapp’s place.

“Here’s one spot,” Rockford stated.

It turned out that for now it was the only one that they could find to watch Knapp’s place without drawing attention. They drove by the farmhouse one more time then went back to the others waiting at the restaurant. Riley gave the orders for the night. Two would wait at the restaurant and watch from the south, while the other two would take up the spot in the housing development. Riles ordered Mac, Lich, and Rock home.

“What about you, Riles?” Rock asked.

“I’m going home too, I’m exhausted.”

Chapter Nineteen

“The military haircut, the spit-shined shoes.”

Beep, beep, beep. Mac reached over and turned off the alarm. He sat up and yawned and took a closer look at the clock, 6:30 a.m. Riles had sent him home at 10:30 p.m. He’d called Sally on the way home, and she had him come over. Five minutes after hitting the sack, he was asleep. Never a deep sleeper or someone who required anymore than four or five hours, Mac crashed hard and slept soundly. Several hours of sleep left him feeling refreshed.

He swung his feet out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. He got up, scratched his ass as he went over and looked out the window. A gust of wind rattled the pane, and the leaves skipped down the street. It was overcast, another typical cloudy, windy, chilly November day.

The shower was running. He wondered if Sally was feeling as refreshed as he was. Mac headed for the shower to find out.

Two hours later, he checked his watch as he pulled up to the Grand Brew. He wanted his usual double latte to start the day, even if he was starting much later than usual. Mac was one for routines, and this was one of them.

As he walked inside the coffee shop, he had a smile on his face as he thought about the last two hours. Sally had indeed been refreshed. While she gave him the obligatory, “Men are animals,” when he jumped into her shower, they had quickly moved to the bed.

Later, as they dressed, Mac filled her in on Knapp.

“What are you guys going to do?

“We’ll follow him and see what develops. We can’t even be sure that this is the guy.” Mac took a bite of his toast and, with a half-full mouth, said, “But it feels right.”

Sally sipped her juice. “How come?”

“Just does. Instinct, intuition, gut. Whatever it is, this is the break the case needed.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sally said as she bit into her toast. “You guys thinkin’ about a search warrant?”

“I’m thinking our case on this guy is a little thin. But I imagine we’ll be talking about it,” Mac replied. “Before we get that far, we have to see the van first.” He took a sip of his juice. “Another thing that concerns me about going for a search at this point is that he’s been so good at leaving nothing behind for evidence. He probably has that van clean as a whistle. If we go for the warrant, find nothing, then where does that leave us?”

“I see your point,” Sally replied. “So you follow?”

“Yeah. If he sticks to his pattern, maybe we catch him in the act or something.”

Twenty minutes later, Mac pulled the door open to the Grand Brew and headed inside. He ordered his usual, paid his usual, and headed out.

• • • • •

Sally got into her office just before 9:00 a.m., turned on her computer, and picked up her phone to check voice mails. Only three messages, which was a pleasant surprise. She punched in her computer password and heard a knock on the door. Oh oh. She turned to see Helen.

“Good morning, Helen.”

“Good morning. A light day ahead of you?” The tone in her voice said it all. Sally was late. If Helen Anderson was a stickler for anything, it was being on time. She wanted the impression that her office was working hard, doing the people’s business and, by extension, her business. Therefore, she always wanted her people in early and working late. Of course, many in the office grumbled that they did all the work and Helen got all the glory. She did like to be on camera and quoted in the paper. The fact that she knew little, if anything, about criminal law didn’t help and pissed people off. But she was the boss, at least for now, a senate run in the offing.

“In fact, yes,” Sally replied.

“I see,” Anderson said, the tone of disapproval remaining.

Sally needed to change the subject, “I have what may be some good news, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The police may finally have a suspect in the University Avenue killings.”

That perked up Helen’s attention, “Really? Tell me.”

Sally could see Helen savoring the headlines.

• • • • •

Mac, Lich, Riley, and Rock, along with a few others, met briefly downtown with Chief Flanagan and Peters. Knapp came home at 1:15 a.m. He was on the road again at 8:00 a.m., heading into work at Quick Cleaners.

Knapp’s Q Cleaners location was on the northwest corner of Lexington and University Avenue. He appeared for work at 9:30 a.m. His MVR record from Wisconsin said he was employed as a driver. They figured he worked some sort of later 9:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. shift, which made some sense based on pick-ups and drop offs.

The building itself was on the corner, with a large parking lot full of vans to the west. Mac pulled his van into a shopping mall parking lot across the street with the back of the van facing the store. He and Lich could look out the tinted windows in the back. They each had binoculars, and a radio sat on the floor. The rest of the crew was spread out around the store, waiting for action.

At 10:15 a.m., the radio crackled with the voice of Dan Patrick, “I think our boy just came out the door.”

Mac responded, “Copy that.” He looked through his binoculars and saw a tall, lean, white male with short blond hair, almost a military cut. He was wearing a green full-body, zip-up uniform and had a clipboard. Mac noticed his boots, bright black, as if they had been spit-shined.

Knapp got into one of the white Q Cleaner vans and backed it up to a small loading dock where a couple of other men from inside started loading the van with white hangers full of plastic-covered shirts, suits, uniforms, and other clothing for delivery. In ten minutes the van was full. One of the other workers gave Knapp a few sheets of paper that he put on his clipboard. Knapp gave the guy a little wave, jumped in his van, and pulled out of the parking lot, heading west along University.

• • • • •

The detail tailed Knapp all day as he made deliveries up and down University Avenue for nearly four hours, going as far west as the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, and back east along University, to within a few blocks of the State Capitol. Deliveries were made to homes, offices, factories, a motel, restaurants, and bars. The stops never ventured far north or south of University Avenue. At 3:00 p.m. he stopped at a McDonald’s for a late lunch. Mac watched through the binoculars as he wolfed down a super-sized meal.

After his lunch, he did his pickups, hitting all of the same kinds of establishments up and down University. At 5:45 p.m., he backed his van up to the loading dock area at Q Cleaners, and a couple of workers came out and started unloading the van while Knapp headed inside.

At 6:00 p.m. sharp, Knapp walked, almost marched, out of the building and got into a red Pontiac Grand Am. He pulled out and drove west on University. Just past Snelling Avenue, he turned left into a parking ramp. A detail van followed Knapp in. Mac kept going west on University one block to a Burger King where he pulled in and stopped, waiting for a status on Knapp.

Five minutes later Riley popped on the radio, “Knapp’s inside Applebee’s. Looks like he’s going to order dinner. Everyone find a spot and sit tight.”

Mac and Lich both looked at the Burger King sign and Lich blurted, “You want fries with that?”

• • • • •

At 7:45 p.m., Knapp left Applebee’s. He didn’t head home. He stopped at three bars along University Avenue. At each stop, a member or two of the detail got out and went inside to observe. At each bar, Knapp would stop in and have a beer or two, usually sitting at the bar. Most of the time he watched whatever game was on TV. At Murphy’s Bar, he watched the Wild and Red Wings game. At Pistol Pete’s, he engaged in idle chitchat with a group of men while watching the Wolves game.

His last stop was Dick’s Bar on the northeast corner of University and Arundel. It was 11:15 p.m. The radio chirped with Riles’s voice. “Mac, your turn.”

“Copy that,” Mac replied. He grabbed his leather jacket and his beat up old Twins baseball cap and opened the door. He stopped and quickly looked back at Lich, who was chewing on a cigar. “Got a spare?”

Dick’s was a classic dark hole-in-the-wall bar. On the left side was a long bar that ran forty feet to the back. Along the wall behind the bar were shelves with various unorganized bottles of liquor. Along the right side were booths, with red vinyl seats, hacked up from years of use and inattention. In the back was a narrow hallway with a backdoor to the parking lot. There were bathrooms along the right side and a small kitchen on the left.

Dick’s was a working man’s bar. No suits, no ties. Instead people wore shit-kickers, dirty pants, work coats, and ball caps. As Mac listened to the conversations, every other word was “shit,” “fuck,” “asshole,” or “cocksucker.” A smoky haze muted the dim light. Along with the bottles along the back wall one could get a pack of smokes, a cheap cigar, or some beef jerky. A quick count told Mac there were twenty-five customers.

Knapp sat in the middle of the bar, looking up at the TV that hung over the far end of the bar. A hoops game was on ESPN. Mac looked up in time to see Shaq nearly pull the basket down to the floor with a massive dunk, which caused someone to yell, “Jesus Christ!”

Mac picked an empty stool at the corner of the bar, next to the pull-tabs, just inside the front door. He could sit and look straight down the bar at Knapp. The bartender turned towards him to serve a customer between Knapp and Mac. She took his order, looked towards Mac and flashed him a smile.

The bartender was not what you’d expect to find at a place like Dick’s. She was attractive as hell. She was a petite blonde wearing a tight white Dick’s T-shirt, no bra, and her nipples were in full bloom. The dirty old boys in here must love it. She had short, kinky hair, kind of spiked on top and a hundred-watt smile that she flashed constantly. No wonder there were a few folks in here. Mac wondered what the heck she was doing here. She could be working a lot of other places.

She sauntered on over to Mac, flashed him a bright-white smile, “What can I get ya, hun?”

“I’ll take a bottle of High Life and a book of matches.”

“Sure thing,” she replied with the smile, heading back to get the beer. Along with the tight shirt, she was wearing snug jeans that hugged her slender legs and little ass. Steady boy, Mac said to himself. He checked out Knapp, who was eyeing up the bartender as well, making a little conversation with her while she reached in the cooler for Mac’s beer. She flashed Knapp a smile as well and then wandered back to Mac. “$3.25.”

Mac handed her a twenty. “I’ll take fifteen on the pull-tabs. Keep the rest.”

She grabbed a basket, put the pull-tabs in, and wandered off to wait on the rest of the customers. Mac took a pull off his beer and winced a little at the taste. He wasn’t a real High Life fan, but it was a working-man’s beer, and he was in a working-man’s bar. He lit his cigar and started to slowly work his pull-tabs, a uniquely Minnesota form of gambling. Pull-tabs were small cards, smaller than playing cards with three tabs. You pulled away the tabs, and if you had a match all the way across on any of the three tabs, you were a winner. On the fourteenth card, Mac hit $100 with a line through three cherries; his lucky night. He caught the bartender’s eye, holding up the winner.

She walked back over casually, flashed him another little smile, “Lucky you.” She went to the cash drawer for the pull-tabs and came back with his winnings. “Here you go.”

“Keep twenty for yourself.”

“Thanks.” Another smile. She was cute, in a dirty girl sort of way. She pocketed the money.

Mac took another look at Knapp, who was staring in a different direction. At the far end of the bar was another woman. She was more ordinary looking. She too was small and petite. But whereas the bartender was attractive as hell, this one was less so. She had long, straight, black hair, which she pushed behind her ears to keep it out of her face. The bartender had her face done up; this one was a plain Jane. She had slender legs, but you couldn’t see her ass. It was hidden by an oversized Dick’s Bar sweatshirt. The bartender was the epitome of “Hey, look at me,” but this one was the “Don’t notice me” type. She approached Mac with a crate of glasses and proceeded to stack them under the bar, near the ice bin. She wasn’t unattractive, Mac thought. If she worked a little, she could probably do pretty well. She just seemed more shy and reserved. And Knapp was checking her out. Mac made a little small talk.

“Could you grab me a glass of ice water?”

She looked up at him quizzically. “Don’t get a lot of requests for that in here.”

“I don’t imagine you do. Just a little parched.”

“Sure.” She filled the glass up with ice and squirted some water in from the gun. He casually looked beyond her to see Knapp locked in on her. “Here you go,” she said as she put the glass in front of him.

“Thanks. What’s your name?

“Linda.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

“No problem.” She sauntered back down the bar and past Knapp, who eyed her all the way. He was sly about it, but he was looking.

“Hmpf,” Mac thought. He looked at his watch, 11:30 p.m.

For the next half hour, Mac kept his eye alternately on Knapp, Linda, and whatever was on the TV. Knapp watched Linda intently as she came and went. He hardly paid attention to the cute bartender, which made him entirely different from everyone else, including Mac. Linda came in and out of the bar area. She delivered food, took care of the various supplies, and mixed an occasional drink. She was a combo bar back and bartender. The hot bartender just worked the patrons.

Knapp watched Linda the entire time. Mac gave him credit. He had some skill. No way did Linda know she was being scoped.

The hoops game ended at midnight, and Knapp settled up, leaving a nice tip behind. Mac imagined that the hot bartender made nice tips, especially if she dressed like that every night. He would have to get her name as some point, so he did not keep thinking of her as the hot chick. The crusty guys in Dick’s weren’t going home to anything like her.

Mac watched Knapp head out the back, bumping into Linda on the way out. Wonder if that was intentional? There was some small talk, and Knapp continued out the back door. Mac pulled out his phone and buzzed Riles. “He’s on the way out the back.”

“Got him. We’re meeting in the Gas & Shop lot in five minutes. The second shift will put Knapp to bed.” Riley clicked off.

Mac took the last drink of his beer. The bartender saw him and wandered back down to him.

“Can I get you one more, hun?”

“No thanks. That’ll do me for tonight. But let me ask you, what’s your name?”

“Sheila.”

“Well Sheila, my first time in, and I appreciated the service.”

She flashed him the 100-watt smile and said, “Well, you come back now.”

Mac smiled. He had a feeling he would.

• • • • •

They met in the parking lot. Riley started things off. “So what do we think?”

“He don’t look much like a serial killer,” Dan Patrick said.

“True enough,” replied Rockford.

“It’s not like he’s going to have a sign hanging on him—’Hello, I’m your neighborhood serial killer,’” quipped Lich.

“I know, Dick,” replied Patrick, “it’s just that usually those guys have a look about them. This guy looks normal.”

“Ted Bundy was normal looking,” Rockford replied. “Hell, he was good looking, woman were drawn to him.”

Riles looked at Mac. “What do you think?”

“I think he knows University Avenue and the surrounding neighborhoods like the back of his hand. He was up and down it all day long, in and out of all of those businesses. Then after work, he’s at Applebee’s and three bars, all on University. He’s in and out of all those streets. And these guys are right, he’s normal looking, so he isn’t likely to draw suspicion.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Riley replied. “Looks like he works hard for his employer; I mean, there was no dickin’ around on those routes today. He was in and out of all those places quick.”

“Yeah. Hard-working guy,” Mac replied. “We go around asking people where the victims worked, anyone suspicious hanging around. Everyone says no. If it’s this guy, he’s doing nothing to raise suspicion. He’s in and out. I suppose he might throw a little line of bullshit at the ladies. I watched him do that at Dick’s Bar just now with the bartender. But she was a hot little thing so that’s pretty normal.”

Lich jumped in. “He’s strong too. He’s got that lean body you can tell is strong.”

Rock agreed. “He carries a lot of that laundry in on those hangers, over his shoulder. I mean there were some pretty big loads. It’s awkward, hard on your hands and arms, and he seemed to be doing it without breaking a sweat. He’s gotta have strong hands.”

Riley jumped back in. “He walks around like he’s still in the military, almost as if he’s marching. That straight posture, arms swinging at the side with that clipboard.”

“The military haircut, the spit-shined shoes,” Mac added. “Do we have someone trying to get his military file?”

“Sally Kennedy is on it. Says we should have it tomorrow.”

“Medical discharge, right?” Rockford asked.

“Yeah, that’s what we got with the Wisconsin records.”

“Wonder if he whacked out or something. I mean, he’s walking and working okay.”

“We’ll find out when we get the file,” Riley said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s meet at the Cleveland in the morning, and we’ll go from there.”

“One other thing,” Mac stated. “He’s got his next target.”

“What?” everyone replied in unison.

“Bar back, bartender, whatever you want to call her, at Dick’s. Her name’s Linda.”

“How do you—” Riles started.

“—Know?” Mac described the bar and what he saw between Knapp and Linda. “He was practically ignoring this hot bartender and focusing solely on this Linda, and he had this look in his eyes, like a hunger. He was subtle about it, but I could tell. And the woman, this Linda, she fits the profile from what I’ve seen: smaller woman, working class, not overly attractive.”

“A little early to draw that conclusion, don’t you think?” Rock asked.

“Absolutely,” Mac replied. “I’m just saying, from what I saw, I’d be willing to go down to the casino and put a $100 down that she’s the target.”

“Anything else?” Riley asked.

“No. Just that you guys are all going to want to take turns going inside Dick’s. Let me tell you, that little bartender in there is smokin’…”

• • • • •

Viper saw McRyan’s Explorer pull into Kennedy’s driveway at 1:15 a.m. He and Bouchard were parked a block down. They had another van parked at McRyan’s place, but Viper figured he would go to Kennedy’s.

“Looks like you were right,” Bouchard said.

“I figured.”

“How come?”

“They’re both fairly recently divorced. They’re back in the game again, and they’re all hot for each other. Were I McRyan, this is what I’d be doing.”

Viper thought he was done with McRyan. But then they’d gotten word he broke the serial killer investigation open. With McRyan having worked the Daniels case, they feared he’d make the connection between that case and how they used the serial killer to cover their tracks.

“So what’s the plan?”

“We follow McRyan to see what he and that detail are up to.”

“And.”

“We may need to find a way to take this Knapp fellow out before they get to him.”

Chapter Twenty

“He’s doing the recon on her now.”

The detail trailed Knapp for another five days. By Monday they knew he was their guy and who his next victim would be. Mac was on the money.

On workdays, the pattern remained the same. Knapp started at 9:30 a.m. and did his deliveries up and down University Avenue. He’d eat his lunch and then do his pickups. After work, he would go out to dinner and then hit the bars along University Avenue. Each night he hit Dick’s Bar. Each night he’d closely watch Linda. Each night another cop would come out of the bar and tell Mac how hot the bartender was. After Knapp hit the last bar each night, he made the thirty-minute drive home to Hudson, with the St. Paul police department parading behind him.

In the interim, they got a copy of his military file. Dirk Knapp had been an excellent Marine. He was with a recon unit and received top marks in his evaluation reports until he met a woman named Shirley Warner, who worked in the administrative offices at his base. Knapp and Warner found themselves in a relationship that went bad. He had become very possessive of her, and she broke it off. Knapp took the breakup hard, but he seemed to be holding it together until another member of his unit started dating Warner. Knapp lost it, went to her home, and severely beat the other man in his unit and went after Warner with a knife. The indication was that Knapp suffered some sort of a mental breakdown. He was hospitalized for a number of months and he eventually was granted a medical discharge. That was four years before.

Since his discharge, he’d worked for Quick Cleaners as a driver. Tax records indicated a steady income from his work there. A discreet inquiry uncovered that he was an excellent employee, always on time, courteous to customers, and worked hard. He was a bit of a loner and kept to himself for the most part. He wasn’t unfriendly in any way, just not terribly outgoing.

Tax records in Hudson revealed he and his mother owned his home. They’d originally owned forty acres but recently sold thirty-five of them to a developer. Soon, a housing development would start around their five-acre plot. They’d come out well on the sale of the land.

“I wonder why the guy even continues to work?” mused Rockford.

“Mother probably kept it all. Fucking women,” Lich growled.

Mac and Lich had Saturday off, but were back on the tail Sunday. Most of the day was spent in the van, watching Knapp’s place from the housing development. Even with a day off, the tedium of a stakeout gets to one after a while. Fast food, bags of chips, coffee, sodas, nothing healthy to eat. He was cooped up in a van most of the day with the weather turning cold. There were only so many magazines and newspapers he could read. Only so many radio shows he could listen to. Only so many conversations he could have with Lich, especially when he started to talk about what he and Dot were doing.

“Dick, spare me the details.”

“Hell. I’m just hoping you’ll tell me what a fine piece of ass that Sally Kennedy is.”

Mac just rolled his eyes. “I don’t talk.”

Lich snorted, “You’re a cop. Cops talk. Let’s have it.”

Mac was going to reply when he saw Knapp walk out of the house and get into his car “Our boy’s on the move,” and not a second too soon. Knapp pulled down the driveway in the Grand Am. They still hadn’t seen the van.

“It’s Sunday night, he’s probably just going for milk or something,” Lich thought.

Mac grabbed the radio. Riley and Rockford were down the road at the Italian restaurant. “Riles, Knapp’s on the move.”

Lich jumped behind the wheel, and they followed him. He wasn’t just going for milk. He was heading west, back towards the Twin Cities, to Dick’s Bar. Knapp pulled into the parking lot behind the bar and went in the backdoor.

They pulled the van into the Dairy Queen parking lot kitty corner from Dick’s on the south side of University Avenue. Everyone else spread out, finding different parking places along the way.

Mac jumped on the radio, “Riles, what is this, four out of five night’s at Dick’s?”

“Yup.”

“Who’s going in?”

“Rockford.”

“Copy that.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mac’s cell phone went off, it was Rockford. “What’s up?”

“My dick! You weren’t kidding about the little bartender chick in here. She’s the shit.”

Mac had to laugh. Rockford’s wife wasn’t much to look at. Of course, neither was Rock.

“Our boy isn’t focusing on her, is he?”

“No. He’s all over the bar back.”

Knapp went home at 12:30 a.m., followed by the second shift of followers from the St. Paul Police Department. Mac, Riley, and the rest of them met at the Gas & Shop again. Mac and Lich were waiting when Riley’s van pulled up. As Riley got out of the van, Mac said, “I’ll bet you the $100 I won in pull tabs in there last week that the bar back is the one he’s after.”

“No bet.”

“Anyone disagree?” Mac asked. Nobody did.

They knew for sure Monday night. After Knapp finished his Monday shift, he went to dinner at Applebee’s. After his dinner he went to Dick’s, arriving at 8:00 p.m.

Riles got on the radio, “Mac, you go back in tonight.”

“Okay.” Mac slipped on an old softball jacket and stocking cap. His razor stubble and glasses topped off the ensemble.

Mac got on his cell phone and called Riley.

“Where’s our boy?” Riley asked.

“Sitting in the middle of the bar again.”

“Where are you?”

“End of the bar, by the entrance.”

“How’s our boy look?”

“Fine. Focusing alternately on the TV and on the bar back. I can’t imagine how he doesn’t get distracted by the bartender. I am,” Mac said, admiring Sheila again.

Knapp left the bar at 1:30 a.m. Once he jumped in his car, he didn’t drive away. Rather, he sat and watched from the back parking lot, well down from the back door of the bar. He watched well past the 2:00 a.m. closing time. At 2:10, the cute bartender came out and got into her little sports car. A couple of lights remained on. At 2:45 the lights inside went out, and the bar back, Linda, came out the back door, by herself. She walked thirty feet to her Chevy Trailblazer, jumped in and drove away.

Mac, Lich, Riley, and Rock kept watching as well. They weren’t leaving until Knapp did, which was at 3:00 a.m., slowly driving by the back of the bar, stopping briefly to scan the backdoor area. Then he left for home, with the second shift falling in behind him three blocks east on University, as he headed back to Hudson. Knapp had marked his prey.

• • • • •

Viper, Bouchard, and the rest of their merry band had been following Knapp as well. Viper, disguised with a beard and ball cap had followed McRyan into Dick’s. This was the third time he had gone in following Knapp, a different look each time. One time he had a mustache. Another time he wore out-of style dark-rimmed glasses and false teeth. He never went in with the same look. This time, he sat in a booth with a good view of Knapp.

The bartender came over to serve him. She was an attractive little thing. Viper ordered a Budweiser. When she left him, he whispered into his sleeve, “Come on in. I’m in a booth.”

Bouchard appeared five minutes later and sat down. Sheila came around again and took his order. Knapp didn’t follow, and Viper wondered how he couldn’t. Instead, he kept his eye on the less-attractive woman behind the bar. To the trained eye one could see the hunger in Knapp’s eyes. She was the one.

Viper watched as Knapp got up from his stool and headed down the back hallway. He always hit the can once a trip, good cover to check out the back hallway.

The bartender and bar back, as it turned out, were the co-owners. Dick had been their dad, and they’d taken over when he died. They both ran the bar and worked the late nights. They were making a boatload, a good six figures a year, according to tax records. They kept the overhead low, working most nights by themselves, with one guy working the kitchen. That was it. A cleaning company came each day. There were no other workers or staff. They would probably work it for a few more years, then sell and leave for better environs, Viper thought.

The bartender, Sheila, came from behind the bar again to serve Bouchard his Bud Light. As she walked back to the bar, Knapp came back down the hallway and retook his stool. Viper looked down the hallway for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

The men’s bathroom was all the way down the back hallway on the right. Viper pushed the door in and found himself in a small hallway that after five or six feet turned left, down a longer hallway, a little more than ten feet that ran into a wall that contained the sink and mirror. To the immediate left was the toilet stall. Wrapped around behind the stall was a wall with two urinals. Viper took a piss and listened. He couldn’t even hear the sounds of the bar. It was as if the bathroom was soundproofed. It had potential.

When Knapp left at 11:30, McRyan followed a few minutes later. Viper and Bouchard waited an additional fifteen minutes to leave. They got into a van and left the area, then switched vans and worked their way back towards Dick’s. They knew where the four police vehicles were located and steered clear. From their perch well east and behind the bar, they could see Knapp’s car, him in it, and the back of the bar.

“You know, he’s getting the hunger to go for her. He’s doing the recon on her now. It’s not gonna be but two or three nights more, and he’ll go for her,” Bouchard mused.

“You’re right, and there are cops all over the place out here.”

“They’re on him day and night.”

“You have Kraft evaluate going after him at the farm house?” Viper asked.

“Yeah, but two things. First, there’s almost no way to approach the place without being seen. Day or night. Second, he’s a former Marine and a damn good one until he went haywire. Who knows what kind of security he might have set up. He’s got to be thinking he might have to run at any moment, and he could have some sort of security signal or trigger that’d let him know if someone’s been in or out of the house. That’s Kraft’s speculation anyway. So, you better think of something else.”

“I did get one idea tonight. We might have to do it in the bar.”

• • • • •

The group met at the Gas & Shop at 3:15 a.m. This time Riley was there first. “What do you guys think? Maybe two or three more nights, he’ll go for her?”

“That’d be my guess,” Lich replied.

Everyone else nodded in agreement. Mac confirmed it for them, giving a run down of how Knapp was staring her down in the bar. “It’s not an obvious thing, unless you are looking for it, but he’s getting hungry. You can just see it. It’s in the eyes.” Mac rubbed his eyes, stifled another yawn.

Riles jumped in, “The chief wants to meet tomorrow. We’re all going in at 10:00 a.m. Mac, I’m thinking one thing, though.”

Mac knew, “We gotta talk to Linda, right?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Abort! Abort! Abort!”

It was Tuesday morning, chilly, and the weather forecasters on the morning news had uttered something about snow. If the newsies weren’t talking about snow, they were talking about the University Avenue Strangler. Last night, Channel 6 had gone with an in-depth story about the investigation. The morning show then played excerpts, which Mac caught. He’d seen more flattering depictions and, in an ominous tone, Channel 6 was promising an additional installment tonight.

Sylvia Miller was getting butchered. She’d had enough, demanded an update, and the chief acquiesced. That’s why Mac was rubbing his eyes as he exited the elevator on the way to Flanagan’s office. He’d gone to bed at 4:00 a.m. and it was 8:00 a.m., the meeting with the chief was moved up two hours.

When Mac walked in, Miller and Flanagan were waiting, along with Helen Anderson and Sally. Mac had fitfully slept at home. Sally, with a full night’s rest, looked like a million bucks by comparison. The chief nodded to the couch where Mac grabbed a seat and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. He drank it as fast as the roof of his mouth would allow. As he poured himself another cup, Riley came in, and the meeting came to order.

The chief started everything off. “Riles, where ya at on Knapp?”

Miller jumped in with, “Who’s Knapp?”

Riles smiled tiredly. “Sylvia, let me tell you about our serial killer.” He flipped open his notebook.

The chief jumped in before he started. “Sylvia, you can’t repeat any of this. At least not yet.”

Riley gave everyone the run down. When he finished Flanagan looked relieved, Anderson looked excited, and Miller was just plain incredulous. Sally knew all about it, pillow talk of the strangest kind.

“How long have you been on this guy?” Miller asked.

“A week now,” replied Riley.

“How have you kept it so quiet? I haven’t heard even a whisper of this.”

“Because if anyone did, they wouldn’t have a badge,” replied the chief. “And, Sylvia, you can’t talk about it either.”

“I know. I know,” she replied, the relief showing. “I’m just glad to know you’re getting somewhere. That this thing might come to an end. I assume you think he’ll hit soon?”

Mac jumped in. “Next couple of days. Everyone agrees who’s seen him inside the bar, watching the woman. The hunger’s building.”

“Have we seen the van yet?” asked the chief.

“No.”

“Doesn’t that concern you?” Anderson asked.

“Not really,” replied Riles. “We think he uses it only when he takes the women. We think it’s stored in one of the outbuildings at his place.”

“Are you going to talk to the bar back?” Sally asked.

“Mac and I are going today,” replied Riley.

• • • • •

Mac and Riley got to Dick’s as Linda was pulling up in her Trailblazer. When Mac got out of the unmarked car, she looked at him quizzically and then smiled.

“A little early isn’t it?” a shy smile creased her face.

“It would be, Linda, but that’s not why I’m here.” Mac pulled out his badge, introduced Riley, and explained the investigation and Knapp. She led them into the bar and to the upstairs office. Whereas the lower bar was a throwback to a bygone era of a hole-in-the-wall bar, upstairs was a well-furnished office with a distinct woman’s touch. There was a large tasteful off-white couch and two sitting chairs, which surrounded a coffee table sitting on a Persian area rug that covered a good portion of the wood floor. Two antique oak desks, each with a new laptop computer on them, allowed the women to do business. A thirty-two-inch TV sat in a corner, along with a CD player. The office served as a pleasant alternative to the bar below.

“So, what does your investigation have to do with me?” Linda asked, as she fell into one of the chairs. Mac and Riles took seats on the couch.

Riles, cutting to the chase, “You’re his next target.”

Linda quickly put her hand to her mouth, a look of horror overtaking her face, her voice stammering, “You’re su … su … sure … he’s after me?”

“After last night, we’re real sure,” replied Mac. “He’s been in your place the last several nights. We’ve had a cop in there every night as well as all over the place outside. He leaves the bar and watches from the parking lot until you leave to go home.”

“But why me? Why me? I mean, what did I do?” she asked loudly, her voice anxious, full of alarm.

“He goes for shy, reserved women; you’re that. He goes for working-class women. I know you own the bar with your sister, but you have a working-class look and manner about you. He goes after women who are smaller physically, which you are,” Mac replied. “You fit the profile to a T.”

“So when do you think he’ll come after me?”

“Any night now.”

“Tonight?”

“Possibly.”

“Why don’t you just arrest him now?”

“We can’t,” Mac answered. “Without going into the legal niceties, we don’t have enough. We’re very lucky to have stumbled onto him, so to speak.”

“But so are you,” Riles added. “So, we need your help.”

She didn’t look relieved. “What do you need?”

Riles didn’t sugar coat it, “Him to make a move on you.”

More stammering, “You … you … you mean, letting him come after me? What? You want to catch him in the act?”

Riles and Mac nodded.

She excused herself and went downstairs and returned a minute later with a glass and bottle of Beam, no ice. She sat down, poured herself a shot and knocked it back. She poured herself another one and offered the bottle to both of them. They declined. The second shot went down easily, hardly a grimace on her face. “I assume you have something in mind?”

The detectives smiled, nodded reassuringly and laid out their plan.

• • • • •

Viper was wearing yet another disguise, long black hair, mustache, with a duck-hunting cap and coat to finish it off. He was sitting alone in a booth near the back of the bar, facing the back hallway. Bouchard was disguised as well, all in black. Long black hair down past his shoulder, a black leather biker jacket, black jeans, black leather biker boots, a chained wallet, along with a beard and dark-tinted glasses. He was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. The long wigs covered their earpieces. They had small, extremely sensitive microphones hidden in their coat collars. They were waiting for Knapp.

He strolled in at 8:30 p.m. and sat on a stool in the middle of the long bar, his usual spot. The good-looking bartender sauntered over and took his order. She would draw the desires of any man tonight. Skin-tight blue jeans and a tight, bright-white top with long sleeves that left her midriff exposed. She apparently had never heard of a bra. Not that Viper was complaining. He caught a quick glimpse of the bar back, in her blue jeans, white sweatshirt, and blue turtleneck. How were these two women sisters?

Knapp was watching the bar back and a Gopher basketball game with equal intensity. At 9:30 p.m., almost finished with his second beer, he hopped off the bar stool and headed down the hall. When Knapp went into the men’s room, Bouchard waited ten seconds and then casually got off his stool and followed down the hall.

Bouchard pushed in the door to the men’s room, turned left, and as he reached the sink, he could see Knapp in the mirror, at the far urinal on the opposite wall. He walked over to the open one. Knapp glanced over and gave him a slight nod, which Bouchard returned, uttering, “I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“I hear ya.”

Bouchard unzipped his pants and faked arranging to piss with his left hand. With his gloved right hand he reached in his coat pocket for the switchblade.

• • • • •

Mac figured tonight was not the night. No van. He and Lich were sitting in a van, a block away looking at the back of the bar. Tonight Rockford was inside. He called Mac from the bathroom.

“What’s up?”

“My dick. You oughta see what she has on tonight.”

Mac had to smile. Linda had told her about Knapp. Sheila probably decided to pull his chain a little. “Is she drawing any attention from our boy, or is he keeping it on Linda?”

“Pretty much Linda, although even he took notice of this chick tonight. There isn’t a guy in the joint who isn’t undressing her with his eyes, not that they’d have to work hard to do that.”

“Who’s that?” Lich asked.

“Rock. He’s calling from the can. He can’t piss because Bradley gave him a woody.”

“Speakin’ of pissin’, I gotta go bad.”

Rockford heard the discussion, “Who’s that? Lich?”

“Yeah, your call has given him the urge to piss.”

“He can switch up for me?”

Mac thought a second and turned to Lich. “You want to cover the bar?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Okay, Rock. Lich’s heading in.”

Lich jumped out of the van and briskly walked the couple hundred yards to the back door of the bar. He opened the door and hustled down the back hall, suddenly realizing he’d passed the men’s room door. He stopped and walked back a few feet and pushed the men’s room door in.

• • • • •

Viper took a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving the back hallway. Bouchard should be doing Knapp about now, he thought. Suddenly the back door opened. It was that fat fuck Lich. Viper tensed and then relaxed as Lich walked past the men’s room door. Then Lich turned back and went into the can. Shit. “Abort! Abort! Abort!” Viper urgently whispered into his mike.

• • • • •

Bouchard had the knife out of his coat pocket and was ready to pop it open and move on Knapp when his earpiece exploded, “Abort! Abort! Abort!” It caused him to wince, which Knapp noticed.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Bouchard replied, quickly slipping the knife back into his coat pocket. He glanced right at the mirror and saw the fat detective approaching. Lich, noticing them both, darted into the toilet stall. Knapp finished, walked over to the sink, gave his hands a quick wash, took a quick look at his face in the mirror, ran his hand through his hair, and headed out. Bouchard waited fifteen seconds and did the same.

• • • • •

Viper stared at the backdoor. What the hell happened? He got his answer soon enough when Knapp, no worse for wear, came back into the bar. Fifteen seconds later Bouchard shuffled down the hall and retook his stool at the end of the bar.

Bouchard spoke softly into his collar, “Do we bail?”

“Hold tight, we might get another shot.”

They didn’t. Knapp quickly finished what was left of his beer, dropped a five on the bar, nodded good night to the bartender, and walked out the back, where the eyes of at least ten cops would be on him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“It’ll be tomorrow night.”

Before Knapp went home, he gave them all something to chew on. He sat in his car, not leaving, waiting on Linda. After she left to go home, he waited five minutes and cruised the back of the bar. He stopped, got out, and walked between the bar and the building next door, a small paint store. Mac had walked in the gap earlier in the day. There was five or six feet between the two buildings. It was a weaving dirt path, strewn with weeds, broken glass and crushed beer cans. It was dark, lit only by an occasional second-floor light turned on in either of the two buildings. It was the perfect hiding place.

“That’s where he’ll wait,” Mac uttered into the radio, watching Knapp through a night scope borrowed from the feds.

“You bet your ass,” Riley responded.

Knapp got back into his Pontiac and headed home. The second shift followed him home to Hudson and put him to bed.

It was 3:15 a.m. and they were at the Gas & Shop lot.

Riley and Rockford were waiting when Mac and Lich pulled in. When they were getting out of the van, Riley bellowed, “Is he getting ready?”

“I think he is ready,” Mac replied. “What do you think, Dick?”

Lich shrugged, “Still haven’t seen the van.”

Riley nodded. “That’ll be the sign. We’ll know for sure then. The four of us meet with the chief in the morning for an update. He was nice enough to give us till 10:00 a.m.”

Everyone nodded. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone headed home.

• • • • •

Viper admired the thoroughness of Knapp in stalking his prey. She was always alone when she left at night. The area behind the bar was dark. It was a good spot. Were it not for the police being right on top of him, he’d get away with it. Again.

The police were thorough in stalking their prey as well. Viper, while frustrated by it, admired the tracking job they were doing. They had a large crew and were masterful in following him. There was a different cop in the bar every night. They used different cars and vans every day. They rotated the tail well, never getting too close. The familiarity with Knapp’s movements and routes made that easier, but they had done well nevertheless.

It made it difficult for Viper and Bouchard to get at Knapp. They’d missed their best shot.

Knapp left his hiding place, got into his car and drove away.

Tonight’s little recon mission left no doubt he was ready to move. It wouldn’t be long now and one thing was clear. Viper had to find a way to get to Knapp before McRyan and company did.

Bouchard shook his head, “It’ll be tomorrow night.”

Viper agreed. They needed to move fast. But how?

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Jupiter, you the man.”

The meeting started at 10:00 a.m., the night crew still with Knapp, was watching him making his way to work. Captain Peters, Helen Anderson, Sylvia Miller, Riley, Lich, Rock, Sally, and Mac were all in attendance. As expected, Channel 6 had run another scathing story on the serial killer and the lack of progress on the investigation. The force was carved in the sweeps story, and Flanagan was seething. Mac had never seen him so mad. He wanted Knapp, if for no other reason, to stick it back in the media’s face.

“Pat, where are we at on Knapp?”

“Could be anytime now, Chief.”

“Tonight?”

“We hope so,” Riles replied, perverse as it sounded, wanting a serial killer to make a move. “Obviously, we can’t predict for—”

“I know, I know,” Flanagan replied, waving him off. “I’m getting fuckin’ impatient. That Channel fucking 6 is skewering us, and I’m sick of it.”

“Can’t force Knapp to attack, Chief,” Anderson said.

“I know, it’s just … frustrating. You boys are doing good work here. We have our guy, and then those fuckin’ bastards at Channel 6 with this story.” City council members and the mayor had already been on the chief, demanding answers, as if finding a serial killer was a political problem one could solve with a phone call.

“I hear you, Chief,” echoed Miller. “But when we catch this guy, we can spin this. This Knapp isn’t an idiot; we’ll make sure that gets out. We’ll play the work these guys are doing, how they broke the case, tailing this guy while Channel 6 was putting together it’s carve job.” Then she flashed a vicious smile. “Maybe, we’ll give Channel 12 an exclusive, since they’ve shown some restraint.”

“That all assumes we’re going to catch this asshole,” the chief noted. “Pat, where we at on that?”

“We’re good.” Riles went over the planning with everyone. “We have the place covered, and air support’s set up. I’m inside the bar with Doug Long. Rock’ll be next door. Mac and Lich are across the street. Linda Bradley is with us and ready. We’ll get him.”

“Is it just you five?”

“No, no. We’ll have other units in the area, but we have to keep them back until he moves. We don’t want to spook him. The guy was a Marine. He’s got to be checking behind him from time to time. I don’t want to have him abort.”

“I don’t want him getting away,” the chief said, concern in his voice.

“He won’t,” Riles assured.

“Once we get him, then what?” Rock asked.

“I want this bastard in court quickly. I want his arrest to be public. I want a fuckin’ perp walk,” the chief said. “Sylvia?”

“I can handle that,” Miller replied. “We’ll have as early a press conference as possible. We’ll set the time for the perp walk so the media can cover it. Riley and Rockford can walk him in. It’ll be great theatre.”

“How about you, Helen?”

“Publicity? Moi? Far be it from me to stand in the way,” replied a smiling Anderson, drawing a knowing chuckle. “We could have him in court the next day, I think. Sally?”

“We can. Detective Riley has kept me in the loop,” not to mention Mac, nocturnally. “I’ll have things ready for a quick hearing if need be.”

“Good. I want a public spectacle of this thing. The department needs that. Sylvia, Helen, Ms. Kennedy, Marion, I want you to stick around so we can discuss that further. Riles, you and the boys go catch that piece of shit.”

• • • • •

Viper contemplated his next move while sitting on the boss’s couch, drinking a bottled water. They missed Knapp. It was a good plan. Dumb luck really. If Lich hadn’t walked in, Knapp would have been gone. Shit happens. Viper didn’t explain it quite that way to the boss, but that was the gist of what happened.

“So, what are you going to do?” the boss asked.

Good question. Knapp was going to go for Linda soon, probably tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Problem was, the police detail would have cops all over the place. According to the boss’s source, for purposes of prosecution, it would be best to catch him in the act. There would be no shortage of assets in the area. Viper didn’t have many options, so he answered straight, “To be honest, I’m not sure.”

“The police are on him tight?”

“As a drum. Bouchard and I think he’ll go for it tonight, and the cops are swarming this guy.”

“Then we’ll have to come up with something while he’s in custody.”

“In custody, sir?”

“Yeah, somehow, some way, we’ll have to get at him that way.”

Viper, at a loss, said, “How?”

“Let me see what I can find out,” the boss replied.

• • • • •

Mac and Lich resumed tailing Knapp at an Arby’s on University at lunchtime. Knapp had an affinity for fast food, which made him like a lot of people. Difference was it didn’t seem to go to his belly. Mac, on the other hand, felt bloated. He hadn’t worked out in what seemed like two weeks, causing him to check his waistline for a paunch. There wasn’t one. Of course, if he needed to, he could merely look over at Lich. He had enough for the two of them.

“Another day,” uttered Lich as he adjusted in the passenger seat.

“Another dollar,” Mac finished, trying to get comfortable as well.

• • • • •

“So he thinks we have to take him out when he’s in police custody?” Bouchard asked.

“Yeah,” Viper replied skeptically. “I’m not sure how we do it. Any ideas?”

“Not off hand,” Bouchard replied. “I’d think they’ll have him tightly guarded. Not sure how we could get close enough to do anything. Especially before he starts talking.”

“If he does talk,” Viper mused.

“Most serial killers do,” Bouchard replied.

“Could always be a first time.” Viper’s cell phone chimed, it was the boss. “Well, maybe he has some answers for us.”

• • • • •

Mac yawned. It was 4:30 p.m., the sun was setting and the night was rolling in. The sports radio station was on low. It was Vikings season and nothing raised the passions of the sporting public in the Twin Cities more than the Purple. The rubes were in full rage, a recent loss to the Bears causing everybody’s bile to percolate. The updated weather forecast had rain turning to snow, and soon. Oh, goodie, Mac thought. He and Lich were watching as Knapp picked up uniforms from Murray Engineering.

“We’ve been following him for how long now?”

Lich rubbed his eyes, tired of the monotony as well. “A week, I think.”

“So, next will be the dry cleaning at the 801 Building.” It was. Mac laid out his next two stops, right on the money.

“What are you now, Columbo?”

They had his pattern down. They knew his every move, when he woke up, what route he drove to work, his route while working, who he talked too, what he picked up, what he dropped off, what streets he drove, where he parked, where he liked to eat lunch, fill up with gas, take a leak. They had it all. But they couldn’t relax. They had to stay sharp. This would be the time he’d throw them a curve ball, and Mac would drive a van right into the back of him. Then the jig would be up.

Per his normal schedule, Knapp finished his route at 6:00 p.m. At 6:05, he casually walked out of the building and got into his car. He left the lot and turned left onto University. Then he took an immediate right south on Lexington. He took a left onto the freeway and headed east on 94. This was not part of the normal pattern. Mac and Lich were in the first vehicle trailing Knapp towards Hudson.

“You don’t suppose?” Lich said.

“Yeah. Exactly,” Mac replied.

Riley and Rockford passed them, driving a white Buick Century. Rockford raised his eyebrows as they passed. They were thinking the same thing.

Knapp pulled into his driveway at 6:45 p.m. Mac and Lich drove past and pulled into the housing development. The rest of the crew were in the parking lot at the restaurant. Mac and Lich watched out the back windows of the van. Thankfully the back of the van had vinyl swivel seats that were moderately comfortable. They could sit and watch Knapp’s place through the night vision scope or binoculars. There was little radio traffic. Everyone was on edge. Something was happening.

Then nothing happened.

At 8:30 p.m. Lich bitched, “What the fuck? He takin’ a night off?”

A light, cold rain started. Mac felt the temperature drop five degrees in a minute and a shiver go down his spine. After a brief rush of action, the monotony set back in. Mac grabbed a Pioneer Press off the floor, and read the sports page for the fourth time, this time squinting in the dark. Lich was passively watching the house, slouched in the seat in back, his arms crossed, lightly rocking, trying to stay warm.

At 10:15, Mac’s bladder started barking at him, and he got out of the van to take a piss. He could see his breath in the cool night, the light mist falling around him. Steam rose from his urine as it hit the ground.

“Mac, get in here!” Lich yelled.

“What?”

“I’ve got the van.”

Mac quickly finished and moved for the van, trying to zip his pants at the same time. Parked in front of an out building they hadn’t seen Knapp go into all week, was a Ford Econoline van, dark in color, lights on, a large dent in the front bumper and, most important of all, the right license plate. “I’ll be damned, Jupiter, you the man,” Mac whispered to himself.

Mac jumped into the passenger seat and grabbed the radio, “Riles, do you copy?”

“Here, Mac.”

“We’ve got the van. It’s outside, and we confirmed the plate number.”

“Copy that. We’re moving out now. You follow Knapp.”

“Copy that.”

“Bout fuckin’ time,” Lich yelled gleefully, as he fired up the van, did a quick U-turn. He turned left onto County 35, half a mile behind Knapp.

Any exhaustion they had experienced was history. The game was on—finally. The adrenaline was flowing. They’d been waiting a week for this. “Tonight’s the night,” Mac said quietly.

Riley, Rockford, and the rest made a speed run to St. Paul and the bar to get ahead of Knapp. The highway patrol was clued in, so there wouldn’t be a problem.

At their meeting with the chief in the morning, they went over where everyone would be when Knapp moved. For three days prior, they had pored over maps of the area and spoke with the owners of the businesses surrounding Dick’s Bar.

Riley would be in the bar. There was a small storeroom in the back across from the bathroom. He’d hang there. When Linda left the bar for the night, he would be right on the back door, which she would only pretend to lock. He could pounce as soon as Knapp made a move.

Rockford’d be in the back of the paint store, less than a hundred feet away. Mac had lobbied for the spot. Rockford was not that fleet a foot, Mac was.

Mac and Lich would be across the street to the west in the back garage of Ray’s Auto Repair, at least one hundred fifty feet away. They had spent a few nights watching from there already. Ray had a son-in-law with the force. He couldn’t have been more helpful.

Mac would be able to run across the street—less likely Lich, given his body type, girth, and age. Lich said he’d keep the van pointed in the right direction in case they needed a set of wheels. Mac’s concern was if Knapp ran—would they be able to catch him? They had to keep the rest of the vehicles a number of blocks back. Who knows what would happen if Knapp ran? He could slip away, get into someone’s house, take a hostage. There were risks if he ran and got outside their perimeter. It’s why Mac wanted the paint store.

There were already two cops on the second floor of the office building to the north, looking directly down on the back of the bar. They could see the gap, the back door and would have the infrared video camera on the back. Neither man would be of any help if there was a chase.

In addition to Riley, they had Detective Doug Long on the second floor in the bar. He would be able to look down on Knapp as he hid in the gap between the bar and paint store.

Finally, they had Falcon, the St. Paul Police chopper circling at a distance overhead that could swoop in at a moment’s notice.

In the van, Mac and Lich were two hundred yards behind Knapp, with another unit an additional two hundred yards further back. The temperature was dropping quickly. The rain was changing to snow. The wipers were going high speed, cleaning the windshield while they sped into St. Paul.

“I hope Ray left the heat on in the garage,” Lich pleaded.

“Suppose you want some coffee too?”

“A man can dream,” Lich quipped.

Mac, getting back to business, “With this snow, visibility’ll be an issue.”

“You’re right, boyo. That area behind the bar ain’t well lit.”

• • • • •

Viper and Bouchard were parked, watching Riley and his crew a block south of the Italian restaurant. Suddenly the two vans and a Crown Victoria pulled out and sped by, disregarding the local speed limit. Two minutes later, a Ford Econoline van came by.

“There’s our boy, I bet,” Bouchard uttered.

“See if McRyan comes by.” He did, thirty seconds later, keeping his distance.

Viper and Bouchard waited and pulled in well behind Lich and McRyan, trailing Knapp back to St. Paul.

“You’re comfortable with everything?” Bouchard asked.

“Yes.”

“How about Hagen?”

“He said it would be easy. He even showed me how he does it.”

“And the getaway?”

“Got it covered. It’ll take thirty seconds to a minute at best for them to figure out what happened. By the time they do, I’m gone.”

• • • • •

Doug Long was up on the second floor at the bar. His car was parked next to Linda Bradley’s Trailblazer. When Knapp was two minutes out, Young, another cop sitting down in the bar, jumped in Long’s car and pulled away three blocks north on Arundel.

Unfortunately, as Knapp pulled into the lot, a spot opened right along the back of the bar, three spaces from Bradley. It was not Long’s spot. He backed the van in, killed the motor and went inside.

Mac and Lich heard all of this on the radio and skipped the Dale Street exit, going farther west on Interstate 94 to the Lexington Parkway exit and doubling back to Ray’s. Lich dropped the van in the parking lot on the west side of the garage, hidden from view of the bar parking lot. They entered the security code to the building and slowly worked their way to the back and to the door looking directly across Arundel into the parking lot behind Dick’s. There were no lights on in the back of the garage, and Mac and Lich slowly made their way to the window.

Mac moved to the right side of the garage door, and as if he was peering around a corner, looked out the window. There were a couple of problems. The snow, coming down in large, heavy snowflakes, made visibility across the street and into the parking lot a problem. It was melting as it hit the pavement, but was gathering in the grass between the street and sidewalk. More importantly, Knapp’s van blocked his view of the back door. It wasn’t on the other side of Bradley’s Trailblazer, as they had planned. They wouldn’t be able to see Knapp move. They called it in. Riley told them to stay put and move when the call came.

Knapp came out of the bar at 1:15 a.m. and got back into the van. A half-hour later he slowly got out of the driver’s side of the van. Mac watched as Knapp slowly walked to the rear of the van and peered around to his left. Seeing nobody, Knapp moved left and disappeared from Mac’s view. His earpiece told him that Knapp was to the side of the back door, sneaking a peak in the back to see if anyone was coming down the back hall. He then scooted over to the gap between the bar and paint store.

Knapp was dressed all in black, with a stocking cap. Long, looking down at him from the dark second floor, reported that Knapp was set back about fifteen feet, having leaned against the bar wall, into an indentation where a door used to be. The boys across the street could make him out through the infrared vision on the video camera.

Everyone was in position.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Have a nice day.”

Patience. A difficult thing to have when waiting for something to happen, when you know it is going to happen and even when it will happen. Mac must have looked at his watch every thirty seconds since Knapp left the van. Radio chatter quieted. Mac noticed a light go on upstairs. Bradley was now up working the books, putting the money in the safe for tomorrow’s deposit.

At 2:15 a.m., per normal routine, Sheila Bradley left. She was well aware of what was going on with her little sister. She had been told to drive way away and not hang around. Everything needed to look normal. It seemed like an hour since she’d left. It had been five minutes. Upstairs, Linda Bradley, Mac knew, would be sliding on a neck brace with Long’s assistance.

At 2:42 a.m., Mac’s earpiece cracked with Long’s voice. “She’s heading down now.”

Mac and Lich moved to the left side of the garage door window, close to the back door. They were glued to the window, not that it did much good. They couldn’t see a thing.

Office building: “Knapp has moved to the edge of the gap.”

Mac whispered to Lich, “Alarm won’t go off when we open the back door?”

Lich, for the fifth time, “Nope, disarmed.” He was twirling the keys to the van in his hands. He’d be in the van if Knapp ran.

Long: “She’s at the back door.”

Mac left the window and went to the back door, hand on the knob, staring at the floor, waiting for the word.

Office building: “She’s opening the door … she’s turned her back, putting the key in the lock.”

As Mac heard it told later, as she put the key into the knob, Knapp sprung from the gap. He was on her in an instant. The key was still in the lock, and the force of his attack on her had snapped it off. Riley and Long were trapped inside.

Office building: “Go! Go! Go! He’s on her! … He’s on her!…”

Mac bolted out the back door, sprinting across Arundel, leaving Lich behind. He heard Riley in his right earpiece. “The door’s jammed. We can’t get out! We can’t get out! Go, go, go …”

Chaos.

As he was sprinting across Arundel, Mac heard a voice yell out, “Freeze, police.” As he hit the grass between the street and sidewalk he saw a black blur to his left sprinting out of the parking lot north on Arundel. Knapp. Mac instinctively planted his left foot to turn, but it gave out underneath him as he slipped on the snow. He fell hard onto the cement sidewalk, jarring his left shoulder. He pushed himself right up and gave chase.

He heard his earpiece blurt. “He’s north on Arundel. All units converge.”

Falcon dropped from nowhere out of the sky, the spotlight searching for Knapp.

Mac was running north and gaining speed. He saw Knapp sprinting north on Arundel, just about to pass the alley on the block between Sherburne and Charles Streets, when the lights appeared and the sirens sounded, closing rapidly from the north on Arundel. Knapp stopped abruptly and turned left, ninety degrees into the alley, slipping on the wet street, but catching himself with his left hand. He’d lost some momentum. Knapp turned down the alley, throwing a couple of garbage cans into the way.

Mac, at full speed now, half a block behind Knapp, turned left to the sidewalk on the north side of Sherburne, sprinting hard, parallel to the alley, looking to his right through the houses, not able to see Knapp but getting a general fix from Falcon’s spotlight. He wanted to cut to his right, get to the alley, but there were too many fences, bushes. He kept running, looking right. Another house. Then a break, a clean shot through to the alley. Mac veered right. As he crossed the back of the house he saw Knapp running peripherally to his right, with Falcon’s light painting him. Knapp, sensing things closing, abruptly veered right between two houses on the other side of the alley, losing some speed but also losing the spotlight from Falcon.

Mac, flying, stayed dead straight, on a beeline to the other side of the house, rapidly closing the gap. He lost Knapp briefly behind the house but picked him up around the front, to his right. Mac had the angle on Knapp, as if he was running along the sideline of a football field. Knapp looked back over his right shoulder for pursuers. He didn’t see Mac coming from his left.

Mac didn’t break stride down the incline to the sidewalk. Knapp, coming from his right, ran behind a parked car. Mac burst in front of the car and at full speed, drilled the serial killer, ran through him, with his right shoulder, a textbook tackle. The tackle took Knapp off his feet and drove him into the pavement, with Mac rolling over him and landing with his back against a parked car, his head slamming into a tire. Dazed, his head pounding, Mac could see Knapp five feet away, starting to push himself up. Mac told his body to move, but he was reacting slowly, not moving fast enough, foggy from crashing into the car.

Knapp was up on a knee, pushing up with his hands, ready to take a step.

Mac rolled to his right, setting his hand on the pavement, trying to push himself up, wanting to give chase.

Knapp, up now, took a step, but only one. A blur from the left wiped him out. Rockford, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, finished the job for Mac, steamrolling Knapp. Subdued by the force of the tackle, Knapp was easily cuffed by Rock, who just might’ve taken an extra shot or two in the process. Falcon, having caught up, provided a guide for all of the other vehicles and cops, who circled the area now like moths to a flame.

Mac sat back against the tire, breathing hard, his head pounding, seeing some stars. Perhaps not stars, but little flickering bright lights, like used to happen when he got checked hard into the boards when he played hockey.

Riles approached. He squatted down in front of Mac. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just got my bell rung, I think,” Mac replied, trying to focus his eyes. “Help me up.”

Riles reached his right arm around Mac’s left side and helped him up. Mac set his feet underneath him, and while he was a little lightheaded, he felt okay. “How’s Linda?”

“She’s fine. Brace did the trick,” Riles responded, smiling, relieved.

Having steadied Mac, Riles walked over to a face-down and handcuffed Knapp. Squatting down again, Riles pushed Knapp onto his right side and looked him in the eye.

“Have a nice day.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“There’s a piece missing here.”

The press conference ended at 10:30 a.m. Mac, Riley, Rockford, and Lich retreated to an empty interview room, found some coffee and relaxed, a few hours of sleep having temporarily refreshed them all. Riles was particularly chipper, the long investigation over, his efforts vindicated.

“What time ya taking him to court?” Lich asked Riley.

“Noon. Rock and I get to walk him in the front door.”

“Better you than me,” Mac replied.

“You should be there as well. Lich too. You guys broke this thing open.”

“Thanks just the same. I’d as soon avoid the media. I had enough of it on the Daniels case,” Mac replied.

“Agreed. Besides, I’m not the most photogenic guy,” Lich replied, in a huge understatement.

Just then Dan Patrick stuck his head in the room. “Thought I might find you guys here. We’re heading out to Knapp’s place in Hudson. Guess there’s some interesting stuff out there. Anyone care to join?”

“I’d love to,” Riles replied, “but I have orders to hang around for the walk over to the courthouse.”

“Me too,” Rock added.

“I’ll go,” Mac said. “Dick?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“See you boys later?” Mac said to Rock and Riles.

“Yeah, party tonight over at the Pub,” Riley replied, “and you all will be there.” It wasn’t a question. “Anyone who doesn’t show will be summarily shot. We deserve a little celebration.”

• • • • •

Bouchard slid the card into the reader, saw the light turn green and pushed his way into the tenth-floor hotel room. Hennessey, Hagen, and Skogman were with him and carried in their equipment.

Skogman opened the shades, and Bouchard looked out the window.

Hennessey came up behind and looked out as well. “This should work.”

“Agreed,” Bouchard replied. “Let’s get set up.”

• • • • •

Mac had driven by Knapp’s driveway many times over the last ten days. It felt odd to finally turn in and go up to the house. The Hudson cops were already there, with the crime scene tape up and lights flashing everywhere. A few curious onlookers were hanging out down on the county road, gawking.

Knapp’s farmhouse was maintained to military cleanliness on the main level and upstairs. The furniture was plain, vintage seventies in color and style, but well kept. The personal effects were sparse, except for a few family photos. There was nothing unusual, at least until they went down to the basement.

As they went down the stairs to the basement, it looked and smelled just like a farmhouse cellar. Dark, dusty, filled with crates, boxes, assorted junk with a musty smell, like old potatoes. However, under the steps was an old oak plank door that opened into the back foundation wall. Behind the door was a room underneath the four-season porch. Mac estimated it at fifteen by fifteen. Knapp had kept the room sealed with a combination lock, which now sat on the floor in two pieces, victimized by a bolt cutter.

The room was partially furnished with a television, desk, and computer. Above the desk was a shelf, which contained a half-used box of Trojan condoms, the kind used in each killing. There was also a box with the balloons. Knapp had one of each in the van the night before. However, that wasn’t what really caught his attention.

On the left wall was a bulletin board, a monument to Knapp’s work. The bulletin board was filled with news clippings, pictures, maps, and diagrams. It wasn’t too different from the bulletin board they had in the detail conference room. In a disjointed way, it told the story of what Knapp had been doing for the last couple of months. It was altogether creepy and fascinating at the same time.

Mac started from the left, was a third of the way down, passively looking at the clippings, when Lich came up to him. “Weird, huh?”

“Yeah. Creepy. It’s as if in his own warped mind, he was creating his masterpiece or something.”

“FBI profile said the guy might keep some sort of journal,” Patrick added. “This qualifies.”

“I’d say so,” Lich replied.

They stood in silence for a few moments, gazing at the wall.

“There’s a piece missing here,” Patrick said.

“Missing?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, nothing about Jamie Jones.”

Mac checked his memory, that was one of the victim’s names wasn’t it? “Jones … yeah … which … one was she?”

Patrick gave Mac a stern look.

“Hey, Dan, the day Dick and I got on the case, we had the seventh one. I didn’t even have a chance to go through all the files. Never really did because we got on Knapp so quick.”

Patrick nodded, remembering the sequence of events.

“Tell me about Jones,” Mac asked.

“She was the fifth victim. Killed on Halloween.”

“Oh, I remember,” Mac replied. “That was the day we picked up the Daniels case. So, what was her story?”

“She was the CFO at some local company.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We found her by the Capitol. Just like all the others, though. Vacant lot behind O’Neill’s Bar. Balloon tied to her. Sexually assaulted. There was Trojan rubber residue. The whole nine yards.”

“Copycat?” Mac asked.

“We kind of wondered about that, but the killing was identical. You can look at the file on it. It had all the characteristics of Knapp’s work. It’s the same in all the details.”

“Everything?” Lich asked.

“Everything,” Patrick replied.

“Then why nothing on Jones?” Mac asked.

“I guess we’ll have to ask Knapp,” Patrick replied.

• • • • •

Riles pushed Knapp’s head down and eased him into the back of a Crown Victoria and then joined him in back. Rock was in the front passenger seat, sitting next to Frank Franklin, another member of the detail along for a little limelight. It would be a short five-minute drive over to the courthouse.

Rock, never one to allow for a quiet ride, asked Knapp, “Get yourself a lawyer yet?”

“Yeah. Legal aid.”

“Thought you weren’t going to put up with one of those?”

“Don’t expect I’ll have to for long. But you all are trying to get plenty of publicity on this, so I don’t have much of a choice right now.”

• • • • •

Bouchard’s radio crackled with Hansen’s voice. “They just pulled out. Right on time. They’re going south on St. Peter.”

“Copy that,” Bouchard replied, then to Hagen, “Do it.”

Hagen was sitting at the desk with two laptops. The laptops had the security cameras of the second and third levels of the Vincent Ramp. A key stroke caused an almost imperceptive blip on the cameras on the left laptop, while the right remained constant. A minute later, Viper appeared on the right laptop, making his way to the southwest corner of the third level of the ramp. The left laptop, which the ramp security cameras were currently seeing and recording, showed the same location without Viper.

• • • • •

Viper moved into position and kneeled down between two minivans. The vans, parked in the last two spots on the southeast corner of the parking ramp, provided him cover from anyone driving through the ramp. His position was kitty corner from the front of the courthouse. He had a good field of fire, with an excellent view of the sidewalk area and the forty-foot walk to the front doors of the courthouse.

He took one last look out over the street and to the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. A crowd was gathering, waiting for the arrival of the University Avenue Strangler and his arraignment. All of the local television stations were there, reporters making a last check of their hair, and cameramen doing the same with their equipment. All were kept away by a police barricade, creating a fifteen-foot wide walkway into the courthouse.

He kneeled down and opened his case, which was designed to look like one for a laptop. Inside was his sniper rifle, which he quickly assembled, the last pieces being the silencer and the scope. Three bullets were slid in, two in the magazine and one in the chamber. He locked it in. He slipped a black mask down over his face, which matched his black coat, pants, and thin black gloves. His earpiece came to life.

“They’re two blocks out.”

“Copy that,” he replied. He peered just over the edge, and a minute later saw the parade approach in the form of two unmarked Crown Victorias.

• • • • •

“Cripes, what a crowd,” Rock stated, noticing all of the media and people in front of the courthouse.

“Lots of hairspray and makeup,” Riles replied. “Make sure to smile for the camera as we walk in. Let the media see that big gap in your teeth.” An evil grin spread across Riles’s face.

“Keep it up, and I’ll give you one to match,” Rock retorted.

Laughing, Riles got out of the back left of the car, and Rock exited the front passenger side, opening the rear door. Riles leaned into the car and helped lift Knapp up out of the car and onto his feet. “We’re just going to head right on in,” he said to Knapp, who simply nodded.

“Let’s go.” Rock lightly grabbed the back of Knapp’s left arm and Riles had the right.

• • • • •

Lich called down to them. “Hey, guys, come on up. They got it on TV. Riles and Rock are about to walk Knapp into court.”

Mac, Patrick, and several others gathered around the TV in Knapp’s living room.

“Lots of media,” Lich remarked.

“Just in time for the noon news,” Mac replied. “The whole town’ll be able to see this.”

• • • • •

Viper had them in the scope as they lifted Knapp out of the backseat. He wanted them a little more to his left for a slightly better firing angle.

He looked through the scope with his right eye, his finger on the trigger. “Don’t hit the black cop,” he said to himself, training the crosshairs on Knapp. They were moving now, away from the car, the black cop on his left arm, Riley on the right. Forty feet to the courthouse. As they moved towards the courthouse, the firing angle improved, Knapp’s head was no longer obscured. The assassin exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

• • • • •

Riles felt something hit the back of his head, moist, he reached with his right hand and felt it. Bringing it around to his eyes it was red, and Knapp was suddenly heavy in his left arm. He looked at Knapp, slumped over now, a large red hole where the back of his head used to be. Riley realized his left side was covered in blood.

People saw it now, the blood, Knapp down. Panic set in as bystanders started screaming, running, or hitting the ground.

“Where did it come from?” Riley heard Rock yell, looking back and to the east.

People were pointing in all different directions, at the various buildings and parking ramps in the area. Chaos broke out as uniforms ran up to Riley checking on him. Others had weapons drawn, scanning the area for the shooter. Riles heard another uniform yelling into a radio for backup.

“Pat, you hit?”

Riles was unresponsive.

“Are you hit?” Rock asked again, grabbing Riles on the left arm.

Riles, getting his head together, “N … n … no. I think it’s just Knapp’s blood.” He was coated in it.

• • • • •

“Direct hit,” Bouchard said matter of factly, looking down on the area with a high-powered set of binoculars.

“His head’s turned to mush,” Hennessey confirmed.

“Viper, move. Subject’s down,” Bouchard ordered into the radio. “Switch it when he gets to the skyway,” he said to Hagen.

• • • • •

Bouchard needn’t have bothered with the order. Viper saw the hole in the back of Knapp’s head. Quickly down on a knee, out of sight from the outside, he pulled the rifle apart and put it into the case. He was on the move in ten seconds, a black blur, moving between the vans, across the parking lot, towards the stairway.

Through the stairway door, he was quickly down one flight of steps to the skyway level. He pulled at the Velcro collar on his coat and it opened into a sport coat, with an open-collared white button-down-collar shirt. The stocking cap was off, replaced by a hounds-tooth driving cap. A fake beard concealed his face, along with a pair of stylish tinted glasses. While walking towards the skyway, he flipped his case over, so the outside looked like canvas. An empty Starbucks cup fished out of the case finished off the ensemble. As he walked out to the skyway, and into surveillance camera view, he blended in and looked like any one of a thousand people walking downtown over the noon hour.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“We got ourselves another Lee Harvey Oswald?”

The van pulled up to the curb in front of the Vincent Ramp, and Mac, Lich, and Patrick piled out. It had taken them fifteen minutes to get back downtown from Knapp’s place in Hudson. Their fears had been put to rest on the way in, when it was confirmed that other than Knapp, nobody else had been hit. Rock and Riles were okay, which was what they were most concerned about. Riles went back to the station to get cleaned up from Knapp’s blood.

The three of them moved up the steps to the third level where they found Rock and two other detectives in the southeast corner of the ramp, looking back towards the courthouse. Rock saw them coming and walked over.

“Christ, what a mess.”

“What the hell happened?” Lich asked.

“We think a sniper hit Knapp from the corner area over there.”

“Why here?” Mac said, not seeing anything indicating otherwise.

“Somebody claims they saw a muzzle flash from up here.”

“Anybody hear the shot?” Lich asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Rock replied. “Probably had some sort of silencer.” Rock wiped his shaved head with his hand. “I gotta tell ya, we’re out of the car, walking Knapp in, and next thing I know he’s slumped down and Riles is coated in blood.”

Mac walked over to the corner between two minivans and looked out over the street towards the courthouse. It was a shot of maybe a hundred yards. The spot provided a good field of fire towards the front of the courthouse. If a person were going to take a shot, this was a pretty good place. Nonetheless, it took pretty good aim and a steady hand to make the shot, Mac thought.

Lich walked up behind him. “We got ourselves another Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“We got someone who was a pretty good shot,” Mac replied.

“Don’t look that far to me,” Lich said.

“Rock, how many shots?” Mac asked.

“Only one, I think.” Rock replied.

“One shot from here, not bad,” Mac said. “Probably a scope, with a silencer, a pro job?”

“Who knows? Hell, you can get a scope and silencer for a hunting rifle,” Rock replied.

“Any of the victims of this guy … they got family members maybe who hunt or are good with a rifle?” Mac asked.

Rock shrugged, “Don’t know.”

“How long before you guys were up here?”

Rock grimaced. “Probably three or four minutes at best. It was pretty chaotic. The person who saw the muzzle flash didn’t get to us for a minute or two. Then we ran over, but whoever did it was long gone by then.”

“Where to? Where do you go from here?” Lich asked.

“There’s a stairway to the skyway, there’s another stairway down to the street. They might have jumped into a car in the ramp and left. Hell, they could have taken the elevator down, although I doubt it. We’re pulling the surveillance cameras. We’ll see what we find,” Rock replied.

“No rest for the weary,” Lich replied. “I thought we were going to get some days off.”

“We are,” Rock answered. “Chief’s already got a whole group down here looking at it. He says we’re off it. We’ve done enough. If they need to know anything about the families, they’ll ask us, but otherwise we’re done. We finish up some loose ends tomorrow, then we all get the rest of the week off.”

“Fine by me,” Lich said.

“Let’s go check on Riles,” Rock said.

Mac took one last look out over the street and to the front of the courthouse. A large blood spot marked where Knapp went down. Police tape marked the area off, and the crime scene guys were collecting what little evidence there was. He shook his head. Something didn’t seem right.

• • • • •

Viper pulled up to the front of the boss’s house, parked his car, and walked up to the front door. The housekeeper opened the door, took his coat, and escorted him to the dining room. The boss was sitting at the table, reading some papers, sipping a glass of wine.

“What would you like?” the boss asked, holding up his wine glass.

“One of those would be fine.”

Viper sat down while the boss poured him a wine. He waited for the staff to leave.

“How’re we doing?”

“Good so far,” Viper replied. “I was six blocks away before the police even made it up to the ramp. I was out of downtown within ten minutes. We look clean.” Viper sipped his wine, a lovely red. “Did the police get anything out of Knapp before—”

“—his untimely demise?” the boss finished. “No. He immediately asked for a lawyer. That was that.”

“So, we should be good then,” Viper stated. “Although I have Kraft and a few others keeping an eye on things from my end, just to be sure.”

“Good. I’ll be doing the same,” the boss added. “Now we need to get back to looking for the Cross documents.”

“Yes, sir. Now that this is over, we’ll refocus our efforts in that direction.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“We may still have a problem.”

Knapp’s assassination didn’t dampen anybody’s mood. The bastard killed seven women. If someone took his head off, well, that shouldn’t have happened, but nobody was going to lose sleep over it. It saved the public some money was a common view held in the Pub. Two months of built-up pressure and steam were being blown off big time. Every cab in St. Paul would be parked outside at closing time, Shamus would see to that. When Mac walked in, someone shouted out his name. Another yelled, “Hey look, it’s Ronnie Lott.” The room erupted. On his way to the bar, Mac received high fives, pats on the back, and even a couple of kisses on the cheek, which he hoped were from women. When he got to the bar, Uncle Shamus was there with a warm handshake and a cold Guinness.

Mac made the rounds, shaking hands, trading smiles and exchanging wisecracks. He finally found Riley, Lich, and Rock holding court at the end of the bar. Even Dot was there, her first appearance with Dick. What a way to start, Mac thought. There was already a stack of empties developing around the group. It would only get bigger. If only I owned Tylenol stock, Mac thought, envisioning the bottles of it that would be consumed tomorrow.

“Mac, my boy,” Riles said enthusiastically, acting as if he hadn’t seen him in five years, giving him a big bear hug. Riles appeared no worse for the wear from the day’s activities. If anything, having not been shot earlier made him all the more ebullient. Or perhaps it was the alcohol, of which Riles already had plenty. Others gathered around to hear Riley tell the story about the take down on Knapp. Riles had it down pat now, probably having told it twenty times already, adding great drama, timing, if not a little embellishment to it. He stood in the middle of thirty people, his arms waving, his voice getting louder, funnier than hell.

“… Falcon’s right overhead. The lights and sirens are everywhere. Problem is, nowhere near Knapp. I can see him in the distance, between these two houses. Rock’s just ahead of me, but we’re probably seventy, eighty yards back, running as fast as our piece-of-shit bodies can go. I see Knapp running into the street between two cars, and just then this blur just comes from his left and wipes him out, takes him off his feet. It’s fucking Mac. And I mean to tell you he was going full fuckin’ throttle. He practically ran right through him. Cut him in half. I mean, I think his shoes came flying off when Mac hit him. It was a yard sale. NFL films would have loved to have footage of this.” Riles took a drink. “But Mac’s kind of out of it after the tackle, and we see Knapp startin’ to get up. But then Rock kicks it down, finds a gear I didn’t know he had anymore, and he finishes Knapp off. Total pancake job.” There’s laughter all around. “I get there and check on Mac, who’s a little woozy. I think you were seeing stars, weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Mac replied with a smile.

“Then I walk over and Rock looks like he’s gonna puke, he’s breathing so hard. I’m not sure if he’s holding himself up or if he’s leaning on Knapp so he won’t fall down.”

Mac listened as Riley went on, when someone put a soft, delicate arm around him, slowly walking a hand up his back, scratching lightly. He turned to his left to see Sally, who looked him in the eye and planted a big soft wet kiss on him for everybody else to see. Mac, usually not one for public displays of affection, was caught up in the moment and didn’t mind.

After the kiss and some good-natured ribbing from everyone else, he and Sally moved off to the side and out of the commotion surrounding Riley. Mac got her a beer, and they talked for a few minutes when Riles, finally done with the recounting of the take down, came over to join them.

“Case isn’t kicking your ass anymore, is it?” Mac said.

“Got that right,” Riles replied boisterously and put his arm around Sally’s neck, pulling her close and pointing his beer at Mac. “Counselor, did you hear what your boy here did last night?”

“Yes, Detective. I heard your last rendition over there. Of course, I’m hoping I’ll receive a more thorough debriefing later,” Sally replied, smiling seductively at Mac. He wasn’t going to make closing time.

Riles loudly jumped all over the comment, “Ohhh, I’m sure Mac will be thoroughly debriefing later.”

Sally laughed out loud. Mac smiled and shook his head at Riles. “Hey, I’m a boxer man. I hate those tighty whitey’s you wear, Pat.” Mac added, and then in a more conversational tone, “I’ll tell you one thing new I saw today though.”

“What’s that?” Sally asked, taking another sip from her beer.

“I went out to Knapp’s place. He had the whole thing on a wall in the basement. Each murder. Pictures, maps, news clippings, the whole shootin’ match. I mean right up on the wall. Organized by victim.”

“Kind of creepy,” Sally replied.

“You ain’t kidding,” Mac replied. “But that wasn’t the really odd thing.”

“What was?” Rock asked as he lit his cigar.

“There was one victim missing.”

“Really, who was that?” Riley asked casually, taking a drink.

“Jamie Jones.”

“Really. Hmpf. Wonder why?”

“Yeah,” Mac replied, “I’m thinking I’ll take a—”

Before he could finish, Rock stopped him, “Guy was crazier than shit, Mac, killing those women. He probably left Jones out intentionally just to fuck with us. He’s dead, case is over—let’s get drunk.”

Rock was right, Mac thought, at least for tonight. They needed more drinks. “Shamus,” Mac bellowed. “Another round!”

The group talked idly for a while before Riley drifted off to tell more stories about the case to anyone who’d listen. Tonight he’d have an audience. More cops were coming in by the minute. Mac managed to stay until 10:00 p.m., when Sally finally dragged him out of the Pub. A day that started lousy was about to come to an excellent end.

• • • • •

Kraft had been sitting in the bar, twenty feet from McRyan, keeping a low profile, just a working stiff having a beer or two before heading home. They wanted to keep an eye on the group, just to be sure all was well. He heard McRyan mention the corkboard wall in the basement and the missing victim. Kraft finished his beer, threw five dollars on the bar and waded through the sea of cops to the front door. In his car, he grabbed his cell phone, punching up Viper.

“Yeah.”

“We may still have a problem.”

“What?”

“Apparently Knapp was cutting his clippings.”

“So?”

“Somebody’s missing.”

After a pause, “Shit.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Ever heard of Bristol, Ohio?”

Mac walked into the detail conference room at 8:00 a.m. and started the coffee maker. He imagined the crew would start coming in shortly, hungover to beat all. Having left the bar at a decent hour, Mac felt good.

It was clean-up day, time to file all the evidence in boxes and then take a few days off. A stack of unassembled bankers boxers already waited in a corner. Mac put a couple together and started working on the corkboard that had the St. Paul map. As he started pulling stuff down, Dan Patrick walked in.

“Good morning.”

“Ain’t nothin’ good about it,” Patrick replied, heading for the coffee.

Mac chuckled quietly and went back to work on the board. He got to the pin for the body by O’Neill’s Bar, Jamie Jones. She was the one missing from Knapp’s board.

“Dan, you got the file on this Jones woman? The one you were so mad I didn’t know about.” Patrick gave him a “Go fuck yourself” look through bloodshot eyes and threw a folder over.

Jones was the CFO at Peterson Technical Applications, otherwise known as PTA, the single largest business and employer in St. Paul. They had a downtown headquarters plus research and manufacturing facilities around the state and across the country, and soon around the world. It was a diversified company as far as Mac knew, but their calling card was military hardware and communications-related equipment.

“She was CFO?” Mac asked.

“Yeah.”

She was thirty-five years old. “Kind of young for that, wasn’t she?”

“She took over last March for a guy. I forget his name now, but he was killed in an auto accident during a snowstorm. Over on Shepard Road.” Patrick responded as he threw a couple of aspirin in his mouth and washed them down with coffee. Shepard Road ran from downtown west along the Mississippi River over to the International Airport. For an inner-city road, it was notoriously dangerous in spots. Add a March snowstorm to it, and it wasn’t unheard of that a serious accident could occur.

“Let me guess, during the state hockey tourney.” Snowstorms during the state high school hockey tournament were an annual tradition in Minnesota.

“Yup.”

Mac leafed through the file. It was like the other serial-killer files with a picture of the victim, a couple of pages on the evidence tying her to the other murders and a back page, stapled to the folder, with background information, such as address, date of birth, and next of kin.

Jones came to St. Paul seven years before. She owned a new condo down along the river. Mac recognized the address. It was one of those posh ones in the River Highlands development right on the river, part of St. Paul’s effort to take financial, meaning tax, advantage of the river front. Figures, CFO at a company like PTA should be able to afford digs like that.

She was different from the others victims. The other victims were, for the most part, working-class women—waitresses and a convenience store clerk. Even Linda Bradley, though she owned the bar, definitely had a blue-collar, working-girl feel to her. Jones didn’t. She was educated, a professional, lived in an expensive neighborhood and worked for a major corporation.

“Dan, PTA have any facilities along University Avenue?”

“Huh?”

“PTA. Do they have anything along or around University?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“It’s just that she doesn’t seem to have much in common with the other victims. How does Knapp stumble onto the CFO of PTA?”

“Don’t know, Mac. Some of that occurred to us as well. But, the murder matched all the others down to the letter. Strangled. Sexually assaulted and a Trojan condom was used. No pubic hairs or other physical evidence. Dumped in a vacant lot. Left with a ‘Have a Nice Day’ balloon.”

“Hardly impossible to copycat.”

“That’s true, except we kept a tight lid on all of the details. Very little got out. Think about it. If the media knew about the Trojan rubber, no pubic hair stuff, the van, they would have run with it. It never got out. We watched that very closely. The only thing that really got out was the balloon stuff, and that was pretty much unavoidable. Point is, we’d have been able to tell if it was a copycat. No dice.”

Patrick made a valid point. If it wasn’t Knapp, who was it? And if it was somebody else, they had to have the inside scoop to get it just right. Pretty unlikely. Nevertheless, something seemed odd about it all.

Mac touched his belly. Three cups of heavy coffee were getting to him. He grabbed Jones’s file and the sports page and headed to the can. The sports page offered little so he put it over the handicap arm lift and reached down for the Jones file. He flipped it open and started reading through the memo again. Jones was strangled with a nylon rope, yellow, might have been a water skiing towrope. She was sexually assaulted post mortem. There was the presence of Trojan condom residue, but no pubic hair or any other piece of evidence left behind. It was a spot-on match.

He flipped the memo up and looked at the background information stapled to the back of the folder. Jones was born in 1969 and raised in Bristol, Ohio. Her mother lived in Sun City, Arizona, now. Dad was deceased. Jones had apparently never married. She was a graduate of Duke University and had a masters from Northwestern. She obviously had brains to get into both of those schools. She worked in Chicago before coming to Minnesota. She had been at PTA for seven years, worked her way up the ladder, becoming a very young CFO.

Mac furrowed his brow. Something on the sheet registered with him, like he had seen it somewhere before, but he wasn’t sure what or where. He finished, got up, and went to the sink to wash his hands. The door burst open. His cousin Paddy, in uniform, came in.

“Hey, cuz.”

“How you doing, Mac? Hungover?”

“Nah. Early night.”

“Ahhh. Sally.”

Mac smiled and nodded as he worked the soap on his hands.

“Hell of a run for you, cuz,” Paddy said, “catching Knapp the way you did and Daniels …”

Daniels. Mac bolted from the bathroom, briskly walked down the hall and hit the stairs to the basement and the evidence room. A uniform cop, Jorgenson, was working the desk. “Hey, Mac, great job on Knapp—”

“Thanks. Say, I need to pull some evidence. Everything on the Daniels case.”

“Daniels? What’dya need that for?”

“Just want to check something out.”

“Okay, whatever you say.”

Jorgenson came back with a box with various pieces of evidence. Mac flipped the top off and started digging through evidence bags. And there it was, the 1987 Bristol, Ohio, high school yearbook. He opened it to the page he dog-eared weeks ago that had Claire Daniels, then Claire Miller, graduation picture, first picture on the left, top row. It was on the right page. On the left page halfway down, middle of the row, Jamie Jones. Mac did a rough estimate of the graduating class. There were probably forty or fifty students, a small class.

Mac checked the evidence out and went back up to his desk and started up his computer and did a Google search for Bristol, Ohio. Bristol, south of Youngstown, had a population of just over 1,200.

Mac sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. What were the odds that two women who graduated high school together from a tiny southern Ohio town would be murdered the exact same night in St. Paul, Minnesota?

He got on the phone and called Daniels’s mother, who he had spoken to once during that investigation. She wasn’t particularly helpful then and was no more so now. It wasn’t that she was difficult; she just didn’t know much about what her daughter had been doing with her social life. Apparently that was the case for her daughter’s high school life as well; she didn’t recall a Jamie Jones from Bristol.

Mac had never spoken to Jones’s mother, but there was a number for her in the file. Mac introduced himself to Ms. Jones, who spent two minutes thanking him for catching Knapp.

“Ms. Jones, I have one question for you. Do you remember a classmate of your daughter’s named Claire Daniels?”

“Claire Daniels … hmm … no, I don’t recall a Claire Daniels.”

Mac kicked himself, “Wait, it was Miller then, Claire Miller. Do you recall a Claire Miller?”

“Oh, I remember Claire. She was pretty popular when Jamie was in high school.”

“Were they friends?”

“They knew each other. It’s a small town, so everyone was pretty friendly.”

“Did your daughter ever mention running into Claire up in the Twin Cities?”

“Ohh, yes. Said she saw her on TV. I guess Claire was a reporter. Jamie said she gave her a call, and they got together for coffee or something.”

“Do you know when it was that they got together?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I think it was recently, at least recently before Jamie was killed. But I can’t be sure exactly when.”

Mac managed to get off the phone before Ms. Jones was able to ask too many questions. He needed to think. Had he found something or was his mind playing games with him? He got up and walked over to the pop machine for a Diet Dr. Pepper, popped the top, and took a long drink, looking out the window over Interstate 94. He turned to head back to his desk, when he saw Sally walking down the hall. She saw him and walked over, “Hey.” She saw the look on his face. “You don’t look so good.”

Mac lightly grabbed her arm and walked her into a vacant interview room and closed the door.

“What’s up?”

“I got a bad feeling about something.”

“What?”

“Remember I mentioned last night that on Knapp’s wall, one of the victims was missing.”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of thought it was odd.”

“Yeah, so. He was nuts.”

“Maybe so. But have you ever heard of Bristol, Ohio?”

“No. Should I?”

“Not really. It’s a small town in southern Ohio.”

“So.”

“It’s where Jamie Jones graduated from high school in 1987.”

“Mac, I don’t see where your going with—”

“—It just so happens it’s also the high school that one Claire Miller, who became Claire Daniels, also graduated from in 1987.”

Sally’s jaw dropped a little. “Odd coincidence, I guess.”

“It get’s even odder. They were killed the same night.”

Sally’s jaw dropped completely. “What are the odds?”

“Very long, I think.”

“It’s probably still just a coincidence,” Sally said with little conviction.

“Maybe,” he replied skeptically. “But I spoke with Jones’s mom, and she confirms that the two of them had recently gotten together for coffee.”

Sally slipped into lawyer mode. “They’re from the same hometown. So what?”

“Murdered on the same night? That in and of itself makes you wonder. But there’re other things. I’ve looked over Knapp’s other victims. Jones doesn’t fit. She’s professional. The others are working class. Jones has nothing to do with the University Avenue area. She lives down by the river and works downtown. How does Knapp run into her? She does no business in the University area, and Knapp never was downtown once in the entire time we followed him.”

Sally sat down, looking away at the white, concrete wall of the interview room. Quietly she said, “If you’re right, this means the senator—”

“—Maybe didn’t do Daniels,” Mac said, equally quiet. “And Knapp didn’t do Jones.”

“So who did?”

“Good question.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”

Viper had been working around the clock, living in a minivan for what seemed like weeks. He was starting to feel all of his forty-seven years of age. Sore, achy, lethargic, and just plain worn out. Kraft’s phone call didn’t exactly help. They weren’t done yet. McRyan’s and Kennedy’s places would need to remain infested a while longer.

He slept in late, not having set an alarm. Apparently nothing came of pillow talk between McRyan and Kennedy. If anything important had happened or been said, someone would have called.

Viper took a long shower, letting the hot water loosen up his muscles. He slowly massaged the Head and Shoulders through his short hair. He wondered if the police, in particular McRyan, would connect the dots. McRyan, or possibly that fat fuck Lich, could put it together, tying Jones to Daniels.

A full breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and juice as well as a chance to read the paper, gave him a feeling of normalcy. But he couldn’t get McRyan, Knapp, Jones, Daniels, and Cross out of his mind. He took a look at his watch: 9:45 a.m. He was to meet with the boss at 11:00. But first, some important business, in case the dots started getting connected.

He went to his office and placed a call to a contact in Switzerland. His encrypted phone system prevented tracing. Moving a little over $100,000, he would have that much more money if he had to run. This was in addition to the five million he had in other accounts. This would be a necessary task for the next few days. If he had to run, he wouldn’t be able to take much with. His wallet and the account numbers would mean he wouldn’t want for much once he was in hiding.

He looked at his watch again. Time to go. On the short drive into the office, McRyan, Knapp, Jones, Daniels, and Cross ran around in his head. Dumb luck all of this had happened really. Cross had been perfect. They pulled the plug on it in time. They made a ton of money on it. In a few years, they would all be retired, living the good life. Then Jones had to go and somehow find out about Cross, and it all started.

Viper parked in the basement and took the elevator up to the top. He waved to the boss’s receptionist and walked on in. He declined coffee and sat down in front of the desk.

“So we’re in at McRyan’s and Kennedy’s places?” the boss asked.

“Yes,” Viper replied.

“What about following them?”

“We’re doing that as well.”

“Let me know what comes of that.”

“Always.”

• • • • •

Mind mapping was something Mac had learned from his dad, who used it when a case got too complicated and he needed to see all the parts laid out to see how they might fit together. The elder McRyan would sit at the kitchen table or at his old roll-top desk with nothing but a pen and notepad. He would put whatever was perplexing him down in the middle of the page and jot all his pieces of information down around this question. More often then not, it worked—one of those little things that made Simon McRyan who he was.

Mac figured if it was good enough for the old man, why not him. He picked the technique up and used it. It had been great for him in school, especially on essay exams. He would lay the issue out in the middle of a piece of paper and jot down, around the page, the points he wanted to make in answering the question. He’d quickly get it all on the paper, number the points in the order he wanted to make them, and then write. Given his grades, it was more than effective as a tool. He hadn’t used it much since school, but if ever there was a time, it was now.

So, in the middle of his lined notepad, he wrote, “If not Knapp, who and why?” He wrote Daniels down to the left of the question. He wrote Jones on top and Mason Johnson to the right. He spent the afternoon working it, jotting down notes around each one of the names.

Next to Daniels’s name he jotted down everything he could recall about her that seemed relevant. Grew up with Jones in Bristol, Ohio. Had recent contact with her. Investigative reporter.

Next to Jones’s name he wrote CFO at PTA. Grew up with Daniels in Bristol. Recent contact with Daniels. Didn’t fit profile of other victims.

Under Senator Mason Johnson, he wrote: How’d he fit in? Did he kill Daniels? If not, who did? Did he commit suicide?

Down in the lower right-hand corner, he wrote in quotes, “If someone had the resources to kill Daniels and Jones, in the same night no less, did they have the juice to kill the senator?” He made a note to call the Wright County Sheriff.

What about Knapp? Was his assassination part of this?

Mac got up and paced the homicide division, looking down at the notepad. Occasionally he would stop and jot down little notes as he took his tour. Stopping at the vending machines, he bought a Diet Coke and some Doritos, and walked back to his desk and plopped himself down in his chair. The Doritos were quickly devoured. He slapped his hands together, cleaning them off and took another look at the Jones file. Became CFO at a young age. What did Patrick say happened? The old CFO had died? What was his name, Stephens or something?

Mac pulled his chair up to his computer and did an Internet search of the Pioneer Press archives. It took a few minutes, but he found it.

JAMES STEPHENS, PROMINENT CFO, DIES IN SHEPARD ROAD ACCIDENT

James Stephens, 54, died last night in a one-car accident along St. Paul’s Shepard Road. Mr. Stephens was returning home from Peterson Technical Applications, where he was the CFO for the past ten years. The accident appeared to be caused by the slick roads resulting from yesterday’s snowstorm. St. Paul Patrol Officer Fred Barrett stated that the car apparently hit a patch of ice while traveling west on Shepard, just prior to the stop sign at the end of Shepard and the beginning of Mississippi Boulevard. His vehicle, unable to stop, went through the stoplight, over the embankment, rolling over and coming to a rest upside down thirty feet below on the west bound lane of West 7th Street. Mr. Stephens was rushed to United Hospital and was pronounced dead on arrival. Stephens is survived by his second wife, Yolanda, and two sons, James, Jr., of Washington, DC, and Jeff of Seattle, Washington.

Mac tracked down Barrett. “I tell you, Mac, it was pretty horrific. He went over that embankment, rolled a few times. The car was crushed. He didn’t have a chance, even with the airbag deploying and his seatbelt.”

“Anything unusual about the accident?”

“Not that I recall. Roads were icy as hell that night, and you know how Shepard gets. He got going too fast in the snow, hit that patch of ice, and that was all she wrote.”

It was a dead end. Shepard Road could get nasty, and Mac remembered at least a couple of times when he almost lost it driving along there. He wrote Stephens’s name down on the bottom of the page anyway. CFO for ten years at PTA. Jones took over for him. That’s how someone so young got the gig.

He kept going around the page, jotting down little notes and theories. Daniels, dating the senator. Maybe he said something to Daniels? But why kill Jones then? Maybe Daniels mentioned something the senator said to Jones. Jones told somebody who didn’t like it? Mac shook his head. They’d never get to it if it followed that path.

He looked around the notepad, twirling his pen like it was a baton. How about reversing it? Something Jones said or knew? What would she know? Why would she tell Daniels? Mac stared at the ceiling, running things through his head. Daniels, Jones, the senator. What’s the connection? To kill them, you wouldn’t do it on a whim, by the seat of your pants. No, it would take planning. To kill all of them you had to have resources, money, people, and intelligence.

He took another look at his page, going around the question clockwise. Daniels, Jones, Johnson, Stephens … Mac drew a dotted line from the bottom of the page from Stephens to Jones. They worked together at PTA. Daniels was a reporter, specializing in politics and business. Mac thought about the DVDs of her work, white-collar crime and political news. Resources means money and people. Who has resources? Who has money? Who … has … people …? “Shit,” Mac said under his breath as it crystallized before his eyes.

He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to a window that looked a few blocks south to the center of downtown St. Paul. Mac stared at the tall building for five minutes. He admired the combination of glass and stone. He looked at the letters on top of the building, illuminated in the late afternoon dim. It was impressive, holding a prominent position in St. Paul’s skyline. He went back to his desk and wrote the letters down in the upper right hand corner of the notepad, between Daniels and Jones. PTA.

He drew lines from Daniels to Jones. Jones to PTA. PTA to Daniels. A little triangle. Resources, money, people. PTA might have that. But why would they do something like this?

Mac took his cell phone out of his pocket and punched up his directory for the letter C. PTA was an economic juggernaut, the biggest employer in St. Paul. Which meant Mac knew about them what everyone else knew. He needed more information, especially financial. Chadley.

If anyone had the 411 on business, it would be Matt Chadley. Chadley was an old roommate from the university days and Mac’s financial planner. He worked for West & Palmer, the top brokerage in the Twin Cities.

Mac punched up the number, and the call was answered immediately.

“Matt Chadley.”

“Chads, Mac.”

“The infamous Detective McRyan. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about PTA?”

“PTA?”

“Yeah. Financially.”

“Well, buddy, I already have you invested in them, and for good reason. They’re a Wall Street darling. Total blue-chip stock.”

“Why’s that?”

“Impeccable books, as close to a sure thing as you can find. They hit their nut every quarter, never short on earnings expectations, almost always exceeding. Audits come back squeaky clean. SEC loves them. They have an active board that watches the money very closely. Closer than almost any board I’ve ever seen. Enron they ain’t. They keep executive compensation within reason, if not lower than normal. People like that. Makes them look responsible. The execs are tight with all the right people in Washington. The president and CEO, Ted Lindsay, and many of the people who work for him, are connected like you wouldn’t believe, so the government contracts keep coming. With 9/11, their stock has gone through the roof with increased spending on defense and intelligence, their bellwether areas. Mac, their stock is a must have. Like I said—I have it in your portfolio. It’s as reliable a performer as there is out there.”

“Ever any hint of financial impropriety, scandal?”

“Negative. I have a pretty good ear out there, and I’ve never gotten wind of any financial issues. Never. Why do you ask?”

“They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”

“No, they can’t. Wall Street loved Stephens. He was top notch. I didn’t know a ton about Jones, other than she was considered smart as a whip and followed the rules. In fact, internally they make a huge issue about that at PTA. If there’s bad news, get it out there. After Enron, WorldCom … well, trust became a big issue and PTA has it in spades.”

“Never any problems, Chads?” Mac asked skeptically.

“Not that I’ve ever heard. Why so interested?”

“I can’t really tell you. PTA, or somebody there, might or might not be tied into something I’m working. I’m just trying to get a feel for the company and wondered if there might be a financial issue, some impropriety going on.”

“Well, man, not that I’m aware of. PTA’s numbers are as reliable as anyone’s out there. So, if it’s financial, it’s not because the books are cooked.”

Well nothing there. “Thanks, Chad.” Mac got ready to hang up the phone, a little disappointed, thinking or hoping he was going to hear something different.

“You’re welcome, Mac. One thing, though. If you wanted to talk to somebody on the inside, an old friend of yours recently left the board.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lyman Hisle.”

“Hmpf. Thanks.” With that, Mac hung up. He jotted down Lyman’s name. He checked his watch, 4:30 p.m.

It was late, and the chief wanted a final briefing on Knapp, after 5:00 p.m. Since it was all good news, there would probably be a drink or two served. Maybe one or two phone calls first.

• • • • •

Tired, Sally walked off the elevator and headed to her office, an afternoon of court appearances and plea-bargaining behind her. She carried her briefcase over her left shoulder, a warm half empty Diet Pepsi she bought two hours before in her right hand. Her hair felt like it had lost all of its bounce, and she could feel her blouse un-tucking from her skirt. An afternoon in heels left her feet, ankles, and calves aching.

She sat down at her desk and shook her mouse to wake up her monitor. She had thirty-five new e-mails. She had eight new voice mail messages.”Sheesh. Gone a few hours, and all hell breaks loose,” she muttered. Where had the day gone? She and Helen had a meeting with Chief Flanagan about Knapp at 5:00 p.m. Helen would be by any minute. She wondered if Mac was going to spring his little theory. Probably only after he’d had a couple pops of the chief’s Irish whiskey to get his courage up.

Mac. She’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks. He was the most perceptive person she had ever met, seeing things others didn’t, two steps ahead of everyone else. Cautious, he never over-committed to anything, keeping his options open, evaluating things from every possible angle before acting. Sally was both interested and, at the same time, fearful of what he might come up with.

She knew Mac had doubts about whether Senator Johnson killed Daniels. Nobody else thought that way, but Mac had maintained to her in private what he thought. They talked about the case every so often, and Mac always said, “I still wonder about that case.”

She wanted to think about something else, so she started looking at her e-mails. A quick scan told her that only about eight or nine were truly work related. That made her like most other working people—seventy-percent of her e-mails were personal. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the first work e-mail. Helen, right on time.

“Shall we go see Charlie?”

Oh, we’re on a first name basis now, are we? “We shall.” Not wanting to spend another minute in heels, she reached under her desk for a pair of black flats. She took one last drink of the warm Diet Pepsi, left it on her desk, and joined Helen in the hallway.

“So, anything interesting happen today?” Helen asked.

• • • • •

The meeting was short with no real cop business discussed. It was a celebration. Drinks naturally were served, a little Irish whiskey. Flanagan wouldn’t have it any other way. With Knapp caught, his big headache was gone, even if the department was being questioned about his assassination. While there was some criticism, there was an undercurrent of “The bastard got what he deserved.” So, while the day wasn’t perfectly sunny for the chief, partly cloudy was just fine. Mac wasn’t about to ruin the day and kept quiet.

“So, it’s off to the bar for all of you?” Flanagan inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Riles responded. “We’re going to have a couple.”

“But I think we’ll go easier than last night,” Rock added.

“Well, good. You boys have earned it.”

They all filed out. Sally whispered in Mac’s ear, “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you at the Pub. First I have to talk to someone.”

Chapter Thirty

“On the trail of an assassin.”

They picked up McRyan as he pulled out of the parking ramp, all of them well familiar with the Explorer. McRyan made the short trek over to the Pub, parking in his usual spot in back. They watched him go in the back door from their perch across the street. Another van simultaneously pulled into the parking lot on West Seventh, across the street from the front. Shortly after McRyan had gone in, Kennedy pulled in, followed by Lich, Riley, and Rockford.

Bouchard shook his head, snorting. “Man, these guys do like to drink.”

“That they do,” Viper replied. “Of course, at a bar owned by ex-cops, I doubt the real ones are paying full price.”

“Probably not.”

Viper picked up the radio and called to the other van, “Kraft, head in and give us an eyeball.”

“Copy that.”

• • • • •

Mac, Sally, Riley, Rock, and Lich were standing in the middle of the bar, each with a Heineken, talking about the case and how life would be a little dull going back to routine homicide work.

“You say that now, Riles, but I stood here a few weeks ago, and you sure looked like you wanted to go back to mundane police work then,” Mac said, playing along.

“That was then, this is now.”

“Isn’t that a movie title or something?” Rock asked.

Just then, on cue, Uncle Shamus showed up.

“Shamus,” Riley said, “to what do we owe the honor?”

“I need to borrow my nephew for a few minutes, but in the meantime, next round is on me.” The bartender instantly appeared with another order.

“God, I love this family,” Riley said as he put down his empty and grabbed the full Heineken sitting opened for him on the bar.

“I’ll be right back,” Mac said to everyone and followed Shamus upstairs.

• • • • •

Uncle Shamus had a large corner office in the back of the second floor. On the outside of the door it said, “OFFICE OF THE PROPRIETOR.” Every McRyan who had filled that role over the years had used the office. It was an impressive room, with high ceilings, crown moldings, polished wood floors, tasteful furniture, and a one hundred-year-old oak desk the size of a dining room table. In front of the desk were two old high-backed, burgundy, leather chairs. Sitting casually in one of them was Lyman Hisle, nattily attired in a gray Italian three-piece suit, a perfect Windsor knot in his black silk tie, even at this late hour. He was sipping an Irish whiskey, neat, when Shamus and Mac walked in.

“Lyman, thank you for coming. I know this seems a little odd.” They shook hands and shared a smile.

“I was intrigued when Shamus called. Am I to assume that you don’t want others to know of this?”

Mac nodded.

“So, pray tell, how can I be of assistance?”

“This is off the record in my direction, and yours. I need some information.”

“About PTA, Shamus says.”

“You were on the board?”

“I was.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Time mostly. PTA has a very active and involved board, and I couldn’t give it the time and attention it needed and deserved,” Lyman responded, shifting in his chair to look directly at Mac, one leg over the other, “So, tell me, why would one of St. Paul’s finest need to know anything about PTA?”

“I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

“Very well.”

“Tell me about the power structure over there.”

“Ted Lindsay is the president and CEO. We brought him in a number of years ago. He’s done a fabulous job.”

“Where’d you get him from?”

“He was the chief operating officer at Fillmore Electronics, a competitor. He was there two, three years, I think, and did good work. Before that he worked for the government. He was a spook sort of. He held numerous positions in the NSA, then the CIA, where he was deputy director of Operations before he left and went to make his fortune in private industry.” Lyman took a sip of his drink.

“He seems to have done well for PTA.”

“Sure has. Since 9/11, bad as it sounds, the company has exploded, no pun intended. There’s been a renewed emphasis on intelligence gathering. The equipment necessary for that is one of the company’s better areas. Even better, Lindsay’s connections in the government are amazing. He has friends, contacts—hell, spies—everywhere.” Lyman put his drink on the desk and counted on his fingers. “He knows when the military, NSA, or CIA contracts are coming up before anyone else, what the budget is going to be, and who the key decision maker will be. He’ll know what he needs to know about the person who has decision-making authority and what buttons to push in that direction.”

“I heard he knows everyone in DC,” Mac added.

Lyman agreed, “His contacts in Congress are impressive and he’s been an aggressive campaign contributor.” Lyman creased a smile, shook his head a little, and said, the admiration showing, “If Ted goes after something, he gets it.”

Mac, interested, said, “You said spies?”

“Yeah. I mean, he knows people all over the place with information. I wouldn’t doubt he’s spreading a little money around, which is illegal, but he’s a former pro, with a staff of former pros. For them stuff like that is second nature.”

“Staff of former pros?”

“Yeah,” Lyman said, sipping the last of his drink. “PTA has a security staff that is the size and has the budget of a small army. Old habits die hard, I guess. Lindsay’s paranoid and a nut about security.”

“This security detail, how big is it?”

“Oh, he’s got a couple hundred on staff, spread over all of the facilities. Not to mention the equipment. Hell, they use the same stuff they sell to the government.”

“Who runs the security?”

“Webb Alt.”

“What’s his story?” Mac asked.

“Former spook—although you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at him.” Lyman scratched his head, “He isn’t particularly impressive physically, but people are scared to death of the guy. He’s got a bunch of his old cronies from CIA and NSA on staff here in town.”

“Lindsay,” Mac asked, shifting gears, “I imagine he’s made himself quite a fortune.”

“He has, although not as big as he’d like.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he thought he should be paid like Jack Welch. The board disagreed. We were sensitive to executive pay before it became a trend. So, there was some bitching.”

“Did he threaten to leave?”

“Oh, I don’t know if it was that bad for him. There were some whispers, but nothing ever came of it. We upped his pay a little more and threw in a few more options, and the whole thing seemed to blow over. He has it pretty good at PTA. A few more years, and he’ll retire with a $100 million in the bank, plus the potential of more with stock options. Not bad when most of your career was in government service.” Lyman held his glass out and Shamus refreshed his drink. “So, Mac, what’s this all about?”

“In a minute,” Mac said, momentarily filibustering. “Has there ever been any financial issues or problems with PTA that you’re aware of?”

“No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head, “As a board, we went over those books very carefully. Always have. We were very active and not a rubber stamp, something that bothers Lindsay from time to time. The SEC, the company auditors—the board never found any improprieties. PTA’s books balance, always have. It’s why the stock is such a winner.”

“Tell me about James Stephens.”

“Came to PTA with Lindsay. He’d been in government service as well, at Treasury and then at the CIA. He left the CIA with Lindsay and went to Fillmore. In fact, Lindsay brought five or six upper-level executives over when he came. It was a shame, that car accident.”

“What about Jamie Jones, the most recent CFO?

“I don’t really know much about her. She was well regarded and very well liked by Stephens.” Lyman furrowed his brow, “Mac, what in the hell is this all about?”

“Let me tell you a little story, and you tell me what you think.” Mac related his theory.

Lyman didn’t react much, sitting back in the chair, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. When Mac finished, Lyman took a long drink, looked away for a moment, and then took another long drink. “Christ, Mac,” he said after a minute, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What do you make of it?”

“Pretty thin. You couldn’t go into court with it, as I’m sure your girlfriend has told you.”

“I know it’s thin, but is it possible?”

“Well …” Lyman exhaled and looked down, almost sad, “Nothing would surprise me anymore.”

“If I’m right, any chance this is going on at PTA without Lindsay knowing about it?”

“No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head. “Lindsay knows everything that goes on at that company. Like I said, he’s serious about security.” Lyman scratched his chin, looked at the ceiling, “I’m certain offices are wired. There are video cameras everywhere that you can see, and I’m sure many you can’t. You have to use a personal code to make copies; all e-mail and Internet usage is monitored. Not randomly, constantly. I’m sure somebody eavesdrops on phone conversations.” He paused a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, “So, if PTA did this, Mac, Ted Lindsay not only knows about it, he ordered it.”

“Interesting,” Mac replied, stroking his chin.

Lyman cut him short, “But you know what your problem is?”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll never find what you’re looking for.”

Mac snorted.

“You don’t believe me?”

“There’s always a way.”

Lyman shook his head. “If Ted Lindsay did this, he would have taken care of all loose ends. He would have left nothing behind. If they did this, they’ll have anticipated your every move and covered all of their tracks.”

“There’s always something.”

Lyman snorted. “I have great admiration for your abilities and those of your imbibing friends downstairs. You know that.” He squinted and slowly shook his head, “But I have no idea how you get at PTA on what you have. I mean, think about it. You have not one piece of physical evidence, do you?”

“Not yet.”

“Then good luck finding it.”

“Jesus Christ, Lyman, you act as if these guys are infallible.”

“They’re pros is what I’m saying, Michael. If they did this, they did it without leaving a trace of physical evidence. I mean, where is your evidence? All you have is a theory at this point, and that wouldn’t cut it. Most judges would never let you get to the courtroom with that, and if you did, you’d go down quick and easy anyway. I’m talking an elementary defense here. Your girlfriend would tell you that. Shit, you know that. You went to law school.”

“Lyman, we haven’t started even looking yet.”

“If they did this, they have a huge head start on you to cover their tracks.” Lyman started ticking his fingers off again. “If they did Jones, they blame Knapp, reasonable doubt. If they did Daniels, they have the senator, reasonable doubt. You think they might have done Johnson, but it sure looked like he committed suicide, reasonable doubt. Knapp? You’ve got family members of the victims with plenty of motive, reasonable doubt. The only way you get them is if you can find a smoking gun. Ted Lindsay’s too good at this sort of thing to leave something like that behind.”

The three men went silent. Lyman had given Mac a lot to think about. If PTA had the juice to kill Jones, Daniels, and the senator, they had the resources and people to accomplish it. They’d have the resources and people to stymie them if they tried to go after the books, to look for some financial irregularity, which was the only reasonable supposition as to why to take out Jones. If the auditors, board, SEC, or anyone else didn’t find it, how would Mac? What resources would have to be expended to get at the records? What damage would their pursuit do to the department? Would the department even let them go after PTA? Mac’s theory looked good when he was mind mapping. But the devil is in the details. How could he go after PTA, without knowing what he was looking for?

The enormity of the task hit Mac. He got up and walked to the back window and looked down at the back parking lot. You think you’re so fucking smart.

Uncle Shamus, sensing what Mac was thinking, ended the silence, “What are you going to do?”

Good question. But Mac had never backed down from anything in his life, and he wasn’t about to now. “Lyman, with all due respect for your view of Ted Lindsay and company, first thing tomorrow I’m going to start taking a look at PTA and a second look at Jones, Daniels, and the senator.” Mac hoped he wouldn’t be alone. He would have to convince Riles and the others if he was going to have any chance.

“You have any idea what you’re looking for?” Lyman said.

“No. The only thing I can think of is a financial issue of some sort. Why else take out Jones. But …”

“But what,” Lyman asked.

Mac met his eyes and held them.

“I’m thinking Jones was killed because she found something they didn’t want her to find. Maybe she left it behind or maybe she shared it with Daniels, so maybe that’s where we look.”

“Well, good luck to you. But one thing,” Lyman asked.

“What’s that?”

“If you do find anything that harms the company, you let me know. That’s the quid pro quo I want for speaking with you tonight,” Lyman stated. “I want to know. There are thousands of employees at PTA. If you’re right, Lindsay ordered it. That could literally kill the company. So, I need to know so I can inform those who remain on the board. I may be gone from there, but I care about the company. Its health is important to this city.”

“Fair enough.”

“Mac, why don’t you get back to the bar?” Uncle Shamus suggested.

“Yeah, okay. Shamus, I need to use Patrick’s Room.”

“Go ahead.”

“I need to get going as well,” Lyman added and gave Mac one last look. “I’ll hear from you?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck,” Lyman said as he shook Mac’s hand. Shamus opened the door and patted Mac on the back as he walked out. Lyman would wait a few minutes and leave on his own down the back steps.

• • • • •

Kraft had loitered thirty or so feet away from the door to the office. With his back to the wall, he alternately watched the door, a couple of attractive thirtyish women sitting at the bar, and a Wolves game up on the TV.

As he put his beer up to his lips, the door opened and McRyan came out, with his uncle closing the door behind him. But he also noted legs sitting in a chair. Kraft decided not to follow and waited to see who the other person was. Five minutes later, Lyman Hisle exited the office.

• • • • •

Mac came back down to find Sally listening to Riley, Rock, and Lich talk about Sheila Bradley and her two big assets.

“I’m telling you, they were the size of cantaloupes,” Riley was saying, cupping his hands in front of his chest. Obviously the drinks were feeling good as Riles was revving up. “Mac, am I lying?”

Mac looked at Sally, who just smiled. “No, you aren’t. I want all you guys to join me in the basement for a minute, I want to show you something.”

“What’s that?” Rock asked.

“Just come down. Rounds on me,” Mac replied neutrally. He grabbed five beers off the bar and turned for the backstairs, joined by everyone. In the basement was the Pub game room with dartboards, pool tables, and a few video games. A couple of big screens added a sports flavor, the Wild game playing in the background. Behind the stairs was a hallway. In the hallway was a built-in cabinet in the wall. Mac slid open the middle drawer, reached under the ledge and popped a latch. The cabinet, a remnant from the bygone era of prohibition, was the hidden door to Patrick’s Room.

Patrick’s Room was a conference room, that during prohibition was a place one could get a drink and socialize without fear of trouble with the authorities, as the place was owned by the authorities. Despite its legendary history, Patrick’s room was now simply a well-furnished conference room with a whiteboard, conference table, couch, and a TV/DVD, which was used for bartender and waitress training for dram shop liability. Shamus often made it available for cop poker games and Texas Hold’em tournaments. Once inside, everyone grabbed a seat at the conference table.

“So, what’s this all about?” Lich asked.

“I want you guys to hear me out on something.”

“Which is?” Rock asked suspiciously, noting Mac’s tone.

“You ever heard of Bristol, Ohio?”

Riley furrowed his brow, “No. Should I?”

“Hometown of Jamie Jones. She graduated from high school there, 1987.”

“I appreciate the local color. So what?”

“Let me ask another question. Who was killed the same night as Jones?”

“Claire Daniels,” Riles replied. “But Mac, what does that have to do with—”

“She graduated from Bristol, Ohio, high school in 1987.”

The room went quiet. Mac suddenly had everyone’s attention.

“How big a town is Bristol?” Lich asked after a minute.

“Oh, about 1,214 people. Pretty steady for the last twenty or so years,” Mac replied. “The graduating class for Daniels and Jones was forty-two students.”

“How’d you come up with this?” asked Rock.

Mac related how he came to the discovery, Jones missing on the wall at Knapp’s place, looking at Jones’s file, finding the yearbook at Daniels’s, making a couple of phone calls.

“So, you’re suggesting that the senator didn’t kill Daniels?” Lich asked. “Are you suggesting that we didn’t have that right? That we rung up an innocent man.” Lich was concerned.

“I’m suggesting it’s possible.”

“Counselor, you buying the stuff your boy’s selling?” Lich queried, still in disbelief.

“Yeah,” said Kennedy. “I wish he was wrong, and you guys are the detectives, but I think he’s onto something.”

“Come on, Mac, isn’t it possible that all we have here is a coincidence,” Riles pleaded. “I mean, you’re talking about your signature case. You’re going to tear that down on nothing more than a couple of facts that might fit together sideways. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ll grant you that it’s a little out there,” said Mac, “but Knapp was keeping his headlines. He was taping the news programs. He builds this monument to his work. Everything’s there, except this one thing—”

“—Jones,” Riley finished, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Exactly. Nothing about Jones.” Mac pushed further, “Don’t you find that odd? Aren’t you the least bit curious about that?”

“So, he didn’t keep clippings of one murder. Maybe it was all part of his grand plan. Guy was crazier than a shit-house mouse, Mac,” Rock snarled. “You read the file. Wouldn’t you agree that the details of all the murders, including Jones, match up perfectly?”

“Yeah, with the exception of one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Jones! She doesn’t fit with the other victims,” Mac asserted. “Think about it, Rock. In all the time we were following Knapp, did he ever once, just once, go downtown?”

“Nope.”

“That’s right. He kept to the University Avenue area. How would he have run into Jones?”

“Who knows. Maybe she bumped into him at some bar or restaurant. We weren’t on him then. He stalks her, takes her down—a new experience or something,” Rock argued, his conviction waning.

“She doesn’t fit the profile, Rock,” Mac kept on. “If I’m right, if you wanted to cover the reason to kill Jones, what better way than to make her death look just like another serial killing. We look in the direction of the serial killer because that’s where the evidence points.” Mac crossed his arms. “If I’m right, whoever did this got exactly what they wanted.”

“But, Mac, few, if any, of the details about what Knapp was doing to the women leaked. We managed that. The only thing the media had solid was the balloon.” Riley added, a skeptical tone remaining in his voice, “So, how do they get all the details right?”

“Come on,” Mac growled. “It didn’t leak to the media, fine. But it could easily leak to someone else, intentionally or by accident. We aren’t the damned CIA around here. Shit leaks all the fuckin’ time. Point being, it’s entirely possible somebody could have copied the murders.” Mac sipped his beer, and tacked in another direction. “Of course, we could have tried to ask Knapp about this. We could have asked him about Jones and watched him go blank, deny it, but we can’t do that now, can we? That’s kind of convenient, don’t you think?”

Riley, catching Mac’s drift, said, “You think Knapp’s assassination yesterday had something to do with this?”

“Possibly,” Mac replied. “I checked in with the guys looking at that. The theory is the shooter was on the third level of the Vincent Ramp, right?”

“That’s right,” Rock replied.

“Surveillance cameras show nobody up there. In fact, nobody on any of the ramp levels.”

“Bad surveillance system?” Lich asked.

“I asked. It’s okay, nothing special,” Mac replied. “But there’s another thing.”

“Which is?”

“Ballistics. The bullet was for a Russian sniper rifle,” Mac let it hang in the air.

“They’re sure?” Lich asked quietly.

“They are,” Mac answered, then to Rock and Riley, “Anybody with any of the families from Russia, have Russian or Soviet military background, have access to a Russian sniper rifle, have a background indicating they would be good with a sniper rifle? Oh, and then have that rifle available when there’s two hours notice of when we’re walking Knapp into court and then be able to get away without a trace, not be picked by surveillance cameras?”

Both just shook their heads.

But Lich wasn’t buying it—at least not yet. “So, fine, Mac,” Lich asked, “you think something is amiss with Jones. But what about Daniels? I was with you when we interviewed the senator. He admitted everything we needed. Frankly, he came off as guilty to me, and to Peters too. So, now you’re saying the senator didn’t kill Daniels?”

“I’m saying it’s possible. Dick, I know this sounds like revisionist history, but I never completely believed the senator did Daniels. It didn’t make sense.” Mac shrugged, “On the evidence we had, we did what we had to do. But the case always bothered me.”

“Why?” Rock asked.

“Politicians, especially ones like Senator Johnson, leave themselves a way out of every situation. Escapability, deniability—it’s in their DNA. They don’t put themselves in a position like the senator did—if he did. Murder? There’s just no escape from that. Even the suggestion of it is a career killer, just ask Gary Condit. Even if Daniels threatened to expose their little affair to his wife or someone else, that’s a manageable situation, happens to politicians all the time. It’s not a situation to kill over, certainly not with all the evidence left behind pointing at him.”

“But if the senator didn’t do it, who did?” Riles asked. “On that case, you had no forced entry and a witness having Johnson leaving around the time of estimated death. I mean, that’s pretty solid. What evidence do you have that someone else did this?”

“One thing that never came out was a witness I found about the time of the senator’s hearing. I got a call from a guy named Paul Blomberg.” Mac explained the story of the alley pick up behind Daniels’s place the night of her murder.

“This is news to me. Why didn’t it ever come out?” Rock asked.

“We never had to disclose it because the prosecution never went any further. It would have been an issue at trial.”

“So, the senator doesn’t kill Daniels. We prosecuted the wrong man, and he commits suicide over it! Shit, shit, shit!” Lich said, shaking his head, disturbed over the thought. He kicked a chair. “Damn it.”

“If he did commit suicide, Dick,” Sally said. “Maybe he didn’t.”

Lich, skepticism in his voice, “What? Now you’re saying the senator didn’t commit suicide? I mean, I was out there. I saw what you saw.”

“Dick, do you know what the senator’s blood alcohol was at the time of his death?” Mac asked.

“No, I don’t, but I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“This afternoon, when I was working all of this out, I spoke with Rick Hansen, the Wright County Sheriff. Remember him?”

Lich nodded.

Mac continued. “Hansen told me the senator’s blood alcohol was .32 percent at the time of death.”

“Whoa,” Riley blurted.

“Exactly,” Mac replied, “At the senator’s weight, .32 and you’re smoked, passed out, not getting up on any stool to hang yourself.”

“Not impossible either, Mac,” Rock added with a laugh, a little levity. “I mean, there were a couple of guys in here last night that might have pushed to that level, and they were still standing.”

“Could they have climbed a barstool?” Mac asked, not laughing.

“I doubt it,” Rock answered quietly.

“Exactly. I bet ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a person that loaded passes out long before doing anything, let alone hanging yourself. Besides, if you proclaim your innocence as strongly as the senator and Lyman Hisle did, do you commit suicide that same night? Before going to trial?”

“So, somebody killed the senator? Made it look like a suicide?” Lich asked.

“Possibly,” Mac replied. “Follow it all the way out, Dick. If you have the ability to take out Daniels and Jones in the same night, what’s taking out the senator a few nights later? It’s November, and there are few if any people at the lake. Not to mention the fact that his cabin was isolated and hidden, thick pine trees everywhere. Remember?”

Lich nodded, starting to buy it.

“It was the perfect place to stage a suicide,” Mac finished and slammed his beer. He’d shot his wad. But it was comforting to him that an uncomfortable silence overtook the room. The boys were thinking about it. What he’d just told them made some sense.

Riley spoke first, lightly shaking his head, pinching the top of his nose, “Christ, Mac.”

“What can I say?”

“You sold me,” Riley replied.

“Yeah?” Mac was a little surprised. “What about everyone else?”

Rock and Lich nodded as well.

“I don’t suppose you have a suspect in mind,” Rock inquired.

“I do, but it’s total speculation at this point.”

“As if this whole thing isn’t?” Rock replied with a rueful chuckle. “Hell, you’ve gone this far, boy. Don’t stop now.”

What the hell, Mac thought. “This is not one person acting alone here. Not possible. Whoever did this, if you assume I’m right, had to have money, resources, and people to do this.”

“Agreed,” Riles said. “If you’re right, this is some sort of coordinated effort, and there are some very skilled people—professionals—at work here.”

“So, cut to the chase, Mac. Who do you think it is?” Lich asked.

“I don’t have a person.”

“Mac?” Lich was getting impatient.

“PTA.”

Jaws went agape.

“Holy shit, Mac,” Riley finally replied, shaking his head. Rock let out a slow whistle.

“What makes you think that?” Lich asked.

“This is where it gets a little thin.”

“Ohhhhhh, this is where it gets thin,” Riley said, a huge smile on his face, causing them all to laugh.

Mac smiled and kept going. “Jones was the CFO at PTA. She took over for a guy who died last year. Stephens was his name. He’d been there a long time, died in a car accident on Shepard Road. Nothing hinky about that. I talked to one of the patrol guys on the scene. It was a one-car accident that happened in a snow storm around the time of the state hockey tournament.”

Everyone nodded at that, remembering the storm—over a foot of snow.

Mac moved on. “I don’t know. Maybe Jones stumbles across some financial issue that Stephens had managed to bury. PTA naturally wants her to keep it quiet, continue to cover it up. She balks.”

“Yeah,” Sally added. “She has nasty visions of Enron. She’s the next incarnation of Sharon Watkins.”

“And she knows Claire Daniels,” Riles said, finishing and picking up on the train of thought.

“That’s right,” Mac added nodding. “I’m guessing Jones talks to Daniels. PTA gets wind of it, realizing they won’t be able to control her.” Mac tossed his beer bottle into the garbage. “PTA has the money. Maybe they have the resources and the people as well.”

Everyone took it all in for a moment, the gravity of what Mac had just laid out for them.

“Anyone else know about this?” Riles asked quietly, leaning back.

“Nope, just everyone in this room and one other person, wholly unaffiliated with the department that we can trust,” Mac answered.

“So, where does that leave us?” Lich asked.

“On the trail of an assassin,” Mac replied.

“Should we be telling the chief?” Rock asked.

“With what we got? No way. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole, nor should he.” Riles shook his head. “No. We have to protect the department. We keep this to ourselves until we find something concrete. If we do, then we can think about going to the chief.”

“And, if we don’t,” Rock added, “nobody’s the wiser.”

“So, what’s next?” Lich asked.

“We stay covert,” Mac replied calmly. “We don’t tell anyone what we know or think.”

“And?” Sally asked.

“The chief has given us all a few days off,” Mac replied. “And I have some ideas of what I’d like to do with the time.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“As long as I always get a third.”

Viper tucked McRyan and Kennedy into bed at McRyan’s place at 11:15 p.m. The report from Kraft that Lyman Hisle had met with McRyan, followed by the rest of the little detail going downstairs, had him concerned. He became downright worried as he listened with his earpiece to the detective and assistant district attorney discussing PTA prior to moving onto nocturnal activities. Things were not yet over. McRyan and company had to be watched.

The crew dropped Viper back off at his home. He went in the front door, checking the mail on the way in. Mostly bills, one from the gas company, another for the telephone, and one of those annoying credit card offers, all addressed to Webb Alt, Viper’s name.

He went to the kitchen and dropped his keys in a little wicker basket on the counter. Having watched McRyan and friends hit the bar left him thirsty for a beer, and he needed to relax and wind down. The fridge was his salvation, providing a bottle of Heineken. He fished an opener out of a drawer, popped the top and went to his den. Grabbing the remote, he clicked on the news and threw himself into his easy chair. Kicking off his shoes, he took a sip of his beer and thought about Cross.

It had been such a sweet little deal. It made Alt, Ted Lindsay, Bouchard, James Stephens, and select others inside and out of PTA a nice little pile. And until very recently, nobody knew. They needed to keep it that way. McRyan was a concern and becoming a bigger one by the minute. He was connecting some of the dots. They had to keep him from connecting them all.

Ted Lindsay was Alt’s and PTA’s boss. Ten years before, PTA was a large manufacturing company that was, among other things, a supplier of small arms, weaponry, ammunition, explosives, and communications equipment to the United States Department of Defense. It was a profitable company, with eight thousand employees and operations in Minnesota, California, and West Virginia. It did extensive work for the Defense Department, but little or no work with the CIA or NSA. Ted Lindsay changed that.

In the ten years that Ted Lindsay was president and CEO, PTA went from being one of many companies to being the company when it came to contracts with the Defense Department, as well as the CIA and NSA. Lindsay was even starting to make headway with the Department of Homeland Security. The company had grown to more than 62,000 employees with manufacturing operations in sixteen states. It had gone from being a nice little company in St. Paul to being mentioned in the same breath as Microsoft, GE, and Boeing. It was a name people knew. That was due in large part to the vision and work of Ted Lindsay.

Lindsay did two things that made PTA grow. First, at the time of his arrival, the company started developing satellite technology for commercial use, in particular for satellite television. Lindsay understood its potential application to intelligence gathering. He was fully aware of the CIA’s movement towards the reliance, if not flat out dependence, on satellites for intelligence gathering. He leveraged his contacts and obtained a large chunk of the CIA’s business for PTA. Not long after, he was able to work his way into the NSA as well. PTA became intertwined in the overall defense of the country. It had led to a three-fold increase in their governmental work.

Second, he took the company’s expertise in software, communications, and satellite technology into retail. The company was the first company to offer walkie-talkie ability with cell phones. Some of the first personal digital assistants (PDAs) came from PTA. They offered one of the first combination cell phone/walkie-talkie/PDAs. One could buy their products at Best Buy, Circuit City, and Sears. It was a name brand.

After two years and even before the company’s aggressive move into retail markets took off, Lindsay had been looking for a big increase in pay. Given what he’d done with the company in his two short years, he felt entitled. He was disappointed with what the company offered. A decent raise and an increase in stock options helped but was nowhere near what he’d expected. He wanted to, expected to, move into the big leagues of executive compensation. However, the board of directors was disturbed by stories about high executive pay at prominent corporations. They did not want criticism in that regard coming their way, especially given how much of the business was based on government contracts. Taxpayers would not be happy to learn that their tax dollars paid a president and CEO ten million dollars, plus stock options and it wasn’t enough. Lindsay would have to take what the board was offering.

Lindsay started to look around. Through intermediaries, he learned of potential openings and interest in his abilities. He arranged for that interest to leak to the media. He expected the board would then sweeten his compensation, not wanting to lose the one person who had raised profits and stock prices to new heights. The board, knowing a media leak and power play when it saw one, played hardball and put together their own list of potential replacements and leaked that to the media. Lindsay seriously considered walking.

Then Cross came along.

Lindsay had worked his way up through the CIA over twenty-five years, with his last ten years spent as the deputy director of operations (DDO). That made him Alt’s boss. Alt worked as an intelligence officer. Supposedly, after the Church hearings in the 1970s, the CIA was out of the assassination business. That wasn’t entirely the case. Alt, and a number of others now with PTA had worked wet operations for years for the CIA. That was how Alt met Bouchard—some joint activities with the French. Lindsay had ordered assassinations and other operations, with Alt integrally involved in many of them. When Lindsay went to PTA, he wanted to significantly upgrade the security at the company. He brought in Alt for that very purpose and made him a vice president. Another person Lindsay brought to the company was CIA numbers genius, James Stephens, naming him chief financial officer.

After two years, when Lindsay was just about ready to walk away from PTA, Stephens and Alt came to him with Cross.

The increase in governmental contracts in Lindsay’s first couple of years necessitated that the company go into an expansion, acquisition, and hiring mode. Their facilities were tapped out for space and efforts were made to create as much room as possible to fulfill the contracts. New facilities would be built, but that took time. In the meantime, the company had to ramp up its operations immediately, and they were short of space.

James Stephens had been tasked with evaluating each facility, its equipment, capacity, viability, and needs. Stephens found that at many company facilities there was an abundance of surplus military hardware and equipment, leftovers from previously fulfilled government contracts. It had simply been stored and nobody knew or had ever decided what to do with it. It was largely unrecorded on the company books. Stephens mentioned the surplus to Alt, who in turn started to formulate an idea.

PTA had one facility that was underused. It was an old explosives manufacturing facility outside the small rural town of Cross, West Virginia. Cross was the official address, but given the inherent danger of an explosives manufacturing facility, it was located well outside of the town, completely isolated. It was a facility that had fallen into disrepair, and it was about to be shut down. However, the one thing Cross had, that other PTA locations didn’t, was space, and in particular, two empty warehouses. So the decision was made to ship all surplus equipment and materials to Cross. Once there, the company would decide what to do with it all. This is where Stephens and Alt came in with their idea.

Alt, Bouchard, and a few others knew select people with serious money who would jump at the chance to acquire the surplus material. Why? Because these were groups that the Unites States government did not want to have US military weaponry and equipment. Some were arms dealers. Others were labeled terrorist groups. Still others were in the drug trade, particularly in Columbia. And still others were simply viewed as unfriendly to the US government. They couldn’t come to the States and purchase this equipment. However, if the powers that be at PTA were willing to do a little under-the-table dealing, these people would overpay to get their hands on the arms, explosives, and communications gear collecting dust in a remote Cross, West Virginia, warehouse.

Alt and Stephens projected what the take might be. Lindsay said go ahead, “As long as I always get a third,” and none of the records included his name.

Alt and Bouchard arranged for the sale and transport of the surplus equipment. They always mixed it up, careful not to get into a pattern for shipment. Sometimes ships were used. A little money to the right stevedore and ship line assured that the goods reached their destination. Other times, the PTA jet had been used, as it travelled the globe for legitimate business. A few extra crates in the cargo hold wouldn’t raise suspicion. On other occasions small boats had been used, either out of Chesapeake Bay or down on the Gulf Coast.

And while PTA was making millions selling electronic and surveillance equipment to the CIA, Alt, Bouchard, and others made sure the electronic and surveillance equipment didn’t trip up the Cross operation.

With the CIA having moved mostly to electronic and satellite surveillance, the agency didn’t have the troops on the ground that they used to. Alt and company took advantage of that weakness. The equipment was always transported in small quantities. Contact was made with the groups through intermediaries. There was no paper or electronic communication ever. Only face-to-face meetings and only cash was exchanged for the equipment. There were no records, except for those kept by Stephens, who moved the money around to prevent its detection, setting up overseas accounts for all involved, under assumed names.

While the original surplus had been older military equipment, as time went on, more current and advanced arms, weaponry, and communications equipment found its way to Cross. While the previous surplus had been accidental, more intentional surplus was created and sent to Cross, where Alt would arrange for its sale. While this made Lindsay, Alt, and Bouchard a little uncomfortable, the money made it worth the risk. And Lindsay, always one to cover all the bases, had a few contacts at the CIA who liked a little side cash, especially when placed in an account somewhere overseas. They would let Lindsay know if the sales were detected. They never had been. For five years, it had been a sweet little operation.

Then, in August of 2001, Lindsay’s CIA contacts informed him that some of their arms dealer contacts had found new buyers, including Middle East terrorist organizations Hamas, Hezbollah, and, worst of all, Al Qaeda. These buyers were more dangerous. Lindsay, Alt, and Bouchard decided the risk was getting too great, but it was too late.

The planes went into the towers.

The War on Terror had started.

Lindsay and Alt worried that as the War on Terror progressed, and more intelligence attention was paid to terrorist groups—where their money came from, where they got their weapons—Cross could come to light. If the Cross operation was discovered, charges of espionage and treason wouldn’t be far behind.

They shut it down. The Cross facility was shut down all together. The remaining surplus was destroyed. Dummy records were created. Alt and Bouchard hunted down their contacts who had dealt the arms, weapons, and communications equipment to the problem groups and eliminated them. Stephens was ordered to destroy all records. Everyone was ordered not to spend money, but rather to leave it overseas and spread it out as much as possible.

Stephens, having kept all the records and never having had any real operations experience at the CIA, was nervous. Alt wanted to take him out. Lindsay put him off and took a trip with Stephens and his wife, Yolanda, down to the Caymans. On a fishing boat, in the middle of the ocean, Lindsay discussed Stephens’s concerns and determined that he had put them to rest. Stephens was on board, although he always made Alt nervous. After all, he’d kept the paper trail. While his accidental death this past March had been tragic, Stephens was the one person who could have reconstructed that paper trail. They didn’t have that to worry about that anymore. Everyone else involved was a hardened intelligence officer who knew to keep his mouth shut.

Cross was in the past. Dead, buried, and gone. Alt quietly watched his millions in Swiss and Cayman bank accounts grow and grow. In five years, he would retire to the Cayman’s, buy a house on a beach, an eighty-foot yacht, play lots of golf, and live the good life. Nobody would be the wiser.

Then six weeks ago, Cross rudely came back to life.

Jamie Jones walked into Lindsay’s office with a banker’s box, labeled CROSS. Where the heck did this come from? Jones wouldn’t say. The box contained detailed information regarding Cross. Lindsay’s name was nowhere to be found in the papers, per his original instructions. Jones assumed it had all gone on without his knowledge. While Lindsay’s name was absent, Stephens’s, Alt’s, and Bouchard’s names, among others, were all over the documents. But the kicker was when Jones said that what she was giving Lindsay, was a copy. She kept an original, and she wanted to know what Lindsay would do.

Lindsay filibustered, saying he’d look into it. He looked into Jones instead. Alt and Bouchard started tracking Jones’s every move. Her office and home were bugged. E-mail, phone, and cell phone were monitored. She was put under twenty-four/seven surveillance. They needed to find the original Cross documents. They believed she had the originals, since her copier use records revealed 437 unaccounted for copies, the exact number of documents in the box.

Apparently Jones recognized Lindsay’s response for what it was and had ideas of her own. She met for coffee with Claire Daniels at Starbucks on Grand Avenue, a few blocks from Daniels’s place. From a van in the parking lot, Alt and Bouchard conducted audio surveillance of the meeting and listened as Jones spilled the beans to Daniels, claiming she had documented proof. That set off the alarm bells. Daniels, in addition to Jones, was monitored and followed. Claire Daniels had proven that she was one reporter you didn’t want digging around.

Alt and Bouchard quickly realized two things. They had to get the original documents and take care of Jones and Daniels. Making matters worse, Jones and Daniels were childhood friends from a small town in Ohio. When taking them out, the key would be to do it so that nobody made the connection between the two. Making it all the harder was the fact they had to act fast, something that made Bouchard and Alt nervous. They spent their careers doing this sort of thing—tailing their targets for months, knowing their every move and striking at the perfect moment and leaving without a trace. Setting up one killing in a few days was one thing. Setting up two? How to pull that off without anyone making the connection was the million-dollar question.

Then the solution presented itself.

Tailing Daniels revealed her relationship with Senator Johnson. The serial killer was making headlines daily. Daniels was killed by Alt, and they fingered the senator. On the same night, Bouchard made Jones’s death look like the work of the serial killer. Their contact with the investigation provided all the details to make it look like one of the serial-killer murders. With a special detail investigating the serial killer, the same people would not be investigating the Daniels murder. Nobody would make the personal connection between Jones and Daniels. That eliminated the problem of linking Daniels and Jones. They could now spend their time looking for the original Cross documents.

But they couldn’t find the documents. It was the last thing out there that could hang them.

Then McRyan came along and made the connection between Daniels and Jones. They didn’t foresee Knapp keeping his clippings and that Jones wouldn’t be included. That was enough to make someone look, and McRyan started, meeting with Lyman Hisle and talking about PTA with Kennedy. He and his little group of friends were on the hunt. They just didn’t know for what.

Alt took a sip of his beer. They had to find the Cross documents before McRyan and company did. Their advantage was that they knew what they were looking for, and McRyan didn’t. How long would that last?

Alt finished his beer. He pushed himself up out of his chair, walked back to the kitchen, and grabbed another Heineken. He popped the top off and took a long drink, snorted lightly and shook his head. McRyan. Before he went to bed, Alt would go to his office, check on his money and move some of it. Twenty-four hours ago, he thought he was done. Now, more than ever, he realized he might have to run.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Cut him loose a little early, I guess.”

Mac put the key into the dead bolt and pushed in the front door to Claire Daniels’s place. It felt like an eternity since he’d been here last, although it had only been five weeks. The condo was cold and musty, a product of vacancy. He noticed a thin coating of dust on the once shiny coffee table. Claire would have disapproved. All the furniture and other furnishings remained in place, white sheets draped over most of them. There was a for sale sign out front, and the realtor told Mac a sale was imminent.

Lich, Rock, and Riley followed him in, all clapping their hands or making some other movement to shake off the cold outside air. “So, what are we looking for, Sherlock?” Rock asked.

“Don’t know exactly,” Mac replied. “Let’s go through the place, see what we find.”

They didn’t really know what they were looking for, although Mac had outlined his thoughts at breakfast. Going at PTA at the moment didn’t make sense, even if the chief would have allowed it. They didn’t know what they were looking for, and PTA most likely would have eliminated any trace of anything that was within their control. What wasn’t in their control was whatever Jones and Daniels might have been talking about. They might have left something behind. Mac figured they had to find that, and then they would have something to go after PTA with. Problem was, they had no idea what Jones and Daniels shared. Mac and the others agreed that it was likely Jones found something she wasn’t supposed to and told Daniels about it. It might have been something financial, since Jones was the CFO, but they really didn’t know. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but not having any idea what the needle looked like. But they were all at the window, ready to place their bets.

Everyone took their coats off and threw them over the railing to the staircase and headed in different directions.

• • • • •

“Surprised they went back to Daniels’s place?” Bouchard asked.

“Nope. Nothing there though. We went through that place, what, four times?” Alt replied. They were sitting on Summit Avenue, looking from the north down St. Albans at the front of Daniels’s condo. Another van was parked on Grand to the south.

“Yeah.”

“And we knew what we were looking for,” Alt added.

“Pointless exercise, in other words?”

“That’s my thought.”

“They don’t know that.”

“No, they don’t.”

“They’re cops. Pretty smart ones from what I’ve seen.”

“I’m not suggesting they aren’t. We’re here watching them after all,” Alt replied. “I just don’t think those documents are at Daniels’s place.”

“Where are they?”

“Heck if I know. We’ve looked everyplace I can think of. Hell, we’re still looking.”

“My worry is somebody’s going to stumble onto them,” Bouchard said, frowning.

“I have the same worry. So does Lindsay,” Alt replied. “You ready to bail on a moment’s notice?”

“Everything’s in place. You?”

“Definitely.”

They sat in silence, the wind gusts lightly rocking the van and Minnesota Public Radio softly coming through the radio.

Bouchard sighed. “Going to be a long day watching these guys.”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich searched the upstairs while Riley and Rock took the main level, basement, and garage. They all pulled out drawers, sifted through papers, looked at pictures, went through boxes, searched closets and cabinets, pulled plates and dishes out of cupboards, looking for anything about Jones or PTA.

Mac found nothing. He went through every file on her computer. Nothing about PTA. He went through all of her filing cabinets, checked the hallway buffet cabinet, sifted through her closet, pulled clothes out of drawers and off shelves, went through all of her personal belongings. He even looked under her bed. Nothing about PTA. Nothing about Jones. He pulled a chair up in front of the cabinet that held the television. He stared at the columns of DVDs. He’d remembered her voluminous collection. There had to be over one hundred movies including lots of romantic comedies, but some steamy movies as well. Basic Instinct, 9½ Weeks, Body Heat, even some of those steamy B-movies that found their way to Skinamax late at night. There were videos and DVDs of her news reporting. He remembered the sports reporter at Channel 6, Joe Elliott, talking about Daniels’s perfectionism. She even videotaped her golf lessons, he said. She was a total perfectionist. While an interesting little side note, the perfectionism didn’t seem to help here.

Everyone else crapped out as well. “Mac, we’ve been through the whole downstairs, storage, garage, everything,” Riley said. Nothing had been found.

Mac looked at his watch—12:30 p.m. “Let’s get some lunch.”

They went to Bobby’s Bar, along Grand Avenue, six blocks to the west of Daniels’s place. On the way, Mac took another look at the Daniels file. Over burgers, they discussed the case.

“So what’s next?” Lich asked.

“We go back and re-interview people in the neighborhood,” Mac answered. “I called Paul Blomberg, that guy who saw someone in the alley. Lich and I are going to talk to him again, run through what he saw. Maybe talking through it again will bring something.” Then to Riley and Rock, “I want you guys to go back and talk to her neighbors. In particular, talk to John Chase. He was next door and saw the senator leaving Claire’s place one night. Also, go across the street. Talk to this guy.”

“Who’s this?”

“Our eyeball witness who saw the senator leaving Daniels’s place the night of the murder, one Juan Hernandez.”

“Why are we talking to him again?”

“He was pretty observant and Johnny-on-the-spot the night Daniels was killed. I want to know if he saw anyone else hanging around. I’m not sure we asked because he gave us the senator, and we moved on that.”

• • • • •

Bouchard and Alt were in the Persian Rug store parking lot east of Bobby’s Bar, watching out the back of the van. Bouchard bought a couple of cold sandwiches and cups of coffee from the deli across the street. Hansen and Berg were in the other van parked on Victoria to the south, watching the front of Bobby’s.

Alt was reading the paper when Bouchard said, “Here they come.”

Fat Lich and McRyan got into the Explorer, while Riley and big Rockford jumped into a Ford pickup. McRyan turned into the Kozlak Foodmart lot, while Riley kept going east on Grand. Alt ordered the other van to follow Riley and Rockford. He and Bouchard would stay with McRyan.

“Déjà vu all over again,” Bouchard quipped.

• • • • •

Blomberg didn’t have anything more for Mac and Lich. He gave his story again, almost word for word what he gave Mac a month earlier. He hadn’t seen anyone else in the alley that night or any other night.

“Anything come into your mind since I was here last?”

“No. Nothing. Like I said, I just saw the guy get in the van. He was dressed in dark clothing. I never saw his face or anything. It happened really fast.”

Lich showed him a picture of Jamie Jones. “Ever see her around here?”

Blomberg shook his head. “No. Not that I recall.”

They ran through it again, but Blomberg simply had nothing more to give. The detectives turned to leave when Mac’s cell went off.

• • • • •

Alt saw McRyan come out of the apartment building, talking on his cell phone.

“They didn’t spend much time inside,” Bouchard remarked.

Before Alt could respond, his phone chimed, it was Hansen. “Yeah?”

“We have a problem.”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich pulled up in front of Hernandez’s apartment building. Riley and Rock were standing in the entryway with another man. “He’s gone?” Mac asked.

“Yeah,” replied Riley. “This is the apartment manager, John Higgins.”

“When did he leave?”

“Three weeks ago,” Higgins replied.

“What about his lease? Didn’t he have a one-year lease?” Mac asked.

“Normally he would, but he offered to pay two-months worth up front and then was willing to live month to month. Anyone I would find to take a one-year lease probably wouldn’t take possession for a month or two anyway, so it seemed like a good deal to me. Guy kept to himself, caused no problems.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?” Lich asked.

“No. Never heard from him personally. Just found the keys in my mailbox one day. No note or anything.”

“Have you rented the unit out as of yet?”

“As of the first-of-the-year I have. Right now I have his stuff boxed up in case he calls for it.”

They went up to the unit and looked around. It had been sparsely furnished to begin with and now there were just a few boxes lying in the middle of the floor. There were some clothes, a few dishes, and some papers.

Mac looked back at Higgins. “No forwarding address?”

“No. Like I said. One day he was here, the next he was gone. Didn’t say good-bye or anything.”

“Anyone come looking for him?” Riley asked.

“Nobody that I know of.”

“Was he friendly with any of the other tenants?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And he paid the two months in full up front?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Cash.”

“As in check?” Mac asked.

“Nope. Cash.”

“Mr. Higgins, didn’t that strike you as odd?” Mac asked, since it certainly struck him as odd.

“A little perhaps.” Higgins shrugged, tilted his head and lazily raised his eyebrows. “Guy offers cash, wants two months. What’s the big deal?”

Mac snorted and shook his head.

They looked through the boxes. They found nothing to give them a hint of where he went. The only paper of any use was a check stub from Dynastar, his employer.

• • • • •

“Cut him loose a little early I guess,” Alt remarked.

“Where did he go?” Bouchard asked.

“Far away, and they won’t find him. He’s not in the country. He’s not living under the name of Juan Hernandez. He won’t be found unless we need him to be found.”

“Don’t you think it’ll look odd that he bailed?”

“A little. They might even suspect we did it. And of course, they’d be right,” Alt said lightly shaking his head, a bit perturbed. All things being equal, he thought, this was a hiccup he would have preferred to avoid. Hernandez’s disappearance only served to heighten their suspicion. Of course, had the police bothered to remain in touch with Hernandez, Alt would have kept him around. Once they killed the senator, the Daniels case was over. Once he was certain of that, he cut Hernandez loose. Alt lightly sighed, shook his head and said, “They won’t be able to find him.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Bouchard asked.

“I don’t think so.”

• • • • •

Mac and Lich went over to Dynastar and spoke with the Human Resources manager. Hernandez left without notice and hadn’t picked up his last paycheck. He left no forwarding address for sending the check, and they hadn’t heard from him. When hired, he’d completed a W-4 and immigration I-9 Form. For the I-9, he provided a Minnesota driver’s license and Social Security card to verify identity and ability to work in the United States. Dynastar did not make copies of the documents, although some employers did, even though it wasn’t technically required. Lich called the license and Social Security number information to Riley and Rock, so they could check it downtown.

Mac and Lich interviewed people in the production area that worked with Hernandez. He wasn’t at Dynastar long. He had been pleasant enough but kept to himself. He didn’t mention where he was going and everyone was surprised when he just stopped showing up for work.

It was dark as they walked out of Dynastar, having found nothing helpful about Hernandez. Riley called. While there were plenty of Juan Hernandezes, they couldn’t find any with the Minnesota driver’s license and Social Security numbers this Juan gave to Dynastar.

At the Pub, Sally joined them, and they went down to Patrick’s Room.

“Not much today,” Rock said.

“Hernandez is missing. That’s something,” Lich replied.

“Guy was probably an illegal. People get a fake driver’s license or state ID card, along with a false Social Security number and work as long as they can. If the employer sniffs something is up, they bail and go to the next unsuspecting employer,” Sally said. “I have some friends who do employment law and they said their clients run into this all the time.”

“His absence seems awfully convenient,” Mac replied, not buying it.

“You suggestin’ PTA had something to do with it?” Riles asked, a smile on his face.

“Hell if I know,” Mac replied. “It seems as if he skipped town after it became clear that the Daniels investigation was over.”

“It is convenient,” Riles said agreeably. “But that’s about it. If PTA did take care of him, he’s either dead or paid off, drinking an umbrella drink in a foreign land.”

“So what’s next?” Sally asked.

“Tomorrow we go over to the Jones place,” Mac said. “See what we find there.”

“And what if we don’t find anything?” Rock asked.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Mac replied.

• • • • •

Mac turned off the bathroom light and went over to his side of the bed, turned off the nightstand light, rolled over and kissed Sally.

“So, not much today, huh?” she said, snuggling up to Mac.

“Just that Hernandez thing,” Mac said, lightly scratching her back.”Daniels’s place was the same as I remembered it. Something odd about her place though. I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s like I’m missing something.”

“What?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. I’ve looked at something there that’s important, but I don’t know why yet. I haven’t put it together.”

“So tomorrow you’re going to look at Jones’s?” she said, running her fingers through Mac’s chest hair.

“Yeah, see if we find anything.”

“What’ll you look for?”

“You know, anything that ties Jones and Daniels together. Something that tells us why PTA might have killed them. Like Justice Stewart once said, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’”

“It was ‘I know it when I see it,’” Sally replied, “and he was talking about pornography.”

“Speaking of which,” Mac replied, sliding her panties down.

“Men are animals,” Sally replied, not the least bit disappointed.

• • • • •

“Do we take them out?” Bouchard said, having heard the conversation through the headphones.

“All of them? Including Riley, Lich, and that Rockford?” Alt replied, shaking his head. “No way. You’d have to throw in Hisle and probably that uncle of McRyan’s, as well.”

“So? Take some time, a few more resources, but it could be done. It might have to be done.”

Alt sighed. “You might be right. Start making plans, but only just in case. The idea of being at war with the St. Paul Police Department is not my first choice.” He grabbed his cell phone. Lindsay needed to be updated.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Stephens was a lucky man.”

“I obviously went into the wrong line of work,” Rock quipped as they pulled up in front of Jones’s place. She’d lived in the new high-end condo development along the Mississippi called River Highlands just southwest of downtown along the river—another of the developments in St. Paul’s ten-year quest to take tax advantage of river real estate. The condos had brown stone exteriors, with white trim and black shutters; a colonial look that one might find in Georgetown.

They went through the same drill as they had at Daniels’s place, splitting up and looking for something, anything, that would tie Daniels, Jones, and PTA all together. Mac took the upper-level, Lich and Riley worked the main level, and Rock the lower level. Everything was as it had been at the time when she was killed. Her mother hadn’t been able to bring herself up to clean the place out.

Mac attacked her office. She was like Daniels, an absolute neat freak. They must have drilled neatness into kids from Bristol. Everything was perfectly organized. Perhaps it was because she had an accounting and finance background. These were usually neat, organized people, and Jones fit that description to a T. Everything in its place, undisturbed for five weeks now, much like Daniels’s place.

Mac booted up her computer. Like Daniels, she didn’t bother to password protect it, and he was able to search her files. There was little if any PTA information, and he suspected she probably just dialed into the company system from home. He looked through her personal correspondence and e-mails, nothing out of the ordinary or from Daniels. There were a number of unopened e-mails from a fantasy football website. Mac smiled, she played a little fantasy football. He took a look at her team, not bad.

He looked through her file drawers, nothing much. All of her bills were organized, and she paid online. She had a number of investments, all of which seemed to be looking good. Her bank statement showed a large balance. He found no record of a safe deposit box, although he would call and check with her bank. Her bedroom was well organized, her clothes neatly stored in her dresser and closet, her bed neatly made. Everything was perfectly in its place; almost too perfect, “unnatural,” he thought.

Mac went down to the kitchen, where Lich was looking at various items posted on the refrigerator. It might have been the only messy place in the house. It looked like a typical refrigerator—photos and miscellaneous notes held up by refrigerator magnets. There was a white erase board with a note “Get Milk.” A small paper calendar hanging on a magnetic hook, still on October, had notes on various dates, such as “Workout at 7:00,” “Coffee with Landy at 10:00” and “Happy Hour at 5:30.” Lich jotted down some notes and squinted at the calendar, scratching his chin.

Riley and Rock came in, caught Mac’s eye and shook their heads. They took seats at the kitchen table.

“It isn’t difficult to know you haven’t found anything with these women. I mean, man, talk about two anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive people. A place for everything and everything in its place. Except, of course, for the fridge,” Riley stated.

“Almost too neat, artificially neat,” Mac replied.

“What do you mean?” Rock asked.

“I’m pretty meticulous about my place, but there’s always something out of place. But these two women are unlike anything I’ve seen. I mean, there’s a little film of dust around here, but you almost get the feeling they would have required you to walk around with plastic gloves on and baggies around your feet. They remind me of an old neighbor we had when I was growing up. He’d sweep out his garage three times a day and wash his car twice a week. His yard was perfect, looked like the infield at Wrigley and he’d have a shit fit if someone set foot on his grass. He was just nuts.”

“Well, all I can tell you is that I didn’t find anything that seemed related to what we’re doing or looking for,” Rock replied. “These women make it easy to look for stuff. It’s all organized. I mean, if you were looking for something you wouldn’t have to ransack the place, just give yourself time to go through it and find what you’re looking for.”

“And PTA has had five weeks to do precisely that before we got around to it,” Mac replied.

“Assuming they had anything to do with this in the first place,” Riley replied. “We sure aren’t finding anything this way.”

“No, we’re not.” Mac looked at his watch. Noon. “Why don’t we get something to eat and go from there.” Rock and Riley nodded and pushed themselves up from the table. Lich was still looking at the fridge. “You coming?” Mac asked Lich.

“Yeah. I’ll be right with you.” Lich replied as he continued to stare at something on the fridge, his hands on his hips.

Mac joined Riley and Rock outside, holding the key to lock the door. The temperature was back up a little, mid-thirties, a bright blue sky. With no wind, it was comfortable, a trench coat sufficient for warmth. None of them wore gloves.

Lich came out a few minutes later, and they started to file into the Explorer. Mac turned the key asking, “Where should we go?”

“Franco’s is five minutes away,” Rock replied.

“Yeah,” Riley added, rubbing his hands together.

“Franco’s it is,” Mac replied, dropping the truck into gear. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sports station playing on the radio.

“Was James Stephens’s wife named Yolanda?” Lich blurted.

“Riles?” Mac asked. Riley opened the Jones file and started leafing through the notes. “Yeah, Yolanda. Second wife it says here.”

“Is Landy short for Yolanda?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Riley replied. “Why?”

“Because,” Lich replied, “There was a note on the fridge that said—”

“—coffee with Landy at 10:00,” Mac finished it for him. “What was the date on that, Dick?”

“October 25th.”

“At lunch I’ll give Ms. Stephens a call and see if we can pay her a little visit.”

“Probably just a coincidence,” Rock added.

“Yeah, but so is this whole case,” Mac replied.

• • • • •

After lunch, they made their way over to the Stephens’ home, a sprawling two-story stucco mansion in the wealthy Highland Park neighborhood, close to the Mississippi River.

“My, we are jet setting today, aren’t we?” Rock mused.

The house was set back a hundred feet from the street, and one could tell that, in the summer, it had numerous flower gardens in the front following a serpentine cobblestone sidewalk from the street. It looked like a home you would find in California, with off-white stucco, red tiles on the roof and tall, perfectly manicured shrubs framing the windows along the front.

A housekeeper answered the door. She welcomed them in and asked that they wait for Ms. Stephens in the foyer. Mac admired the winding staircase up to the second level and a couple of the art pieces on pedestals.

Mac recalled having seen a picture of Stephens. He wasn’t a homely guy by any stretch, just kind of an average Joe in his fifties. He had clearly overachieved in his second marriage. The second Ms. Stephens, who had answered the phone “Landy,” was a stunning beauty in, Mac guessed, her late thirties. She was tall, with strawberry-blonde hair that fell stylishly to her shoulders. Two words came immediately to Mac’s mind—Trophy Wife. No reflection on her intelligence, just that he seriously doubted it was Stephens’s magnetism that drew this woman to him.

Landy was ever the polite hostess, seating everyone and offering coffee. She sounded almost excited to speak with them when Mac called. Now she was serving coffee and what not, and he got the feeling that she was happy to have company. He wondered if having the mansion and the money still left her a little lonely. Stephens probably had her running with an older crowd. Now that he was gone, all she had was the house and the money.

“So, Ms. Stephens …” Mac asked.

“Landy,” she replied, smiling warmly at Mac.

“Okay, umm, Landy. As I mentioned when I called, we’re following up on some things from the Jamie Jones murder, and we noticed that she had met with you shortly before she died.”

“Oh, yes. I remember. Probably a week beforehand.”

“Were you and Ms. Jones friends?”

“Yes. I really liked Jamie, and so did James. She was really nice, and we kind of hit it off because we were the same age.”

“So, why did the two of you get together on the …” Mac looked down at his notes.

Lich finished for him, “… the twenty-fifth.”

“Oh. I had her meet me for coffee out at the Yacht Club. I had been up to our lake home, I guess my lake home, up north on Gull Lake. James had an office up there, and I ran across a banker’s box with a bunch of PTA stuff in it. I think it was called Cross or something like that. Anyway, I didn’t just want to throw it out. It might be something important. I figured if James had it, it was something financial, and I should give it to Jamie. We met for coffee, and I gave her the box.”

“Do you recall what was in the box?” Mac asked.

“No, I really don’t,” she replied and then looked thoughtfully towards the ceiling. “There was some sort of book, like for accounting, I think.”

“A ledger book?” Rock added helpfully.

“Yes. That’s right. Thanks.” She shot him a warm smile. “A ledger book of some type.”

“Anything else?” Riley asked.

“Not that I can recall. Just papers, some folders, stuff like that. Most were in those brown file folders. I don’t know much about finance and, like I said, it was PTA related, so I gave it to Jamie.”

“After that day, did you talk to her again?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“When you gave the box to her, what did she say?”

“Nothing much. Thanks, maybe. She might have said, ‘I’ll look it over’—that kind of thing. We were friends. Giving her the file was just an excuse to get together for coffee.”

“Did you discuss anything else?”

“We chatted about lots of things. Her work. What I was doing …”

“Ms. Stephens …”

“Landy.”

“Sorry,” Mac replied, “Landy, did you talk about anything else related to the box you gave her?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head, “Not that I recall. We talked for an hour or so, said good-bye, and that was that.”

“And the name on the box was Cross?”

“I think so. Cross. There was that ledger book and some other papers that all looked Greek to me. That was it.”

They went through it one more time, but nothing additional came to light. Mac worried that they were pushing it, but Landy never asked what their questions were all about.

They got up to leave, thanking her for her time. She walked them to the door, saying good-bye to each, with Mac being last. He left her a card and asked that she call if she remembered anything else. She promised she would, giving him a warm smile as he left.

• • • • •

Alt and Bouchard watched from a block and a half north, waiting for McRyan and Company to leave. Kraft and Hansen were in another van a half block behind, waiting for their cue. Alt had been on the phone with Lindsay. Finally, they had an idea of where the Cross documents might have come from.

“When they leave, you’ll talk to her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When that’s done, call me. It’s time for us to put a stop to this little investigation of theirs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alt hung up and turned his attention back to the house. The front door opened, and the cops filed out, McRyan being the last. They all got into the Explorer and drove down the driveway, took a right turn, in the opposite direction from Alt and Bouchard.

“Kraft. They’re yours.”

“Copy that.” He heard the engine start behind him and Kraft pulled by, settling in behind McRyan and company along Mississippi River Boulevard.

“Let’s go.”

• • • • •

Mac and company headed back downtown to the Pub. Mac called Sally to fill her in on what they had found.

“Is this enough to go after them?” he asked.

“No. You don’t even know what this Cross thing is. You have to know about that before we could go forward. Sounds like you’re on the right track though. You guys are finding things.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure how long we can keep doing this until people start finding out.”

“Hopefully something will pop soon.”

“We’ll be at the Pub. Come when you can.”

Shamus told them to use Patrick’s Room in the basement if needed and that seemed like the place to go. They each grabbed a beer from the bar and headed downstairs. Mac closed the unique cabinet door behind them and everyone took a seat.

“So, what do we think?” Mac started.

“Stephens was a lucky man,” Lich said, his mind ending up where it usually did.

“Yeah, she was a looker,” Riles replied, “but did we learn anything?”

“Cross. We learned that. Whatever that is. We need to find out what that means. Is it a place, a name, what?” Mac replied.

“How do we find that out?” Rock asked.

“I know somebody I could ask,” Mac replied. “I’m going to go make a phone call.” He left the small conference room, found a spot in the corner of the basement and punched up Lyman’s number. Mac filled him in on what they had learned the last couple of days.

“Mac, as best I remember, Cross was an old explosives facility out in West Virginia. The company owned it for years, but it’s closed now, has been for a while.”

“Anything unusual about the place?”

“Off the top of my head, no. It was an explosives facility we had. It was old and out in the middle of nowhere. Nothing like a modern operation. They finally shut it down a few years ago.”

“Do you know why they shut it down? Any questions or controversies?”

“I’m not sure. I think we just had more modern facilities for producing explosives. I suspect it was determined that it wasn’t worth keeping open, probably because it would have cost a lot to modernize it and what not.”

“What was out there, just a manufacturing facility?”

“Pretty much. There was a big warehouse or two, so I don’t know, we might have been storing stuff there or something. The place was out in the middle of nowhere as I recall. I was never actually there myself, but I looked Cross up on a map once and it was a little town in the hills. The facility itself was well out of town, being an explosives plant and all.”

“Anyone you could talk to about the place?”

“I could try. I still have some friends at PTA.” Lyman didn’t sound hopeful.

“It’s a long shot I know, but I’d appreciate it just the same. We’re kind of up against the wall, and this is the only thing we have found.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Mac hung up his phone and headed back to the conference room. When he opened the door, Riley was hanging up his phone. He didn’t look happy. “What gives?” Mac asked.

“We have to go see the chief.”

“What for?”

“He wants to know why we’re looking into PTA.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“I’m a cop, not a politician.”

A few days earlier, it had been a happy occasion to come into the chief’s office. The Irish whiskey had been out. Smiles and backslaps all around. Not now. One look at Flanagan’s face told the boys that he was not pleased. His tie was loose, his hair messed, the dark circles around his eyes had suddenly returned. “Sit,” was all he said when they walked in.

Helen Anderson was already sitting on the left side of the couch and didn’t look any happier. Her arms were crossed, and she had a stern look on her face. Sylvia Miller sat on the other end and looked pensive. While Mac didn’t like making the chief mad or causing Miller discomfort, he could give a shit about Anderson. What did concern him was Sally. She was conspicuous by her absence from this little meeting. Helen knew they were dating and he imagined that if it hadn’t happened already, Helen would be asking her what she knew.

As they all sat down and the chief came around his desk, the mayor came in, also unhappy. He’d been their friend a few days ago. One look told Mac, the mayor wasn’t here to be friends.

“So,” the chief started, “can someone tell me what in the hell you four have been up to?”

Riley started, but Mac put his hand on his knee and jumped in. The investigation was his idea. “Chief, you can put it on me.”

“What the hell, Mac?”

“Chief, I found some things a few days ago in finishing up Knapp, that caused us to go back and look at a few things related to the Claire Daniels murder, as well as one of Knapp’s alleged victims, Jamie Jones.”

“What?” Helen Anderson replied, aghast. “Why in the world, Detective, would you dig up all of that?”

“I’d like to know as well,” the chief added, doubt in his eyes.

Mac walked them through the whole story. Flanagan and Miller looked intrigued, Anderson incredulous, and the mayor sick. They all had their individual reasons.

“Hell of a theory, Mac,” Flanagan said, with a little smile and shake of his head.

“Yes, sir.”

“Pat, you went along with this?” the chief asked, looking over to Riley.

“Yes, sir. We all did,” Riley replied assuredly. “Mac’s onto something here.”

“Excuse me?” Anderson accused. “From where I’m sitting, I don’t see it. You have no evidence to implicate PTA in anything. You have a number of coincidences that make an interesting story, perhaps, but nothing that would hold up in court.”

“We’re not in court yet,” Rock replied. “We’re investigating …”

“And who authorized that?” the mayor interjected. “Obviously this is news to the chief.”

“Couldn’t tell the chief,” Lich added.

“Why not?” Flanagan, surprised.

“Sir, we were trying to protect you. If we found something, we’d come to you. If we found nothing, then you’d never know that there were some possible questions, not so much about Knapp, but about the Daniels killing,” Mac said.

Riley jumped in. “It’s been rough enough for the department as it is, sir. We didn’t want to come to you with this, unless we found something to support the theory.”

“Well, on that account, I’d say you’ve failed,” Anderson replied.

Mac held up two fingers, “We’ve had two days! TWO! If we’re right, PTA has had five weeks or more to try to cover this up, which puts us way behind. But in two days of poking around, we found this Cross lead and link between Landy Stephens and Jamie Jones. We’ve already linked Jones to Daniels. And I just can’t get past two women, lifelong friends, both from a small Ohio town who die in St. Paul on the same night. Something’s going on here. If we keep looking, we might find more.”

“If you keep looking, all you’ll do is embarrass the department and my office,” Anderson answered. “You have a theory that, while I can see where you’re going, doesn’t have any evidence to support it. PTA’s lawyers would make monkeys out of us if we went after them with this. They’ll paint you as a bunch of rogue detectives who investigated without authority. It’ll be a disaster for you, the chief, the mayor and, yes, my office.”

“I thought we were on the same team?” Mac replied, disbelief on his face. “We haven’t asked to go to court yet. Who knows what we might find if we keep looking. If we develop a good case, then you can decide.”

“I won’t take this into court against PTA.”

Mac, pissed, raised his voice. “We wouldn’t ask you. We’d ask someone who’s actually seen the inside of a courtroom, not a chicken-shit politician more interested in protecting her bony little ass and her senate run.”

“That’s enough, Detective!” the mayor replied angrily.

Mac ignored the mayor and glared at Anderson, not backing down.

“Calm down, everyone,” the chief stated, a wry smile on his face. “Let’s have a drink and cool down.” He got up and went to his desk and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and several glasses. While filling them, he asked, “Mac, what would you and the boys here suggest is your next move?”

“We were discussing that when you called, sir. I don’t know that we had decided as of yet.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” the mayor replied. “You go poking around PTA without more than you have, we’ll lose them.”

“Sir?” Riley asked.

“I got the call from Ted Lindsay over at PTA. We’re currently in discussions with PTA to keep them here in St. Paul. Their lease is up next summer, and they bring over four thousand employees downtown alone. My office is working with the building owner, trying to keep PTA and all those jobs here in St. Paul. If we’re investigating them on something as thin as what you’ve put forward here, we’ll lose them, especially if the media gets wind of it. I don’t need to tell all of you what the loss of those jobs would do to this city.”

Rock, stunned. “Jobs? What about murder? Does that count for anything, Mayor?”

“Yes, Detective, it does,” the mayor replied. “I’m no lawyer, but from what you’ve laid out here, you don’t have a case, do you?”

“Not yet,” Mac replied.

“Not ever,” Anderson interjected. “Ever heard of reasonable doubt, Detective McRyan?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mac replied with a wicked grin. “Graduated summa cum laude from law school.” He knew Anderson didn’t have any Latin on her diploma.

She only blinked once. “Then you know that PTA’s lawyers would have no problem creating reasonable doubt.”

“For once tonight, Ms. Anderson, you’re right,” Mac replied, restraining himself as best he could. “Neither I, nor Pat, nor any of us, though, have asked you to go to court yet. We just want to look into this more.”

“The more you look into it, the more likely it is that PTA leaves the city,” the mayor jumped back in. “Ted Lindsay said as much today.”

Rock, exasperated, said, “Fuck ‘em. Just because someone employs a bunch of people in this city means they get a free pass?”

“Not on my watch,” Riley added.

“Chief,” the mayor replied, “put a leash on your boys here, or I will.”

“Mac,” the chief brushed off the mayor, “what if we could talk to PTA tomorrow?”

“Sir?”

“If I could put you in a room with Ted Lindsay tomorrow—what would you say to that?”

“Might that be the only option you’ll give us for going forward?”

The chief nodded.

“I’m game.”

“Charlie, no!” the mayor replied. “We’re not going to do that. We’re meeting with Lindsay tomorrow to smooth this over. This won’t help.”

“Tell you what, Mayor. I’m a cop, not a politician. These boys are cops, not politicians. They investigate homicides. Now, I’m not sure they have anything yet. But coincidences like these?” the chief shook his head. “I’ve been a cop for thirty-three years. If I ran across something like this, I’d like to think I’d do exactly what these boys did.” Flanagan took a sip of his drink and sat back in the high-backed leather chair. “Now, if Ted Lindsay has nothing to hide, he’ll talk to me and the boys here. If he talks tomorrow and answers their questions, and he provides satisfactory answers, then that’ll be the end of it. And my word matters on that, does it not, boys?” the chief asked, looking at Mac and Riles in particular. They both nodded. Flanagan continued, “If Mr. Lindsay doesn’t have answers for us, then my boys’ll continue to look into this.” He took a last sip of the dark whiskey, smiled, and asked, “So what’s it gonna be, Mayor?”

Mac smiled inwardly. Chief Flanagan backed his boys’ play. That’s why they loved him. He was the chief of police, not a police chief, not a tinhorn politician.

The mayor, on the other hand, looked like he’d just choked down a serving of Nyquil. “I’ll talk to Lindsay and see what he says. He may not go for it.”

“Ask the man. If he has nothing to hide, he’ll do it.”

The mayor sighed, “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned and left the chief’s office to go make the call.

“Charlie, I’d be careful if I were you,” Anderson warned, ever the politician. “You’re playing with fire here and not just the department’s hide, but the city’s.”

“Helen, if I gave a shit about politics, you would be right.” The chief took another sip of his drink, smiling. “But I don’t. Never have. If the mayor and the City Council want to get rid of me, I got a big old cabin up north waiting for me.” The chief had some dough; his wife came from a wealthy family. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“Well, good luck to you all,” Anderson replied. “I may have been a little confrontational. Of course, should something turn up, our office, as always, would work with you,” she finished, extending an olive branch.

The chief accepted, “Thank you, Helen.”

Anderson left. The chief grabbed the bottle of Irish whiskey and gave everyone another touch. He took a long drink and a little smile creased his face.

“Well, boys. I was all ready to read you the riot act.”

“We figured that to be the case,” Riley replied.

“But I just can’t be mad at you. I still don’t know if you have anything here, but, damn, if I don’t want to let you have a shot at it.”

• • • • •

Alt sat on the fine leather couch, close to the fireplace, sipping water and admiring the shelves of books in Ted Lindsay’s study. Seemed like there were hundreds of them, different sizes and colors. They must have all been classics. The boss would have nothing but the best.

Lindsay was on the phone with the St. Paul mayor. This was their third conversation of the day. Alt listened as Lindsay agreed to a 5:00 p.m. meeting at his office. He hung up the phone and strolled over to Alt, grabbing a high-backed leather chair, close to the fire.

“So we have a 5:00 p.m. meeting tomorrow?” Alt asked.

“Yes. The mayor, Chief Flanagan, McRyan, and Riley.”

“To discuss …?”

“They want to discuss with us some problems they have with the death of Jamie Jones and how PTA might be able to help clear them up.”

“What do they know?”

“At this point, they know that some documents about Cross exist, based on our conversations with Landy Stephens. I want to know more by tomorrow, however.”

“I better go back downtown.”

“Yes. I want to know if McRyan and Kennedy talk about this. So, let’s see if those bugs’ll pay off, shall we?”

“Yes, sir. One question. Why take the meeting tomorrow?”

“Because, according to the mayor, if we meet with them and have answers to their questions, the chief has given his assurance that the investigation will end.”

“You believe that?”

“I do,” Lindsay replied confidently. “Charlie Flanagan is a man of his word. He’s backed his boys, which is why that force would run through a brick wall for him. But if they crap out tomorrow, he’s smart enough to know that he can’t let them keep going. Even if he suspects something, he knows that if we shut them down on this Cross business, they have nowhere to go, no way to get a conviction, and he can’t risk exposure of the department on the Daniels case or letting word slip that this Knapp didn’t kill one of the victims. So, if we shut him down tomorrow, we should be rid of the police.”

“Plus, we hammer the city with the threat we’ll leave if they don’t back down.”

“Yes,” Lindsay smiled. “The mayor’s concerned about the loss of all those jobs and the impact on his city. He likes being mayor. So, yes, he’d like to see this all go away. In other words, my friend, let’s see that we make the mayor happy, shall we?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Is that what this is really all about, Detective?”

Mac looked out the window of the minivan as they drove through five blocks of rush-hour traffic to the PTA Tower. The Christmas decorations were lighting up the dark 4:45 p.m. sky of downtown. Green wreaths with bright red bows adorned the street lights. Department store and restaurant windows were outlined with red, green, and white lights. Santas were working the corners, wringing their Christmas bells, looking for donations to the Salvation Army. It all made for a festive atmosphere.

The scene allowed Mac’s mind to drift, if only momentarily, away from the task at hand: PTA. It was only for an instant, and then it returned, as it had again and again for the past twenty-four hours. The chief, mayor, Captain Peters, Riley, and he were going to meet with Ted Lindsay, the president of PTA, although the mayor would wait outside. Mac had seen pictures and video footage of him for years. He was a prominent man of the town. Now Mac was essentially going to accuse Lindsay and people who worked for him of murder.

And he was going in with less than a full arsenal. He met with Riles, Rock, and Lich all day, discussing scenarios of how to go after PTA and at the same time protect the department. They went back and forth on a variety of approaches, but finally settled on one that tied one hand behind their back. They couldn’t use Claire Daniels. Mac reached the same conclusion with Sally the night before.

Daniels’s name might come up, but not in the context that they thought PTA killed her, even though Mac suspected they did. Her name would come up as a reporter that Jamie Jones knew and talked to, probably about Cross, whatever Cross was. But for now, at least, they planned to leave the death of Claire Daniels with the senator. If this whole stunt backfired, they reasoned, they wouldn’t have to deal with the mess of putting into play the fact that the investigators of the Daniels’s murder thought they got the wrong man.

Despite the fact they were leaving Daniels out, it was, nonetheless, decided they would be aggressive. As Riles said repeatedly, “We probably got one shot at this, so let’s not leave anything in the bag. Grip it and rip it.”

“Damn straight,” Rock said, a bull in the China shop if there ever was one. “Let’s take our best shot at the bastards. If we crap out, fine, no regrets.”

“Mac,” Lich said. “Go at him like you went at the senator. Smart-ass young prick detective thinks he knows everything. See if you can get under his skin.”

That would be their approach. What made Mac nervous was that when he went after the senator, they had evidence up the wazoo. To say they had less than that on PTA would be an understatement. There were suspicions, but no direct evidence. Somehow they had to prove to the chief and the mayor that PTA was worth investigating further. Lindsay needed to fess up to something or lose his cool. Accomplish either of those things, and the chief might let them keep looking. That was the goal, to keep the investigation alive.

“Go at him with Cross?” Mac said to the group.

“It’s all we got,” Lich replied. “See what the man has to say.”

Mac smiled inwardly. He had a feeling this would be one of those life events he would never forget.

Downtown St. Paul was mostly a maze of one-way streets. The group actually had to drive all the way around the PTA Tower to get to the building’s parking garage. A security guard waved to them as they pulled in. He directed them towards another guard standing by a chain-link gate that led to a private parking area. As they approached the gate, the guard rolled it open, and Captain Peters pulled the van through and drove to a spot marked with a VIP parking sign.

As Peters put the van into park, Riley, who was sitting next to Mac patted him on the thigh and smiled. “You know this is probably nothing, a waste of our time.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty thin.”

They both felt otherwise as they got out of the van and a blond guy with a medium build approached. “Hello, Chief Flanagan. My name’s Webb Alt,” the blond-haired man said as he extended his hand. “I’m the vice president of Security. Mr. Lindsay asked that I meet you all down here and take you on up.”

“Alt,” the chief replied, taking his hand and then introduced everyone else. Mac shook Alt’s hand and gave him a look. Was this guy one of those assassins Lyman was talking about?

“We’ll go through this door over here and take the private elevator up to the top and to Mr. Lindsay’s private conference room,” Alt said, and waved them towards the door.

“Hmpf. Private elevator,” Riley said quietly in a sarcastic voice.

“Ain’t like going over to Dick’s Bar, now is it?” Mac replied with a wry smile.

The group followed Alt and filed into the waiting elevator. Mac watched the digital display over the door, which remained blank all the way until it stopped on twenty. It was a private express elevator; it didn’t stop on any other floors. As they walked off the elevator, they were in the lobby where the general public elevators came to a stop as well, two on each side of the hall. Straight ahead was a cherry wood reception desk, vacated for the evening.

Alt, sensing they noticed the vacant receptionist desk, offered, “We appreciate your willingness to come at this later hour. We preferred our employees not see someone as recognizable as Chief Flanagan and Detective McRyan walking through the building to see the president.”

Riley snorted, elbowing Mac in the ribs. “So, you’re recognizable?”

“Guess I’ll need a publicist.”

Alt led them past the reception desk, towards a set of double doors that led into a plush conference room. There was a cherry wood conference table with ten high-backed leather chairs on either side. Fine crystal glassware sat on a silver tray in the middle of the table. A large credenza on one end of the conference room held coffee and soft drinks. Built-in cabinets on the other end probably concealed a television and projection screen of some sort, Mac thought, based on the configuration of the cabinet doors.

As impressive as the conference room was, the view was even better. From the twentieth floor, the windows looked west out of downtown. Mac walked over to the window, which ran from floor to ceiling. He could see the Xcel Energy Center’s large red letters and message board flashing coming events. The height of the building also allowed Mac to look levelly at the St. Paul Cathedral, up on the bluff overlooking the city to the west. It was beautiful, the white stone of the magnificent church illuminated by ground lights, contrasting against the dark-blue, cold, winter sky.

As Mac took in the view, he heard the doors open. He turned to see Alt walking back in with Ted Lindsay and another man, whom he assumed was the attorney. Introductions were made all around. Lindsay skipped Alt, and introduced his lawyer, Larry Zimmer. Mac had heard of him, although he didn’t know him. A prominent lawyer with a big firm, the name of which Mac couldn’t remember.

The chief introduced his troops. When Flanagan introduced Mac, Lindsay walked over. “Detective McRyan, you have been busy lately, haven’t you?” he said, shaking Mac’s hand, looking him closely in the eye.

“As have you,” Mac replied stoically, not backing down.

“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Lindsay replied evenly. “But why don’t we sit down, and you can tell us why Landy Stephens called me so upset last night.”

Mac took a seat at the conference table, opposite Lindsay. The lawyer sat to Lindsay’s right. Alt, the security guy, stood behind Lindsay, leaning against the wall with his arms folded.

Mac began, “It’s funny you should say that Ms. Stephens was so upset.”

“Oh, why would that be?”

“Well, Pat,” Mac said glancing over at Riley, “she didn’t seem too upset when we were invited into her home, did she?”

“No, she didn’t,” Riley replied.

“No. In fact, she served coffee and invited us into the living room of her home.”

Lindsay smiled. “Landy is a very nice lady. But when four officers show up on her doorstep, I’m sure she was taken aback. I’m sure she felt that if she was pleasant and nice, you’d leave much sooner.”

“Perhaps,” Mac replied. “Of course, we didn’t just show up at her place. We did call and ask if we could stop by. Did she mention that?”

Lindsay didn’t reply.

Mac forged on. “Because she couldn’t have been more pleasant. So you can imagine our surprise to find out that she was so upset that we’d been to her home and that we were harassing her.”

“Detective, I can only convey to you the phone call I received from Landy,” Lindsay replied calmly. “Her late husband was a dear friend. I feel a responsibility to look after her. When she called upset, well … I felt it necessary to investigate.” Lindsay leaned forward, elbows on the table, “Especially, when she mentioned all of the questions you were asking about Jamie Jones.”

“Mr. Lindsay, I can say that we did not harass Ms. Stephens,” Mac replied. “You know, it’s funny though. It didn’t take long for us to get called on the carpet about going to her house.”

“Detective, I’m a man accustomed to getting quick results.”

“I’m sure you’ve gotten to where you are because of that,” Mac replied, “but it was so quick, I mean almost as if someone saw us leaving her place.” Mac didn’t know if that was the case, but Lyman said he wouldn’t be surprised if PTA had been watching them. He threw it out there to see if Lindsay would react. He didn’t. The lawyer jumped in.

“Detective, why don’t you get to the reason you were visiting Mrs. Stephens.”

“Good idea, Counselor,” Mac replied flippantly, opening his notebook. “Mr. Lindsay, I’m going to tell you a little story, and then I’ll have some questions. Sound fair?”

Lindsay nodded.

“As you know, we recently arrested a serial killer named Dirk Knapp. He’s alleged to have killed seven women in the area around University Avenue. We captured him last week, as I’m sure you recall.”

“Yes, I do, Detective.” Lindsay replied. “As I recall, you were the officer who apprehended him. To that we owe you many thanks, since the bastard killed our Jamie.”

“Yeah, we thought he killed her, too.”

“But … you don’t think so?” Lindsay asked, his brow furrowed.

Mac shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe not. As we all know, Knapp was assassinated the next day. Looked like a pro job. So, we never got the chance to ask him about the killings.”

“Unfortunate for you guys,” Zimmer replied, “but I don’t see how this has anything to do with my client.”

“Patience, Counselor,” Mac replied dismissively, waving Zimmer off while keeping his gaze on Lindsay. “So, anyway, the morning after we caught Knapp, I went out to his place in Hudson. In the basement he had been keeping his clippings in great detail about all his handiwork. He had a display for all of his victims, except one. Who do you suppose that was?”

Lindsay sat back in his chair, folded his arms, but didn’t reply.

Mac kept going. “Jamie Jones. Now we thought it odd that she’d be missing. We would’ve asked Knapp about that, but low and behold …”

“He’s dead,” Riley finished.

“Guess you should have done a better job protecting him,” Lindsay replied, pushing back just a little, but his face remaining neutral.

“No doubt about that,” Mac replied. “But I’m still curious about Jones missing from Knapp’s collection. I mean, he took all the time to cut all the clippings about the other victims and to tape the news shows, but he completely ignored Jones. Well, we thought it was odd. So, I took a look at our file on Jones and noticed some differences between her and the other victims.”

“Such as?”

“Knapp’s victims were blue-collar, working women. Jones was not.”

“So what?” Lindsay replied.

“Serial killers pick out one kind of victim and stick with that,” Mac answered. “They don’t stray.”

Riles picked up the thread. “So, we took another look at Jones and found some things that caused us to look in the direction of PTA.”

“What would that be, Detective?” Lindsay asked evenly, unrattled.

“While we were looking through her apartment, and we noticed Ms. Stephens’s name on a calendar on the refrigerator. She met with Ms. Jones six days before she died on Halloween.”

“That’s hardly unusual, Detective. It’s no secret that James and Landy were good friends with Jamie.”

“As Ms. Stephens told us. They got together for coffee, apparently something they did every once in a while. Of course, on this occasion, Ms. Stephens gave Jones something.”

“Which was?” Lindsay asked.

“A banker’s box full of PTA documents for something called …” Mac looked at Riles.

“Cross,” Riles finished.

“Is that what this is about, Detective McRyan?” Lindsay asked, “I can assure you—”

Mac cut him off, “There’s more than that, I assure you,” an intentional taunt in his voice, pushing at Lindsay. “We also know that after she met with Ms. Stephens, Jones met with Claire Daniels.” They hadn’t been able to confirm exactly when that meeting took place, but they were pretty sure it had.

“I didn’t know that,” Lindsay replied, a surprised look on his face. Mac didn’t believe him or the surprised look, but they already decided they couldn’t use Daniels much more than that at this point.

“Really?” Mac replied skeptically. “Somehow I doubt that.” Then he continued. “Anyway, between Stephens giving Jones the banker’s box and then meeting with a noted investigative reporter, well, that all seemed fairly suspicious to us. Especially since Jones didn’t fit the pattern of Knapp’s victims. Certainly you can see why this would be of concern to us.”

“Knapp must have taken a shine to Jamie somehow,” Lindsay replied.

“I’m not sure how that would be,” Riley jumped in. “I led the detail on Knapp. He ran into all of his victims through work and driving around the University Avenue area.” Riley shook his head, “In the time we followed him, he never went downtown once.”

Mac jumped back in. “And, as far as we can tell, Jones never had any reason to spend much time along the University Avenue corridor. PTA doesn’t have any facilities over there.”

“Could be a copycat,” Zimmer added, wanting everyone to know he was still in the room.

“We think that’s entirely possible,” Riley replied. “But if the Jones murder was a copycat, it wasn’t pulled off by some ham-and-egger. It was the work of a professional.”

Mac nodded, adding, “Every detail matched to what Knapp was doing. Except, of course, for the profile of the victim. Jones doesn’t fit.”

“So that got us to thinking: who else would want to take her out?” Riles said. “And it seems that the only other thing Ms. Jones had going in her life that would cause someone to pick her out, was the fact that she was the CFO for a prominent company.”

Mac finished the thought. “Maybe PTA had something to hide.”

“Our financial records are impeccable, Detective,” Lindsay replied angrily. “There is no financial malfeasance here.”

“We’ll see,” Mac replied, continuing, cocky. “But I’m not done. In PTA here, we’re not talking about just any company. We’re talking a wealthy company with tremendous assets. A company with a large security force.” Mac looked over to Alt. “People tell me that there’s more than one professional working for your firm.”

“A professional could do a copycat killing and make it look like the work of someone else, it’s one of the things they’re trained to do,” Riley added.

“Heck, a professional could have picked off Knapp from the third level of the Vincent Ramp. Isn’t that right, Mr. Alt?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Alt replied.

“Riiiight,” Mac slowly replied, then continued. “So this all leads us back to Ms. Jones and PTA. In particular, we were wondering what this banker’s box full of documents Ms. Stephens gave Ms. Jones might have to do with all of this?”

Lindsay, a confident smile appearing over his face, answered, “Is that what this is really all about, Detective?”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“They sure were smooth.”

Alt, with his back to the wall, had listened to McRyan thunder away at Lindsay. He was cocky, intentionally so, which was expected. They knew that he would want to piss the boss off, get him to bite. Lindsay wouldn’t, Alt thought. Too smooth, been through something like this too many times. If the Senate Intelligence Committee never got him to buckle, why would some young Irish detective from St. Paul have any luck? Nevertheless, Alt admired the kid. He was on the right track, more than he even really knew. They had suspicions, good ones for sure, but they had no hard facts, other than the Cross file, and they didn’t have the file. McRyan would ask about the banker’s box full of documents on Cross. They knew he would. They knew his whole strategy. They were ready. This is where Lindsay would end it.

“Is that what this is really all about, Detective?” Lindsay said. From where he was standing, Alt couldn’t see the boss’s face, until he turned in his chair to him.

“Webb?”

“Sir.”

“Could you grab that box of Cross documents that Jamie brought in?”

Alt went back out the double doors and into Lindsay’s office. The box was sitting next to his desk. This was their cover, recreated to look like the copies Jamie had given them. He picked up the box and brought them back to the conference room and set them down on the table. As he set the box down, the lawyer was whispering in Lindsay’s ear. Lindsay replied out loud. “No, I want them to see it. I want them to see there’s nothing to it.” Then Lindsay looked across the table, “Now gentlemen, this is what Jamie brought to me, what Landy Stephens gave to her. You’re free to look through these documents to your heart’s content. I think you’ll find there’s nothing in here of concern to us.”

McRyan and Riley didn’t show much emotion, but Alt could see the disappointment. It was their body language. Their backs weren’t so straight, nor the shoulders so broad. Their bodies sagged slightly, as if a slow leak had started. Riley grabbed the ledger book and started flipping through it while McRyan thumbed through some binder-clipped documents.

Lindsay went for the jugular. “Now, what you have here is a box of documents that, for whatever reason, James Stephens had at home. They relate to what we were doing a number of years ago at our Cross facility.” Lindsay conveyed how they put PTA surplus out in Cross and then systematically had it destroyed.

“Now, Jamie did raise the issue of why we didn’t try to sell the surplus materials. Since the weapons, communications gear, and things of that nature would be coming from PTA, they would fetch some money. We might have been able to make maybe twenty-five to thirty million if we’d done that. She thought we should have considered it.”

“Why didn’t you?” Riley asked.

“I’m a patriot, Detective Riley. If I build it for the government, they’re the ones who get it.”

“So how did you end up with surplus?”

“Sometimes, it doesn’t cost as much to produce a product as you think. In some cases we were more efficient, and sometimes we manufacture a surplus in case problems or errors arise. It happens in all industries, I think. But I didn’t exactly want to admit this to the government either,” Lindsay answered casually, then turned more serious, “Now, if putting a stop to all of this nonsense you have been engaging in will require me to do that, I certainly will.”

“Of course, we don’t really know if this is what Jamie Jones had, do we?” McRyan stated.

“This is what she brought to me,” Lindsay responded reasonably. “You can believe me or not. That’s up to you.”

“Convenient that she’s not here to verify it,” McRyan accused.

“I think that’s enough, Detective,” Zimmer shot back.

“Shut up, Counselor,” McRyan snapped back, the disappointment now out in the open.

“Would it be unusual for Mr. Stephens to have had these documents at home?” Riley asked.

“It would,” Alt replied. “Our security is very tight here. For obvious reasons, we have strict rules that company-related documents are not to leave the building.”

“So how does Stephens end up with the documents at home?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Alt replied, although he knew why Stephens had the originals at home—because they told a completely different story. “What can I say. Executives don’t always follow all the rules.”

“Webb is, I think, correct in that statement,” Lindsay added. “That isn’t to suggest we would look the other way, but sometimes those of us who write the rules don’t always follow them to the letter.” A frank disclosure, one to further make the boss appear forthright and reasonable.

“So now, Detective, can I make you a copy of the documents?”

• • • • •

They were at a dead end, and Mac knew it. To save face he’d take a copy of the documents. Problem was they wouldn’t tell him anything, and he knew it, knew Lindsay would never give him anything of value that easy. He knew the documents were fake, a whitewash meant to paint the story Lindsay wanted told. There would be no smoking gun in there. “Sure, we’d like a copy to look at.”

“Is there anything else, Detective?” Lindsay asked.

“Not right now. We might be back,” Mac replied.

“I think not,” the lawyer, Zimmer, replied.

“I don’t think that’s for you to say, Counselor,” Riles replied harshly.

“It will be my decision as to whether my client submits to this witch hunt again, Detective,” Zimmer replied acidly, getting on his high horse, pointing at Mac. “This is bullshit, and you know it. You haven’t put one piece of hard evidence on the table.” Zimmer waved his arms wildly. “You have these wild suspicions and have accused Mr. Lindsay, or someone who works for him, of murder. Yet you have not one, not one, solid piece of evidence. It’s beyond belief that you’re here with this, accusing this company, and its president, a pillar in this community, of this. I tell you what, if the media got a hold of this, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. I’d advise my client to pull all of their business out of this city, just to start.”

“Your client has had weeks to cover his tracks,” Mac replied. “We’re only getting started.”

“You keep going with this garbage,” Zimmer said, hot, standing, fists on the table, “and I’ll take whatever action I deem necessary to defend my client.”

“What would that be, Counselor? Don’t we have enough dead bodies at this point!” Mac said, immediately wishing he could take it back.

“Detective!” Zimmer yelled and then pointed at Flanagan. “Chief, you may want to reconsider this detective’s position with your department.”

“Relax, Counselor,” the chief replied, standing up, putting his hands up. “Everyone just calm down. I think it would be a good idea at this point, if Mr. Lindsay and I had a little discussion in private.”

“Sir?”

“Mac, you, Pat, and Peters wait outside with the mayor,” the chief replied, in a tone that suggested he had seen enough.

“Yes, sir,” Riley replied, lightly grabbing Mac by the arm. Mac didn’t say anything, trying to conceal his disappointment and probably doing a poor job of it. Along with Captain Peters, they went back through the double doors and out into the lobby area. Mac and Riles left Peters to the mayor and went into a small copy room.

“Fucking Zimmer. What a piece of shit,” Mac mumbled under his breath.

“Piece of shit got under your skin,” Riley replied.

Mac just nodded and exhaled. He rarely lost his cool. It generally only happened when he lost at something, and he felt like he just lost.

“We’re done, buddy,” Riley said.

“We didn’t get much in there, that’s true, but there’s something going on here, Pat.”

“I agree. But at this point, the chief is thinking we can’t get them.”

“We don’t know that.”

Riley snorted. “Shit. What do we have? Nothin’ solid. They have an alibi, an answer for everything, and you and I both know it.” Pat slowly shook his head. “One hundred dollars says that, when the chief comes out, he’s going to tell us to go to the Pub, have a beer, and come back tomorrow, ready to get back into the rotation because we are done with this.”

Mac didn’t have a response. Instead he grabbed a rubber band off the counter, started twisting it with his hands and walked around the small copy room, looking at the postage machine, the ten different three-ring binders with various office procedures, and then meandered over to the copier. It was new and rather large, with a flat screen touch-pad control panel. On the wall behind it were various procedures for copying, requiring you enter an employee code and project number. There were further instructions for printing from a desktop computer, how to set up large print projects or scanning documents into the system and sending them to your own computer. On the bottom of the instructions, it said, “Think Paperless.” PTA must have been making a corporate move to a paperless office.

Mac heard a door open behind him, out in the lobby area. He heard the chief ask for them. “Let’s go,” was all the chief had to say when he stuck his head in the copy room.

“What are we doing?” Riley asked as they climbed into the elevator. The mayor was staying behind.

The chief waited for the doors to close. “We can talk about it downstairs.” They rode down the rest of the way in silence. Once in the parking garage, Flanagan said to Captain Peters, “You take the van back, the boys and I here are going to take a little walk.”

They walked out of the garage and onto the street and back towards the Public Safety Building. “I wanted to wait until we were away from the building. Who knows—they might be listening,” the chief said. “You boys are done, you know that, right?”

Riley sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Mac?” the chief asked.

“Sir, if we kept looking …” Mac started.

The chief put up his hand and then after a few seconds, “Your dad said something to me once.”

“What’s that?”

“We only catch ‘em when they make mistakes. These guys,” the chief said, looking back at the PTA building and lightly shaking his head, “they haven’t made any mistakes. Sometimes, people simply get away with it.”

“So, you think they did it?”

“They’re up to something. What? I’m not sure.”

“They sure were smooth,” Riley said.

“Too smooth,” the chief replied. “I don’t know. They seemed to know what was coming.”

“So, what did you talk about with Lindsay?” Riley asked, shifting gears.

“We stop investigating, and they say nothing of the little conversation we just had. That was the deal.”

Made sense, Mac thought. The department had had a rough go with Knapp. The tumult surrounding that had died down now. If word got out that internally the department questioned the deaths of Claire Daniels, Jamie Jones, and possibly the senator, the department would take another hit. The chief didn’t want that to happen.

“So what’s the mayor doing?” Mac asked.

“Once Lindsay and I struck our little agreement, he wanted some time with the mayor to talk about issues of interest between PTA and the city.”

“Meaning, PTA’s willingness to stay in St. Paul?”

“Yup.”

They quietly walked for a block. Mac finally broke the silence, “If they don’t make mistakes, how do we catch them?”

“I asked your dad that once,” the chief answered. “He said, we build a time machine and go back and catch them in the act.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

One Week Later.

Alt went in the back door, dropped the keys on the counter and scratched his head, late on Thursday night. He was beat, tired, and very much wanted—but knew he couldn’t have—a vacation. He thought that when they had taken care of McRyan the week before, everything would die down some and Lindsay would stop worrying about Cross.

Instead, Lindsay had pushed for them to make renewed efforts to find the missing documents. They had to be somewhere. He was relentless. “I want no loose ends. I didn’t tolerate them when I was at the agency, and I’m not about to start now,” he said. “Go back and retrace your steps. You missed Landy Stephens’s name on Jamie Jones’s refrigerator, so you probably missed something else. So go back. I want those documents found. You have complete freedom to do what you need to, spend what you need to spend, but find those documents.”

So they spent the week looking, everywhere. They had made late-night raids on both the Jones and Daniels places yet again. It was worthless, Alt thought. This was the fifth time through. But the boss ordered it, so they did it. Different people at each location, and they found nothing. And these were people with experience finding items that were never intended to be found. Not a hint of the documents at either place.

They tapped into the systems at Fed Ex, UPS, Overnight Express, and any other package delivery service they could think of, to see if Jones had sent the documents to someone other than Daniels. They checked local delivery services to see what had been delivered to Daniels at her home address. Nothing.

They searched everywhere at the PTA building in St. Paul and at the various company manufacturing facilities in the area. Perhaps Jones thought they would never look under their own noses. Nothing. They tore her office apart. Nothing. Tore her assistant’s office apart. Nothing. They tore all of accounting apart. Nothing.

Through the use of her PDA and computer calendar, they tried retracing Jones’s steps during her last few weeks. Any restaurant she went to. Any place where she shopped. Any people she saw. They searched three of her friends’ homes. Nothing.

She was a member at the University Club, where she had a locker. Nothing.

They searched her mother’s place again and delivery records for her. They hacked into her mother’s bank records to see if she had been to Jones’s safe deposit box at any time in the last few months. Nothing.

They did the same thing with Daniels. They went through her place again, through every closet, every set of drawers, computer, files, office, basement, kitchen, built-in cabinets, car, everything. Nothing.

They searched Daniels’s mother’s place again. They checked her mother’s bank records, no trips to a safe deposit box. No deliveries of any kind. Nothing.

In a new twist, they went through Senator Johnson’s St. Paul residence, office, car, and even the cabin. Nothing.

They were back searching at Channel 6. Alt was certain the documents weren’t there. But the boss wanted someone there every night until the documents were found.

One solution that had been implemented was that they had very carefully arranged through a sea of paperwork to purchase both Jones’s and Daniels’s places. They would take possession of both after the first of the year. If the documents were still there, they’d be found because every wall in either place was coming out. Maybe they should be x-raying the walls. That was a thought. Alt would evaluate that one tomorrow.

He reached into the fridge and grabbed a cold beer and thought of McRyan. He’d gone back to regular police work. Alt had stopped following him, especially after he’d made a less-than-subtle remark about being followed.

His group continued to monitor McRyan’s and Kennedy’s places. Nary a word about Cross. McRyan had scared them. But the investigation, if that’s what one would call it, had been shut down. Surveillance since then revealed McRyan and Kennedy were going to take a vacation together. Alt was about ready to shut that part of the operation down altogether.

Alt strolled to the den, dug around in the dark, found the remote, and turned on the television. He dropped into his easy chair, flipped off his shoes and sipped his beer. He surfed through the channels until he found Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. He wasn’t a big movie guy but he always liked the Jones flicks. The movies reminded him of going to the movies as a kid, the good versus evil storylines, the heroes, a simpler time. He’d seen this Jones movie a hundred times, which was the case these days, all the cable channels running movies into the ground.

He turned to it just before one of his favorite parts, where Indy is in the old library in Venice, uses his dad’s Holy Grail diary, discovers the sequence of roman numerals in the library, and the entrance to the Knight’s Tomb, which is in the large Roman numeral X on the floor, and Indy says, with a sheepish smile, “X marks the spot.” This was, of course, after he previously said to his archeology class, “and X never marks the spot.”

“That’s it,” he thought. The original Cross documents are buried in a hole somewhere. They just had to find the treasure map and where X marked the spot.

• • • • •

Mac grabbed four turtlenecks out of his dresser drawer and threw them into his suitcase. He already packed fleece tops, long johns, socks, jeans, shoes, and his toiletries. His skis, boots, poles, coat, gloves, and goggles were laid out in the living room. He had two ski coats, plus his leather coat he liked to drive in, laid out on the couch. He shook his head—too much stuff. He always over packed when he traveled. Never a Boy Scout, he followed the motto anyway, “Be Prepared.” He had everything he needed for a long weekend, and he needed a long weekend away.

Since the showdown at PTA fizzled, Mac was a grump. He never took losing well. He always thought Lombardi had it right, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.” He lost. He didn’t like it.

The case gnawed at him, and he’d decided it wasn’t just because he lost, but because PTA got away with it. Because of jobs, money, reasonable doubt, and politics, a deal had been struck. The chief and the rest of them were pissed about it, sure. They knew PTA got away with something, but they could all rationalize it, live with it, move on from it. They’d all seen it a hundred times before and would see it a hundred times again. “God damn it, Mac, look at O.J.,” Lich said one night at the Pub, “he was guiltier than my first wife, but now he’s hunting for Nicole’s killer on every golf course in America. It’s over, OVER, deal with it. Now pass the beer nuts.”

Mac understood the deal; he just couldn’t rationalize it like everyone else. Maybe he wasn’t cynical enough or, on the other hand, maybe too idealistic? In his view of the world there was right and wrong, and there was justice. In his mind, the pursuit of justice didn’t include calculating bank balances, economic impact, or political power. No, for the victims, the dead, justice must come for them, no matter the cost. The deal that was struck with PTA was the antithesis of that.

So the bitterness sat with him, percolated inside him, depressed him. Two women and a sitting US senator were dead and the guilty parties were simply going to walk away just like that. And the worst part about it was that Mac still felt like he’d missed something. That there was still something out there to be found. Daniels, Jones, their homes, the senator—all of it kept rattling around in his attic, nonstop, pestering him, like a fly that would hover around his head and wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he swatted at it.

That he couldn’t put the case out of his mind was not lost on people. The sour mood, lack of concentration, sullen expression all told the story. So Sally and the chief intervened, and now he was packing for a ski vacation up in Lutsen, Minnesota’s finest ski resort. At first Mac wasn’t sure he wanted to go, but then Sally told him about the place, which belonged to a friend of hers. Isolated and private. Ski in and ski out. Fireplace. Satellite television so they could watch the Vikes game Sunday night. A hot tub. A lofted bedroom with panoramic views of the ski resort on one side and Lake Superior on the other. It was all good. Mac’s mood started changing, and he was looking forward to getting away. A little trip away seemed like a good next step for them.

With everything loaded in the Explorer, he drove over to Sally’s place. Realizing he needed to get cash and gas, he stopped at the Super America. He jumped out and put the nozzle in and set it to pump itself and enjoyed the mild winter night. The temps up in Lutsen, five hours to the north, would be in the twenties for skiing. Great weather. Mac heard the nozzle pop, took it out, and headed inside.

He got his cash, grabbed a bottle of water and went to the cashier. As he paid, he noticed the security television, showing all the pumps, and thought of Knapp. That had been a lucky strike, noticing that camera, he thought. It was always those little things that broke cases. The security camera could have easily been missed, and they might still be looking for Knapp. Instead, he noticed it, and Knapp was history.

Knapp and the surveillance camera got him back to thinking about PTA. He’d missed something on that case, he just couldn’t figure out what. There was an overlooked detail somewhere. Mac hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, lest people think he was obsessing, which of course he was. But he thought about the case morning, noon, and night. Enough already, Mac. Let it go! he said to himself as he climbed into the Explorer and drove to Sally’s.

They stayed up until 10:00 p.m. and then went to bed. Mac lay in the dark room, spooning against Sally, her body warm. Mac never had been one for going to bed early. Carefully reaching over Sally, he grabbed the remote off her nightstand and powered up the TV. He liked spending time at Sally’s place because she had full cable, plus some premium channels. She was a big sports fan and liked movies as much as he did. Flipping through the channels, he caught the end of Ocean’s Eleven. A fun movie, the actors all looked like they had a good time making it.

Mac flipped around some more. He caught a late edition of SportsCenter, catching some Timberwolves highlights. While not a huge hoops fan, he followed the hometown club. They’d won, beating the Bulls.

Mac tried some more channels and came to Indiana Jones. He loved Indy and once dressed up as him for Halloween, with the fedora, leather coat, whip, the whole nine yards. Indy and Marcus were in the library, looking at the roman numerals. Mac smiled, he loved this part.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Who are you?”

Alt awoke stiff and sore. He’d fallen asleep in his easy chair and had overslept. He wanted to be into the office by 8:30 a.m. That was the time he woke up. A hurried shower, shave, and change of clothes put him downtown by 9:15 a.m.

He walked into the operations center, and Bouchard and Hennessey were waiting for him. Alt saw it immediately—they were agitated. “What’s up?”

“At the front desk at Channel 6 we found a log book, the receptionist completes it. We missed it the other times we were in,” Hennessey said.

“How?”

“It’s usually in a locked cabinet. For some reason, it was left out last night.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It records packages dropped off and for whom. There’s one for a CD, October 26th, a large package from an outfit called Flash Local Delivery. Note indicated it was a large box. The signature looks like Daniels’s.”

“Have we checked this Flash whatever’s records?”

“Hagen’s giving it a shot right now,” Bouchard responded and led them to the computer whiz.

“What did you get?” Alt asked.

Hagen looked up at them through pop-bottle glasses, “They don’t have any sort of system that I can crack into. They don’t exist in cyberspace.” If Hagen couldn’t crack them, they didn’t have a system, or at least one that was tapped into the outside world.

“Where are they located?”

“Over in South Minneapolis. Address puts them in a residential neighborhood.”

Alt thought quickly, and then said to Hansen and Hennessey, “Take the big van. You might need some tools. We have to know if that’s our package.”

• • • • •

Mac slept soundly, well after his normal waking time. He rolled over to find Sally standing at the end of the bed, dressed, with wet hair. “You makin’ breakfast, big boy?”

Mac smiled, “After a shower.” A quick shower, some jeans, and a black mock turtleneck, and Mac was downstairs firing up the coffee and mixing some quick eggs. The TV was on, and he had it on the Golf Channel of all things as Sally walked into the kitchen, her hair now dry and styled. She looked like a million bucks in blue jeans and a white turtleneck with her shoulder-length red hair. She walked over and gave him a warm kiss, and looked at what he was mixing. “Scrambled eggs, yummy. Did you find the cheese and ham?”

“All ready shredded and chopped,” he replied, pointing to the center island.

“Looks great.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table to watch TV. “What’s with the Golf Channel?”

“I like it. This is one of those segments where the pro teaches an amateur. I learn a few things watching these.”

“I understand, but we’re going skiing.”

“This isn’t Colorado. We don’t have a ski channel. Besides, you like golf. You might learn something.”

Sally watched as the golf professional showed video of the amateur’s golf swing at a driving range. Then they cut back to the studio where the pro, amateur, and host were standing on some fake grass with a net, ready to do some sort of live demonstration. The host asked the softball question about the value of video. The pro responded, “There isn’t anything you can’t improve through the use of video.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sally said.

“What’s that?” Mac asked.

“Pro says there isn’t anything that can’t be improved by video.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I mean, video tells you everything,” Sally said. “Don’t you remember in law school, when they videoed us making oral arguments?”

“Vaguely,” Mac said as he poured the eggs into the pan, adding the ham and cheese.

“I sure do. I learned a ton about myself watching that. I keep some of those lessons with me today.”

“I know what you’re saying. I remember in college we watched tons of video of our games and of the opposing teams. Learned a ton about myself, picked up tendencies of the other side. So, yeah it helps,” he replied. “You know who else was a fanatic about video?”

“Who?”

“Claire Daniels,” Mac said as he moved the scrambled eggs around the pan.

Sally shot him a disapproving look. “Aren’t we done with that, yet?”

“I’m just saying. When we went through her place, she had DVD copies of all of her reporting, videos of herself working out and playing golf, just like this guy on TV. She was anal about it. I remember the sports guy at Channel 6 saying she was a total perfectionist, super hard on herself, vain in that respect. She critiqued every report she did. It’s why she was so good, I guess.”

“I imagine so,” Sally said. “We’re not going to talk about that case all weekend are we?”

“No. I promise.”

• • • • •

Flash Local Delivery was located in a residential neighborhood on Oakland Avenue in South Minneapolis. Quick research by Hagen found it had been incorporated six months earlier by an Everett Flash, hence the business name. A Yellow Page ad indicated same-day delivery, personal pickup, and confidential service with a personal touch. No kidding, it was being run out of the guy’s house. Hansen and Hennessey found Flash working in an office on the side of a detached garage. As they went in the door, Flash was on the phone, writing down some notes on a legal pad. A laptop was plugged into the wall, no phone line. No wonder Hagen couldn’t get in.

Flash hung up and asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We want to see if you remember a package you picked up on October 26th and delivered to Channel 6,” Hansen said.

“Did you send it?”

“No, a friend of ours did.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I could help your friend,” Flash answered, “but I can’t tell you anything about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hennessey replied, “but our friend was killed shortly after she sent the package. We’re trying to track some things down. It would really help if you could provide us with some information.”

“I protect the confidentiality of my clients,” Flash replied.

“Well,” a menacing look overtaking Hennessey’s six-foot-three-inch frame, “we would appreciate your cooperation on a voluntary basis. But I assure you, cooperation we will get.”

Flash gave Hennessey a look, and then one over to Hansen, equally big, who could give an intimidating look with the best of them. Flash was going to give them what they were looking for, whether he liked it or not. “So, you say your friend was killed?” Flash replied, having sized up the situation.

“That’s right,” Hennessey replied.

“Well, in that case, I guess they can’t complain, can they?”

“No, they can’t,” Hansen replied, relaxed now, a pleasant grin replacing the menacing look.

Flash started through his records.

• • • • •

Mac and Sally jumped into the Explorer to start towards Lutsen. He turned onto Grand Avenue and drove east towards Snelling, where he would take a left and get to Interstate 35 to head up north. It was 10:00 a.m. and they would get to Lutsen by 5:00 p.m., with a few pit stops and lunch figured in. Sally was talking on Mac’s cell phone, checking in with work. She hung up and handed it back, “Thanks.”

“What was that all about?”

“Oh, they have a new copier at work that does scanning now.”

“Scanning?”

“Yeah, it’s like a copier, except it scans the document into the system and saves it as a Word document. All part of an attempt to become a paperless office, which will be virtually impossible. However, it’ll allow me to put some documents on CDs to bring home and work on—”

“Wait a minute! Scanning? Could you scan the documents onto a disc, you know, a CD?”

“Sure.”

“The discs, now you would copy onto say a CD right?”

“Most likely.”

“And the CD, those disks also look a lot like a DVD right?”

“Yeah. Mac, why are you suddenly so interested in this?”

“I wonder,” Mac mused, intrigued.

“Wonder what?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he mumbled, thinking.

“What?”

“Something you said just triggered something in my mind.”

“Which was what?”

“Something I saw when we were at PTA last week?”

“Which is?”

“They had a scanner like you were talking about in this copy room Pat and I were in.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sally replied. “But what is this triggering thing?”

“You mentioned putting documents on CDs, right?”

“Sure, so I could take work home.”

“Daniels had a bunch of CDs and DVDs we never really looked at.”

“Fine. But I don’t see where you’re—”

“Going with this?” Mac finished. “It’s probably nothing. But we never looked at these CDs and DVDs because the station gave us every report she ever made. But now I’m wondering if Jones could have scanned the documents Stephens gave her onto a CD and given that to Daniels. I never thought of it until now. Maybe there’s something on those CDs and DVDs Daniels has.”

“But I thought you reviewed those Cross documents that Lindsay gave you guys last week.”

“We did,” Mac said, shaking his head. “But those documents were bullshit. They said this Cross place was an explosives factory with some warehouse where they destroyed surplus arms and weapons. They shut the place down in October ‘01. But what I think really happened was they got to Landy Stephens, and she told them what she told us. Banker’s box full of documents, with a ledger book. So, they trot out this banker’s box and ledger book, and we go home with our tails between our legs. But we have no real way of knowing those documents were real.”

“But Mac, you guys never found the documents either, in all that searching you did.”

“That’s true,” Mac replied, “but maybe we were looking for the wrong thing. Perhaps the documents were put onto a CD or DVD or something.”

“Of course, to check this out, you would have to go ask the chief.”

They sat in silence for thirty seconds. Mac skipped the turn onto Snelling to get to the freeway and cocked an eyebrow, “Maybe I don’t.”

“Huh?”

“I still have a key.”

“To Daniels’s place?” Sally replied in disbelief.

“Yup,” Mac replied smiling.

“How?”

“Never turned it in,” Mac answered. “Sooo … the chief doesn’t need to know.”

“Then let’s go,” Sally quickly replied, smiling.

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s probably nothing to this. But I know that if we don’t go look now, you’ll just be distracted all weekend.”

“Probably.”

“Well,” Sally said, smiling seductively, “I don’t want you distracted. I want your focus on me. Completely on me. I’ll have that once we don’t find anything.”

Mac turned left onto St. Albans and pulled up in front of the condo. He hopped out and fished his laptop out of the back compartment. The whole thing was a long shot, but for his own sanity, he wanted to check it out.

They made their way up to the second level. Mac set his laptop down on Daniels’s desk and picked the first CD out of the tower. Sally started walking in the DVDs from the cabinet in the sitting room across the hall.

• • • • •

Flash found the record. “I remember this one now.”

“How come?” Hansen asked, fearful of the answer.

“Big order, and I was dropping it off at Channel 6. It was a banker’s box, heavy. She wanted it boxed up, wrapped and delivered same day. Which we do all the time.”

So, Daniels had it. But where? Hansen stepped outside and placed a call to Alt.

• • • • •

“Is this the last one?” Mac asked disappointedly.

“Yup,” Sally replied.

Mac shook his head, the disappointment obvious. He hit file, open, and tried to open the last disk as a document. Nothing. He moved it to the DVD drive, opened it up and it was a recent news report from in front of the Minnesota State Capitol. “Shit,” he said quietly under his breath, lightly shaking his head.

Mac sat with his hands in his face. The whole thing had been a wild goose chase. He looked up to find Sally so he could apologize. She was in the other room, flipping through the movie DVDs. She pulled one out and was looking at it. It wasn’t like the others, colored, with movie graphics. It was blank. “What you lookin’ at?” Mac asked.

“Just looking through the movie cases here and ran across this one inside the Basic Instinct box. It’s blank on the front, which is odd.”

“Let me take a look.” She handed it to him. Looked like all the other CD and DVD disks he’d been looking at. He handed it back to her.

“What? You’re not going to look?”

“Are you trying to add insult to injury here?”

“No, asshole, I’m trying to help. It seems odd this blank-fronted one is in this case. Check it out.”

Mac sighed, “Okay.” He opened the CD drive, popped it in. He hit file and tried to open it as a Word document. The operation failed. He clicked to video. He figured it was just another movie or news report. It wasn’t.

“What the heck?” Sally said, peering over Mac’s shoulder.

The video was of a man and woman having sex. The woman was on top and leaning into the male, who was obscured due to the high angle of the camera. The woman looked to be Claire Daniels. “What? Daniels liked videotaping herself having sex?” Sally said.

“I guess,” Mac replied. He looked at the date in the lower right hand corner: 10.29. He then looked up, and the video showed the woman leaning up and arching her back now. It definitely was Claire Daniels, and the male was now identifiable. Mason Johnson. They were on Daniels’s bed, and the camera was looking down on the right side.

“What was Daniels doing with this?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know,” Mac replied, getting up and walking to the bedroom, leaving the video to play.

“I mean, I can’t believe the senator would allow her to do this. Was he that stupid?”

“I don’t think he knew,” Mac yelled from the bedroom.

Sally left the video and followed him, “What do you mean, he didn’t know? How could he not know?”

“I mean, I don’t think she asked his permission.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The camera angle on the video.”

“What about it?”

Mac was looking at the dresser now, “It’s too steep to have been sitting on the dresser here or on a tripod or anything. It’s almost as if it’s an overhead shot.”

“But from where then?”

Mac surveyed the ceiling above the right side of the bed. All he saw was a smoke detector. Then he looked further to his right and saw another detector in the ceiling just over the French doors leading into the bedroom. Now that was odd. “Can you tell me why someone would need two smoke detectors in one room?” Mac asked rhetorically as he grabbed a sitting chair and placed it under the detector to the right of the bed. He climbed onto the chair and pushed the button to check if the detector worked. Nothing. He pushed it again, no response. Hmpf. He put both hands up to it and started to twist it. It was like all other smoke detectors, hard to remove, but then he heard a hard click and it pulled free and there it was. “Lookey here,” Mac said, as he pulled on a cord, with a glass piece on the end.

“What’s that?” Sally asked, moving near Mac.

“A camera, I’d say,” Mac replied. “Before we go any further, I’m going to make a call.”

“To who? For what?”

“Backup. In case we find anything.” Mac placed a discreet call. Paddy was on patrol in the neighborhood and would know to keep the whole thing quiet if nothing panned out.

“What do you think all this proves?” Sally asked while they waited.

“Nothing yet, but …?”

“But what?”

“We never found any equipment like this when we were searching the place the other times.”

“So?”

“It’s concealed somewhere we didn’t know about. What else is in there besides the equipment?”

Sally shrugged her shoulders. Five minutes later, Paddy showed up with his partner, Mike Remington. Mac gave them a quick rundown.

“So, what ya going to do, cuz?” Paddy asked.

“Let’s find out where this camera leads too,” Mac replied as he pulled the chair into the closet and underneath the hatch to the crawl space in the ceiling. “Paddy, you might have to give me a boost.” Putting his right foot into Paddy’s cupped hands, he was pushed up into the attic. Mac called down, “Hand me your flashlight. And your gloves, I don’t want to touch the insulation.”

Paddy handed both items up. Mac pointed the flashlight towards where he thought the smoke detector was. He carefully walked on the joists and saw the black cabling for the camera, probably six or seven feet away. The cable had been run along a joist to a support post ten feet away, up the support post to the roof and then away from Mac and over towards what he thought was the hallway and perhaps the bathroom. He maneuvered his way over to where the cable came back down and went back into the ceiling, buried under the insulation. Pulling the insulation back, he pointed the flashlight down at the hole where the cabling went through, but he couldn’t see anything. He looked back to the opening to the attic. It was at a forty-five degree angle away from him. Carefully, he walked back across the joists to the opening and jumped down.

“What did you find?” Sally asked.

“It leads back that way.” Mac pointed in a forty-five degree angle to the hallway, towards the bathroom. Inside the bathroom Mac stood scratching his head. The bathroom was long and narrow. The vanity and toilet were along the left side, but that was the wrong angle he thought. To the right were the bathtub and a small narrow towel cabinet, which contained nothing but towels. He walked back into the hallway where there was a narrow built in wood buffet, which had shelving on the top, a middle drawer and a cabinet on the bottom. The cabinet held some extra towels and nothing else. The shelves had books, a picture, and a wood Roman numeral X. Hmpf. “Has to be right in this area,” Mac said.

Mac walked back into the bathroom and looked at the tub. Then he looked back to the hall. He paced the length of the bathroom off, which was five yards or fifteen feet. The bathtub was six feet. The towel cabinet was maybe another foot. That was seven feet, where were the other eight? He went to the hall and looked at the built-in cabinet, it was maybe a foot deep. Looking around the edges of the built in, he noticed a small gap between the molding and the cabinet. “I wonder,” he said out loud.

“Wonder what?” Sally asked.

A smile creased Mac’s face. “Paddy, where have you seen a built-in buffet like this?”

“I don’t know, cuz.”

“If there was a plaque here on the right side, then would you recognize it?”

Paddy studied the buffet for a minute then also smiled, “In the basement at the Pub.”

“Yeah and down there it’s—”

“—the door to Patrick’s Room,” Paddy finished.

Mac opened the middle drawer and reached under the lip. He felt with his hand, and he hit it, a small metal latch. He pulled on it and heard a click and felt the cabinet push in.

“What the hell, a secret room?” Sally asked.

Mac shook his head, smiling. “Kind of. People had these types of built-ins put in during Prohibition—a good place to hide booze. You’ve seen the one down at the Pub. It leads into Patrick’s Room down there.”

Pushing the cabinet in, Mac saw two things: a small television with a DVD recorder and a banker’s box with Cross handwritten on the side, resting on the floor. “I guess X does mark the spot,” he said as he walked into the hidden room and pulled rubber gloves onto his hands. Mac flipped the top off the box and started looking through the documents. Having studied what Lindsay had given them a week earlier, he immediately recognized that these documents were different. There was a ledger book, which he flipped open. There were entries with names and dollar amounts handwritten in red and black ink. He started running down the names with his finger when Sally spoke up.

“Mac, take a look at this.”

Mac stood up and went to the shelf where the television and DVD recorder sat. There was also a rack of DVDs with just dates on them. He went to it and hit the open/close button. There was a DVD inside.

“Paddy and Mike, start writing all this down.”

Mac looked at the DVD and then at the rack, and the generic DVD cases all had sporadic dates on them going back what looked like a couple years. There was one unlabeled DVD case, which was empty. He looked back to the one in the machine. Seeing a remote, Mac picked it up and pushed play. He turned on the little television.

The video starts and the view is from the right side of the bed. Daniels and the senator come into view on the left-hand side of the screen, embracing one another, kissing and undressing. There must be some switch that she hit to start it. They fell onto the bed. The video and sound were clear.

“Look at the date?” Sally said.

“Holy shit, October 31st.” Mac grabbed the remote and did what most men in this situation wouldn’t do, he advanced the video forward. When it stopped, they were to the point in time where the senator had his back to the camera, now clothed, working his tie. Daniels was lying on the bed, naked, smiling and talking. It lasted for a few minutes, some casual talk. Then, finally dressed, the senator leaned down, kissed her, and walked out of the room. Daniels rolled over and had her back to the camera, the nightstand light still on. She lay still, looking as if she had fallen asleep.

Then he came from the left, a black streak. He was dressed in all black, a ski mask over his head. He jumped on the bed and was on top of her in an instant, strangling her.

“Oh, my God,” Sally croaked, putting her hands to her own throat.

Daniels flailed away at the killer, hitting him in the face, the arms, kicking with her legs, but he was too strong, never releasing the grip. After a minute, the flailing slowed down, less strong, the life slowly leaking out of her body. Finally, the arms slowly fell down to the bed, and Daniels was gone. The man in black checked her pulse, nothing.

“Who are you?” Mac uttered in a hushed voice, putting his face close to the screen.

The man in black got off her and stood on the far side of the bed and rubbed his jaw through the mask. Then he took off his gloves and pulled the mask from over his head.

“I fuckin’ knew it!” Mac yelled.

“You know who that is?” Sally asked.

“Yeah. Webb Alt.”

“Who’s he?”

“Vice president of Security at PT fuckin’ A. I knew it. I knew it!” Mac yelled, a wave of satisfaction rushing over him.

He pulled his cell phone out and started dialing, and looked over to Paddy, “You guys get all this down. You’re key witnesses now.” They both nodded, furiously scribbling into their notebooks. The chief’s secretary answered, “This is McRyan. I need to speak to the chief.”

“Mac, he’s in a meeting, I can take a message.”

“Charlene, put me through on this. When I tell him what I have, he won’t care.”

He waited and then a minute later Flanagan got on the line, agitated, “Mac, what the hell.”

“Chief, we got ‘em.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Let’s roll.”

Alt took the elevator up to the top. At least they knew who had had the documents, Daniels. Taking her out had been the right thing. However, the question was: what did she do with them? They’d been through her place a number of times and hadn’t found anything. They would be going back again.

He got off the elevator and walked right in and told Lindsay what they found.

“How did we miss it at the station?” was his first question.

“The log book was in a locked cabinet, sir. Last night it was lying out, and they were able to get a look at it. In fairness to those guys, I ordered them to spend their time looking around her work area and where the station stored documents and not the receptionist area. It wasn’t until this week that we started looking at delivery companies. That triggered them to take a closer look up front, where a delivery of this nature would come.” He didn’t have a better answer than that.

“So, what are we doing now?”

“I’m sending Hansen and Hennessey over to Daniels’s place now. I’d prefer to wait until it’s dark to send them back in. There is a lot of traffic in the area. They’ll sit tight until I give them the go ahead.”

“What about moving up our possession of the condo?”

“Already working on it. I’ve told the real estate guy to do whatever needs to be done.”

“If nothing else, have him get us in there today for another look around.”

“Absolutely.”

“Where else could she have put those documents?” Lindsay asked. He knew they had looked high and low for them.

“I don’t know. There’s some place out there we’re not aware of. However, we know now that it was Daniels who has them. So, now we focus on her completely.”

“What about the delivery source?”

“We’ll take care of him later.”

• • • • •

Mac followed Paddy in the squad in front, with another behind them, lights flashing, as they headed downtown. The box and DVD player were in the backseat.

As Mac drove, Sally was looking through the ledger book from the box. “Mac, these guys were up to something with this Cross place.”

“What are you seeing?”

“Huge money going to a lot of people. Stephens, the guy from the video Alt, someone named Bouchard, a Hennessey, Hansen, Kraft, Thompson, Skogman, probably about twenty in all. The biggest money goes to someone who’s only marking is an X.”

“What kind of money?”

“Millions, Mac. Millions.”

“Whatever they were doing, Stephens was keeping the records. He was the money man, after all. Stephens dies in the accident. The records are up at the cabin. He dies, Ms. Stephens finds the box and gives it to Jones. She looks through it and realizes what’s been going on. She does two things. She likely confronts Lindsay with it, and she also talks to Daniels. PTA figures this out and takes them both out.”

“Why take out the senator?” Sally asked.

“Because if he walks, we might look elsewhere. If it looks like he commits suicide, nobody ever bothers looking. And I’m thinking they took out Knapp too.”

“Why would they do that, Mac?”

“He wouldn’t confess to killing Jones, because he didn’t. Again, if he’s dead, everyone assumes he killed Jones, and nobody goes looking.”

“And even if anyone does, you could never charge them. No hope of a conviction because they had all kinds of reasonable doubt.”

“‘Had,’ Counselor. They don’t now.”

“Let me use your cell. I have to call Helen. She’s going to love this.”

“More headlines for her.”

Sally made the call and informed Helen to just get over to the chief’s office, and she’d tell her more there. She handed the phone back to Mac.

“Boy, we sure ended up taking a circuitous route to find this stuff, didn’t we?” Mac said, a Cheshire cat smile on his face. “We go looking for documents scanned onto a CD, and we come away with the actual documents and the video to boot.”

“Unbelievable. Amazing. I mean, I don’t know what else to say,” Sally replied, a huge smile on her face. Mac was definitely out of the doghouse.

“What’s amazing to me is to find the video,” Mac said, as they came over Cathedral Hill and drove towards downtown. “I wasn’t counting on that.”

“I agree,” Sally said. “Women usually don’t do that sort of thing.”

“That’s true,” Mac replied. “But I could have seen it.”

“How? How could you have possibly seen that?”

“She had tapes and DVDs of all of her work, workouts, golf swing, all this different stuff. She was a perfectionist at everything. It’s not that much of a leap that she wanted to be a perfectionist when it came to sex. I could have seen that. I could have looked for that. She had all these racy videos with some of the hottest sex scenes. She made a sex tape with a boyfriend in college. I could have connected it. I should have connected it, but I didn’t.”

“Geez. Don’t beat yourself up over that,” Sally said, still shaking her head in amazement. “That would be a big, intuitive leap.”

“I remember Joe Elliott, at Channel 6,” Mac said, recalling the conversation now. “He’d hooked up with Daniels when she first got to town. He said at the time that she was amazing in the rack. I think he said it was as if she was ‘perfect’ at sex. Now we know why.”

“To have it taping that night …”

“Yeah, lucky for us on that one. The chief said we only catch them when they make mistakes. They finally made one.”

• • • • •

Hansen and Hennessey pulled into the Mardi Gras parking lot and saw the commotion.

“This can’t be good,” Hennessey said.

“How many squads you think?”

“Four or five, plus a few Crown Vics.”

A crowd started to develop, and crime scene tape had been put out to keep them back. They got out of the van and walked over to the crowd. It was clear the police were inside Daniels’s place.

“Tell me if you see McRyan anywhere,” Hansen asked.

They looked for five minutes and didn’t see McRyan or any of the other cops he’d been running around with. Odd.

They shared a look and walked back to the van. Hansen placed a call.

• • • • •

Mac pulled into the parking garage and a spot near the door. Riley, Rock, Lich, and Captain Peters were all waiting as they pulled in. Mac had a big shit-eating grin on his face.

“What the hell did you find?” Riles asked.

“PTA did it, Pat. They killed Daniels, which means they killed Jones, and we got a different set of Cross documents,” he replied, pointing over to Sally who was holding the banker’s box.

Everyone grabbed something from the Explorer, and they rushed to a waiting elevator and up to the chief’s office. A television was wheeled in. Mac quickly hooked up the DVD player and started the video. The chief, Captain Peters, Riley, Rockford, Lich, a few other high-ranking officers, and Helen Anderson quietly watched as Daniels’s bedroom came into focus.

The room was dead quiet as they watched the senator getting dressed. “Look at the time in the upper right hand corner,” Mac said. It showed 1:16 a.m.

At 1:31, the senator kisses Daniels and leaves the bedroom. She rolls over and starts to fall asleep.

At 1:37, Alt attacks. Not a sound is made in the room as he strangles Daniels. Once she’s dead, the killer rolls off the bed and pulls off his mask.

“Look familiar, Pat?”

Riles snorted. “Amazing,” was all he could say.

“This is unbelievable,” croaked Helen Anderson.

“It is at that, but I’ll be damned, Mac, you were right all along,” Flanagan said.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Mac asked.

“Get me warrants for Ted Lindsay and Webb Alt for starters,” the chief ordered. “Helen and Sally, help them out on that.”

“We’re on it,” Anderson said.

“Are we going to take them at the PTA building?” Riley asked.

“Yes. These guys could run at the drop of a hat. We need to move quickly. Marion, get the Critical Incident Response Team ready,” the chief commanded. “These guys are pros. We want some heat of our own.”

• • • • •

Alt rushed back upstairs to Lindsay’s office. They may not have much time to move. The call from Hansen had been unnerving to say the least.

“What’s going on?” Lindsay asked urgently as Bouchard also walked in.

“Cops are all over Daniels’s place. We don’t know if there was a break-in or what. But there are four or five squad cars. A couple of unmarked squads and Crime Scene is there. The scene’s tight and secure, and cops ain’t talking. Hansen and Hennessey are there monitoring.”

Lindsay nodded and went to his desk and took out a cell phone. “Let’s see if I can find out what’s going on.”

• • • • •

The chief led the meeting. A CIRT commander was present. Mac, Lich, Riles, and Rock all put on vests and Windbreakers that said police on the back, their badges now hanging around their necks. Weapons bristled. A crude drawing of the PTA building lay in the middle of the conference table.

The plan was to secure the parking garage and the private elevator, as well as the front entrance. Officers would cover all four sides of the building. Alt and Lindsay would be pinned inside and have no choice. Mac wasn’t sure whether they’d throw down, but he didn’t want to take any chances. At this point, all they needed was the warrants to be finished, and they were ready to go. Besides everyone around the table, there were numerous other people in the room, talking on cell phones, getting things arranged.

Just then Sally came back into the room with the warrants and handed them to Mac, whispering softly in his ear, “Be careful.”

Mac nodded. Anderson came back in the room, a cell phone to her ear, followed by Sylvia Miller and Captain Peters, both hanging up their cell phones.

The chief spoke. “Mac, you and the boys will go in the front. You get to put the cuffs on Lindsay and Alt. CIRT Team 1 goes up with you guys. Team 2 will work to secure the garage. Everyone understand?” Everyone nodded. “Let’s roll.”

• • • • •

Lindsay hung up his cell phone.

“Where’s the chopper at?”

“Took two VPs up to Duluth,” Alt answered. “Why?”

“We need to get the hell out of here.”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re coming for us right now. They have the Cross documents, and they have you killing Daniels on video.”

Alt, stunned, was slow to follow Lindsay, who came back to grab his arm. “Let’s go.”

They got into the elevator and headed to the basement. Lindsay spoke, “Apparently Daniels liked to video herself having sex. There was a hidden camera in the room, and it was running the night you took her out. Think back. After you killed her, did you take your mask off?”

Alt nodded.

“Well, they have it on video. Plus they have the documents, which hangs all of us.”

“How did they find it?”

“McRyan found it. I don’t know how, but he did.”

Alt recovering now, thinking about getting away. “McRyan. I should have known.”

“I underestimated him, Webb. You didn’t, but I did. He’s coming for us.”

They hustled off the elevator. “Sir, we aren’t caught yet.”

Skogman and Thompson were waiting for them. They had a minivan running. Automatic weapons and rounds were loaded inside. They all jumped into the van, and Bouchard got behind the wheel.

They pulled up to the exit and took a left onto East Sixth Street, a one-way.

• • • • •

Mac, Riley, Lich, and Rock climbed into Mac’s Explorer and the two CIRT Teams followed. Mac was going to pull up in front of the main entrance to PTA, which was on the west side of the building along St. Peter Street. Team 1 would follow them. It would take Team 2 a few minutes to get to the garage as they had to drive all the way around the building on the one-way streets.

Mac crossed East Sixth and pulled in front of the building, his front left tire up on the curb. Team 1 was a half block behind, caught at a stoplight .”We should have had them running with lights,” Riles muttered. The police radio blurted that Team 2 was still three blocks away, caught up in traffic on Cedar Street.

“We’ll have to wait a minute,” Mac said.

• • • • •

Alt made the call immediately when they had turned left out of the parking garage. A CIRT truck was at the stoplight, and it was clear that the driver and man in the passenger seat saw them come out of the garage. They had no choice. Alt let his window down. Skogman behind him opened the sliding door. Thompson was doing the same, looking to the south.

Chapter Forty

“How did you know we were coming?”

The sound was unmistakable—automatic weapons fire. Mac saw it first, the black minivan, coming to the corner to the north on East Sixth. The side door was coming open, and he saw the barrel, “DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!”

Mac hit the pavement and rolled to the entryway of the PTA building. Shots flew over his head, causing glass to rain down over him. People were screaming. He looked quickly back to the Explorer. Lich was down low, hiding behind a cement holder for a garbage can. Riley had rolled to the front of the truck and had cover. Rock was down on the sidewalk, hit in the thigh, exposed.

Mac quickly got to his knees, leaned around the corner of the entryway, took a look at the background and returned fire, emptying his clip. Lich grabbed Rock and pulled him behind the garbage can.

The black minivan veered left, cutting in front of Mac and through a diagonal intersection, in front of the PTA building. Mac gave chase, running behind, firing at the van, shattering the rear window glass. The van turned right onto East Fifth. It was half a block to Washington Avenue. There was construction on the corner of East Fifth and Washington. The van could only go left when it hit the corner.

Mac burst across East Fifth and flew into Rice Park, popping another clip into his Glock. The van turned a hard left onto Washington, tires screeching. Fifty yards away, Mac fired at the side of the van, this time low, at the tires. Shots came from behind him to his right, Riley, firing high. They both connected. Mac got the front left tire, Riley spraying the driver’s side windows. The van veered hard right, across the sidewalk, crashing into the corner of a brick wall on the east side of the Convention Center.

With the van stopped, steam coming from the radiator, smoke from underneath, Mac and Riley cautiously moved through the park towards the vehicle, weapons still drawn. Then Mac saw it, someone was out of the passenger side, running. Alt.

“Check the van! Check the van!” Mac yelled while he took off after Alt, firing on the run.

• • • • •

Alt kept his head low in the front passenger seat, as the van was pelted from behind. They turned sharply left, and the glass on the driver’s side started shattering all over, shots flying over Alt’s head. He felt the left side of the van abruptly drop and then buck hard to his right. He looked up in time to see the van heading into the corner of a brick wall. The left side of the front of the van took the brunt of the impact, causing the van’s back end to buck slightly on impact. It threw him into the passenger side door and most of the airbag missed him when it deployed.

Alt looked to Bouchard, who was slumped over the wheel; a bullet hole through his head. The others in the back were bloody, probably dead. Looking out the driver’s side he saw McRyan and Riley slowly approaching from the east through the park.

He jumped out and ran west towards the northeast entrance to the Convention Center. Shots hit the sidewalk around him as he ran for the doors. Once inside, he had two options. Straight was a long hallway, angled upward towards the hockey arena. There were convention-goers walking along the way. Too open.

He turned left through another set of doors into the east end of the Convention Center. There was an escalator one hundred feet away that went up to the second level on the south side of the Convention Center. He had his assault rifle and two clips in his coat. Hitting the escalator running, he got to the top, stopped, and looked back.

• • • • •

Mac carefully approached the double doors, crouched, squinting inside, the tinted glass making it difficult to see. He didn’t see nor sense any movement and went in. He quickly scanned the hallway straight ahead. Nothing. Alt went left. As he turned left, the shots came. He dove to his left behind a wall, as glass, cement, and ceramic tile shards fell all around him. The shots stopped, and he heard screaming in the distance from Alt’s direction.

Mac pushed himself up and sprinted towards the escalator. He was up the first half of the escalator two steps at a time, and then crouched, peering over the right side as he approached the second level. Loud screaming was coming from the hallway to his right. As he came off the escalator and moved to his right, he saw Alt well down the hallway, convention goers screaming and running. Mac also drew screams when he rushed into the hallway with his weapon drawn. His “Police” vest and dangling badge were useless. Panic all around.

• • • • •

Alt missed McRyan when he came through the doors. He turned to his left and ran down the long, forty-foot-wide hallway between the meeting rooms. A few exhibitors were milling in the hallway while the convention sessions were taking place. They screamed as they saw a man running down the hall, brandishing an AK-47. He came to the open area at the west side of the hallway and heard screams behind him. He turned around and saw McRyan at the other end.

• • • • •

“Get Down! Get Down! Get Down!” Mac yelled when Alt spun around. Mac jerked a woman to the ground and ducked behind an exhibitor booth. The shots went high, shattering the Sheetrock of the walls above him, dust and debris cascading all around. The shooting stopped, and Mac rolled to his left, looked to the other end of the hallway, still seventy-five yards behind Alt. Alt was rushing away again. Mac pushed himself up and chased. Alt veered hard left, taking an escalator back down to the first level and the main Convention Center entrance on Kellogg Boulevard, fleeing outside.

Mac sprinted through the crowd to the escalator and frantically looked down. Alt was going out the doors. Mac quickly bolted to his right, where it was fifty feet to the indoor skyway that served as a bridge over Kellogg Boulevard to the Convention Center parking ramp on the other side. In the skyway, he could get on top of Alt, he thought, maybe surprise him on the other side. Down ten steps, he threw his shoulder through the door and turned left. He was on the skyway.

• • • • •

Alt didn’t stop to find out if he hit McRyan. He jumped onto the escalator to his left, took it down two steps at a time. At the bottom, he turned right and burst through the doors out onto Kellogg Boulevard and heard the sirens ringing out all over downtown.

This wasn’t much better.

He had to get out of sight and out of downtown. He needed a set of wheels. There was little traffic coming from the east, stopped from the commotion caused a few blocks away. As he quickly looked back to his right, he saw the stoplight turn green. A single car was coming his direction from the intersection of Kellogg and West Seventh.

• • • • •

Mac, running across the skyway, looked left and saw Alt rushing across Kellogg at a forty-five-degree angle away from him but only to go through the break in the median dividing the east-west lanes of Kellogg. Alt’s diversion allowed Mac to close the gap. Alt got through the gap in the barrier and then looked back in Mac’s direction, but not up at him—back up the street past him. Mac looked right and saw it.

• • • • •

Alt moved towards the car, the assault rifle pointed at the driver. The car stopped, and Alt stood right in front of it. “Get Out! Get Out!”

The driver, frightened, with his right arm in the air, began to open the door with his left hand, when Alt heard glass breaking above him. McRyan was at a hole in the skyway glass he’d just shot out. Alt unloaded the rest of his clip up at the skyway thirty feet above the street.

As he fired, the car pulled away. Alt turned to give chase, but Riley came around the corner of the Convention Center. The assassin quickly popped in a new clip and fired at Riley, who dove away. Alt quickly turned to his right and sprinted for the parking ramp.

• • • • •

Mac was down on the floor of the skyway, lying in a pool of glass. He’d gotten two rounds off before Alt fired. The shots had stopped. Mac got up on one knee and peered over the edge just in time to see Alt going through the doors and into the parking ramp.

Mac pushed up and scrambled twenty feet to the end of the skyway. He veered left and threw his shoulder through glass doors to a thirty-foot stairway. He jumped sideways onto the middle hand railing and slid down on his fanny. Took two strides through another set of doors into the parking ramp and saw Alt at the bottom of a runway, fifty feet away, turning to go further down into the ramp. Mac fired.

• • • • •

The shots sailed over Alt’s head as he turned to go lower. The assassin sprinted down, past the second-level elevator lobby, turning back east, hustling to the third parking level. He turned again, going down to the elevator landing between the third and fourth parking levels. Passing the elevators, he continued part way down the walking ramp to the fourth parking level and stopped.

• • • • •

Mac ran down the first runway and could hear the echoes of Alt running a level below him. Mac turned at the first parking level and ran down the ramp back west to the second elevator level, turned back east down the ramp and stopped about two thirds of the way down, looking directly right, into the third parking level and down the ramp and listened. He didn’t hear Alt running. He’d stopped.

Cautiously, Mac moved slowly down now, shuffling his feet sideways to the left, scanning the cars and trucks. He got to the bottom of the walking ramp and urgently scanned the lot again. He took a cautious step forward and his heart jumped as something broke to his right.

• • • • •

Alt heard McRyan coming down the ramp right above him and then heard him slow down. Now he didn’t hear anything. Alt calculated he was scanning the cars, thinking he’d gone into the parking ramp.

Gingerly edging his way back up towards the elevator lobby, Alt moved to improve his firing angle. He stepped back with his right foot, the rifle aimed up at the parking landing. As he stepped back, he could see more of the landing. He stepped back again and could see even more. As he stepped back once more, he saw McRyan’s hands and weapon pointed out towards the parked cars scanning the ramp. One more step back. He planted his right foot and heard glass crunch under his feet. He fired.

• • • • •

The bullets ripped at the loose right sleeve of Mac’s windbreaker as he dove back to his left, and the shots flew over his head. His service weapon was a popgun next to that damn assault rifle. The shots stopped, and he heard running again. Alt was going for the bottom. He had to be, it was the only way out.

Mac gave chase, hitting the third elevator level, and pausing briefly. He could still hear Alt running a whole level below him.

He kept after him, going back east to the fourth parking level and made the turn at a sprint back down to the last elevator landing. He turned to his right and stopped. In twenty feet he would be exposed coming down the last walking ramp. Alt was already in the cars, he thought, waiting in ambush for him.

Mac quickly assessed his options. The sirens were way in the distance, although it was hard to tell eighty feet below the main street level now. He looked at the last thirty feet of walking ramp. At the bottom on the right side of the cement half wall was a large square pillar. If he could reach the pillar at the bottom, he’d have cover. Mac stuffed the gun in his pants and crab-walked sideways down the walking ramp, staying below the top of the half wall.

At the bottom, Mac lay on his belly and pushed himself to the edge of the pillar and peeked around the corner.

• • • • •

Alt got down to the last level of the ramp and ran straight into the sea of cars and trucks. He needed to find something to hot wire. A white Chevy Impala was in the far row, near the exit for the ramp, the perfect car to boost. But McRyan was coming, and Alt had to take care of him first. He got to the third row of cars and ducked behind a Ford F-150 pickup with a camper top. The position left him a good angle at the walking ramp. McRyan had to come down, and he’d hit him when he did. He heard McRyan get to the last landing. Then the running stopped.

Alt trained the rifle at the walkway, waiting for McRyan to come. But he didn’t. The assassin edged out a little from the back of the truck, looking at the ramp, scanning from the pillar at the bottom, back up the walking ramp and then back down to the pillar. Where was he?

• • • • •

Mac saw the feet move, black dress shoes, next to a pickup truck with a camper top. He quietly pushed himself back and rolled to a sitting position. He set his gun in his hands and pushed himself up, his back against the pillar. He had more protection if he turned to his left, the half wall protecting his lower half, and he could duck behind it if need be. If he turned right, he would be totally exposed. He exhaled, turned to his left and fired.

The shots hit the camper top. Mac knew he missed, but he had position now and could wait him out. “Alt,” he called out, “there’s no way out of here.”

Sirens in the distance were louder now, zeroing in on their position. “The cavalry’ll be here any minute.”

• • • • •

Alt was trapped. McRyan knew it too and was calling out to him.

Then he heard it to his left, to the west, and he had new life. A hundred feet away a car pulled into the ramp.

Alt took off at a full sprint, his weapon up, pointed at the car, a hostage, and keys—a way out.

• • • • •

Mac saw it too and was out from behind the pillar, running at a full sprint, firing at Alt, missing wildly. He got off three shots before his clip ran out. He reached with his left hand into his back pocket and grabbed his last clip, looked down briefly, popped it back in and raised his gun again looking for Alt. The killer had stopped and was facing him. Mac dove away, but it was too late. He took a round in the left shoulder.

• • • • •

Alt knew he’d hit McRyan. He pivoted to run towards the woman again. Then to his right, another vehicle came down the spiral ramp, McRyan’s Explorer. Riley was in the passenger seat, a gun drawn, scanning the garage. Alt fired at the Explorer, causing it to swerve left and careen into a parked car. Then a shot came from the right. Alt pivoted back that way.

• • • • •

Mac pushed up with his right arm and fired. His first shot missed. As Alt turned back towards him, Mac’s second shot caught Alt in the left shoulder, jerking his body hard to the left. Mac took a step forward and fired twice more, double tap, into Alt’s chest, sending him flying backwards against the trunk of a parked car.

Mac moved quickly towards Alt, his gun pointed at him the entire time. The assassin was slumped back against the bumper of the car, blood oozing through his white dress shirt, the assault rifle lying by his feet.

With his gun still pointed, Mac approached Alt and kicked the rifle away. The blood was dark, coming from the area of the heart. The sirens in the background would not come soon enough for him. The assassin was still conscious, but his breathing was labored. His head was drooping, but his eyes were looking up at Mac.

• • • • •

The rifle was by his feet, but, while his mind told his arms to move, they wouldn’t. Looking down at his chest, he saw the blood flowing through his shirt. It was dark purple, from the heart. Alt could barely get his breath now. It wouldn’t be long.

The assassin looked up to see McRyan approaching him, gun pointed straight at him. He kicked the rifle away. “How did you know we were coming?” McRyan asked.

Alt smirked, beaten by some Irish flatfoot kid. McRyan asked again, louder, kicking the inside of his right leg, “How did you know we were coming?”

Alt was fading now, things started to blur.

• • • • •

“How did you know we were coming?” Mac shouted a third time, but there was no answer. Alt’s chest stopped heaving, his breathing gave out, and his head fell to the left, resting against the bumper on the car. Mac checked for a pulse. The assassin was dead.

Mac winced in pain. He’d been hit on the top of his left shoulder, where the vest provided little protection. You won’t be lifting weights any time soon, he thought, although it didn’t look too bad, a little blood; it was worse than a graze, more like he was just nicked good. Lich and Riley were walking gingerly toward him, weapons drawn, although there was no need now. He looked beyond them to see his shot up Explorer. Cripes, what a day.

They all walked towards the driver of the car Alt had intended to hijack. She was shaking and crying. Lich opened the back door to her car and helped her sit down. Officers were coming now from both the bottom and top of the ramp. He turned to his friends. They had just saved his life, and he thanked them. “Took you guys long enough.”

“Hey, better late than never, boyo,” Lich replied.

“Yeah, and nice driving too,” Mac replied as he walked to his now totaled SUV.

“Christ Almighty,” Riley hooted. “You save the guy’s life, and he bitches about his precious SUV.”

Mac smirked as he grabbed a turtleneck from the back compartment. Guess the trip up north was out of the question. As he fashioned a sling for his left arm, he reached into the front seat, moved the now deflated airbag from the steering wheel and grabbed his cell phone, wanting to call Sally. “Dick, could the airbag even deploy against your girth?”

“Fuck you,” Lich replied, rubbing his knee. They all shared a pained smile and small laugh. They’d survived.

“Tell you one thing that wasn’t a joke,” Mac said. “They knew we were coming. I tried to ask Alt how they knew, but …”

“Yeah, well we still may have someone who can tell us,” Riles responded.

“Guess who survived our little shootout?” Lich added.

“Who?” Mac asked.

Riley grinned, “Want another shot at Ted Lindsay?”

Chapter Forty-One

“I know who tipped them off.”

Mac was transported to United Hospital. His wound on the top of his left shoulder required thirteen stitches. He wouldn’t be able to use his arm for a week or two. The Emergency Room doctor told him to take it easy, keep his arm in a sling, and he wrote a prescription for pain medication and ordered him to start a physical therapy program in a week or so, once the wound had healed.

Rockford was going to be fine, although he would be laid up for a while. He was raging about the shootout. “Find the mother-fucker who tipped those assholes off,” he said at least a half dozen times.

Two CIRT officers were in surgery and would be for several hours. The doctors were hopeful, but they both had been hit hard. Several others had been wounded, and the ER was a busy place. Having seen all of his fellow officers lying around with multiple wounds, Mac didn’t feel too bad about his little hit to the shoulder.

Paddy offered them a ride back to the Department of Public Safety Building. As they walked to Paddy’s cruiser, Mac pulled out his cell phone, and cleared the last call, the one Sally had made while they were driving downtown a few hours earlier. She answered on the first ring. She was calm on the other end, but Mac could hear the relief in her voice.

“You won’t believe what we have been finding!” she said excitedly.

“What?”

“I’ll show you when you get here. But one thing I will tell you is that those guys at PTA had electronic surveillance on both your place and mine.”

“What? You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.”

Mac was pissed again. Well, the boys at PTA wouldn’t be bugging any more places. Mac was sure of that. They pulled into the parking garage and the chief and Peters were waiting for them.

“I sure am glad to see you boys in one piece,” the chief said, shaking each of their hands. “Well done. Well done.” He took a long, concerned look at Mac in his sling. “Boyo, you sure you should be here?”

“I’ll be fine, Chief,” Mac replied, holding up a vial of pain medication. “Where’s Lindsay?”

“We’ve got him in an interview room, waiting for you. I figure you guys have more than earned the first shot at him. But first, why don’t you see what we’ve found.”

They took a waiting elevator up to the chief’s office. When they entered, Sally saw Mac in the sling and came to him. She touched him lightly on the left arm and looked him in the eye and gave him a little smile. Mac smiled back, his look telling her he was okay.

“Let me show you what we’ve found,” she said, taking him by the right arm. A long folding table had been brought in. The documents from the Cross file were spread out onto the table.

“They’ve been watching you guys for a while,” she said to Mac, Riley, and Lich. “When the police searched the PTA building, we found this room down in the bottom of the parking garage. They had surveillance equipment, computers, listening devices, you name it, and they were watching, especially Mac, and even me,” Sally said to everyone. “We found a few guys down there who were part of the operation. We have them in custody. They’ve also given us the names and aliases of a few others. The department, the state police, and the FBI have that information, and we’re on the lookout for all of them.”

“Holy cow,” Riles replied, a look of amazement on his face.

“Yeah, pretty amazing what they were up to. But they had good reason to be watching. They were up to some nasty stuff with this Cross business.” She laid it out for everyone. Cross had been an operation run out of a facility in West Virginia. Lindsay, Alt, and company were selling arms, ammunition, communications equipment, and other military hardware out the backdoor. The FBI was already looking at the log, and it appeared the hardware had been sold to groups who weren’t exactly friends of the United States.

“They made millions on this stuff,” Sally said. “It looks like they shut it down around the time of the September 11th attacks.”

“This file is what Landy Stephens gave to Jones then?” Lich asked waving to the documents on the table.

“We think so,” Sally replied. “Jones either wouldn’t play ball with them, or they didn’t give her the chance too.”

“So, they took her out,” Riles replied.

“Yeah,” Mac added. “But before they could, she shared this information with Claire Daniels, so she had to go too.”

“Did they kill Senator Johnson?” Lich asked.

“Yup. We found a computer guy down in that little room, and he’s singing. Says they killed Jones, Daniels, and the senator. He also worked the surveillance system at Victory Ramp so we couldn’t see that Alt guy shoot Knapp.”

“The senator was just a patsy in all this, then, huh?” Lich asked.

“Yes,” Sally replied. “What a plan. They kill Jones, making it look like the work of Knapp. They kill Daniels and pin it on the senator. Before the senator can clear his name, they kill him and make it look like a suicide. They kill Knapp before we can talk to him, thinking he’ll never have the chance to deny he killed Jones.”

“Except Mac found this file and that DVD system at Daniels’s place, and we got ‘em. Hell if you weren’t onto it all along,” the chief replied, a smile on his face. “Your dad would have been proud today, Mac, very proud.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Mac replied quietly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

“So, are the feds going to come in and louse this up, prosecute these guys for espionage or something?” Lich asked.

“We’ll work all that out,” Flanagan replied. “You boys don’t worry about that stuff. Ms. Kennedy and I will handle that.”

“There’s still one thing we don’t know,” Mac said. “These bastards knew we were coming. I want to go see Lindsay and find out how.”

“Have at him, boys,” the chief replied.

• • • • •

Ted Lindsay was sitting in a cinder block interview room. There were no windows, just a bright overhead light. He was sitting in a metal chair, his right arm handcuffed to the table. He was still in his dress suit, but it was rumpled now, with blood spattered on his lapels and white dress shirt. His tie was off kilter. He had a fat lip and bruising over his eyes and along the left side of his face.

Captain Peters joined the three of them in the interview room, carrying a plastic bag that contained Lindsay’s personal affects. There was a wallet, watch, keys, and his cell phone.

Mac sat in the center of the table, Lich and Riley on either side of him. Peters stood behind them. Mac thought back to the interview with Lindsay from a week before, when the bastard had a smirk on his face and answers for everything.

“Tables have turned here a little bit, haven’t they, Mr. Lindsay?” Mac quipped.

Lindsay didn’t respond.

“We’ve got you, at a minimum, for the murders of Claire Daniels, Jamie Jones, Senator Mason Johnson, and Dirk Knapp—and those are just the ones we know about. So we have you for that. And the feds?” Mac shook his head, taunting. “They’re not real happy with you right now. They’re going to want to spend a lot of time with you. I doubt we’ll have any objection to spending the rest of your life at the federal pen in Marion. Selling your country out with that Cross business—not too good for you there, Teddy boy,” Mac said in a semi-mocking tone. Lich and Riley just stared at Lindsay.

“Lawyer,” was Lindsay’s response.

Mac grabbed for the plastic bag of belongings while Peters jumped in.”Later. First you’re going to tell us how you knew we were coming.”

“Lawyer.”

“No!” Riley howled. “Tell us who tipped you off.”

“Lawyer.”

Lich snorted. “Boys, he looks like he was roughed up riding around in the van today, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Riles responded. Peters nodded. They all moved around to Lindsay’s side of the table.

“I don’t think anyone would notice if we added a few more bruises.”

Fear overtook Lindsay’s face. He pulled at his handcuffed arm, trying to get away. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.

Mac ignored them and looked at the last call made on Lindsay’s cell phone, 11:34 a.m., just before they left for the PTA building. The number was familiar to him. He’d seen it somewhere. He sat back in his chair, looking at the number, and ran it around in his head. He pulled out his own cell phone, pressed menu, and looked at the previous calls made on his phone. A smile creased his face.

“Boys,” Mac said.

They ignored him or didn’t hear him, moving in on Lindsay.

“BOYS!”

They stopped and looked back at him, annoyed, fists still raised. “What?” Peters asked.

“I know who tipped them off.”

Chapter Forty-Two

“You have the right to remain silent.”

Chief Flanagan and Sally joined Mac, Riley, Lich, and Peters on the ride over to the Ramsey County Courthouse. A squad car was leading in front of them and two were behind. They pulled up onto the curb and filed out of the van. The chief led them through the doors inside, where the crowd that was milling around stopped what they were doing to watch. Given the day’s events, Flanagan and the rest of them were immediately recognized.

They took the elevator up to the tenth floor and the district attorney’s office. Sally led them through and past the reception desk. The receptionist started to say something, but then just watched them go by.

Sally walked them right to Helen Anderson’s office. Anderson was at her desk, on the phone when they barged in. She looked up to see them. Then held up her hand for them to wait while she finished her call, oblivious to what was happening. Mac walked over to her phone and cut the call off.

Anderson looked up at him, astonished, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Let me see your cell phone,” Mac replied coldly.

“What?”

Lich, Riley, and Peters moved to take position around Anderson. Mac asked again, tersely, “Let me see your cell phone.”

“Why?”

“LET ME SEE IT!”

Anderson cowered back into her chair, looked to her purse on the credenza behind her desk, and pointed weakly.

Mac rifled through the purse, finding her phone. He hit menu and looked at the call record. There was Lindsay’s cell phone number, as well as his own from earlier in the day. He turned to her.

“Is your cell phone number,” he said, reading the number on her phone.

“Yes,” she replied quietly.

“Sally called you earlier when we were coming downtown today, letting you know what we’d found.”

“So?”

Mac produced Lindsay’s phone from his pocket and held it so she could see it. “This is Ted Lindsay’s cell phone. Let me show you who he called at 11:34 a.m. this morning.” He showed Anderson the number. The district attorney slumped back in her chair, knowing she’d just been nailed.

The chief took over. He probably hadn’t slapped the bracelets on anyone in years, but he remembered Miranda, “Helen Anderson, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney … and you’re going to need a good one.”

• • • • •

Mac plopped himself down on the couch in the den at Sally’s place. She was on the phone, still working.

It had been a long day that was supposed to have been the start of a little mini-vacation for them. That was out of the question now. There would be tons of follow-up work to do. Sally was going to be swamped with the prosecution of Lindsay and the remaining PTA people who’d been working in their little unit. Some were still at large. The FBI, Homeland Security, and the CIA were on the case as well. They seemed confident they would find all of them. Just in case, two squads were parked out in front of the house.

His cell phone had been going berserk. He finally shut it off after he had a chance to speak with his mom, sisters, Uncle Shamus, and various other family members. He didn’t want to be at home, knowing the media would be calling him.

He took his pain medication. His shoulder was sore, and the sling would be an annoyance in the days to come. Putting on a clean shirt had been a five-minute ordeal that he might not have accomplished without Sally’s help. What Mac really wanted was to have a beer, but it wouldn’t mix well with the meds. Sally made him some apple cider, and that wasn’t too bad. He reached for the TV remote.

All of the local stations were doing special reports regarding the events of the day. A lot of issues had been resolved and the department came out looking pretty good. They were up against professionals, with resources Mac could hardly imagine, yet those PTA professionals had been beat by a little bunch of locals. Mac’s name was coming up quite a bit, but he was unavailable for comment. That’s the way he would like it to stay, but the chief ordered all of them down to a press conference that was to be held the next morning, no exceptions.

The two CIRT guys were out of surgery and remained in serious condition. Riley went back down to the hospital, and word was the doctors were optimistic they would make it. Damn Helen Anderson. She was getting hers on the news now, and she likely would be doing some time. Turns out she’d been dating Lindsay and feeding him information. She thought Lindsay would help her get to the Senate.

Mac flipped to the cable news networks. They were covering the story as well. PTA was a nationally known company, and Senator Johnson was a national figure. Those issues were being covered, debated, and bloviated about on all the talk shows. Lyman Hisle had called Sally to thank her for the heads up. He was able to get with the board and Minnesota’s congressional delegation. PTA would take a hit, but the politicos thought they would be able to limit the damage and save most of the government contracts. There was nothing faulty about PTA’s products, just some of its leadership.

Mac had heard enough about the day and flipped over to Minnesota Sports Channel. The Wild were on, a good diversion.

He thought about his dad and wondered what he would have thought of the day’s events. Somehow, Mac knew the old man would be proud.

Sally finally came in, having changed into black cotton sweat pants and one of Mac’s Golden Gopher sweatshirts. She leaned in and kissed him lightly. Then carefully she sat to his right side so he could put his arm around her. She carefully cuddled up against his chest. They watched the game in silence.

“Sorry about our vacation,” Mac finally said, trying to lighten the mood a little. It didn’t work.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. I heard all that gunfire and …” her voice trailed off.

“It was pretty crazy.”

They sat for another few minutes, just watching the game.

“Were you scared?” she asked.

“At the time it was all happening, no. It happened so fast, the shots, the chase, everything. I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting. I don’t think I was really scared until it was all over, when I realized what I’d just gone through. Then it hit me.”

“I was in the chief’s office, and there were radio reports that you were chasing Alt, and he was shooting at everyone. Then when you went into the parking ramp and were out of sight for so long, nobody knew where you were but people could hear all this gunfire. It must have been ten minutes before someone got on the radio and said you were wounded but that you were okay. I was just so scared.”

“Is it going to scare you away from me?”

She sat up and looked him in the eye. “No. But you have to know that if we’re going to be together, I will worry about you. I’ll tell you that I worry about you. You’ll have to understand that I’ll feel that, every time you walk out the door, it might be the last time I see you. You will have to understand that that is what I’ll have to live with. So, there’s one thing you’ll have to get used to.”

“What’s that?”

“That every time you walk out the door now, I’m going to tell you that I love you.”

Mac smiled. “I can live with that.”

DEADLY STILLWATER

McRyan Mystery Series

By

Roger Stelljes

Chapter One

“Fifteen Seconds”

SUNDAY, JULY 1ST

Dictionary definitions vary, but “retribution” is typically defined as punishment imposed for purposes of repayment or revenge for the wrong committed. For Smith, retribution simply meant payback. He’d waited sixteen years for it, and now he was three hours away from starting to get it.

Smith turned the panel van left into the alley and pulled three-quarters of the way down toward Western Avenue. He stopped and then backed in behind a small office building housing an accounting office with a storefront facing Western. From this position, the back of the café was visible at a forty-five-degree angle to the right. Smith had watched the area and this parking spot in particular every Sunday for the last month. Nobody ever came to the building or parked in the back on a Sunday afternoon. He expected this day would be no different.

His watch said 2:03 p.m. The office building’s parking lot was elevated two feet above that of the restaurant across the alley. This allowed for a somewhat unobstructed view of the restaurant’s back patio, which was surrounded by a six-foot-high wood fence. He could only see the tops of heads or upper torsos of patrons and staff from his position. Nonetheless, the spot provided a needed clear view of the café’s small parking lot outside the fence. The target’s car, a new Prius, occupied the second to last space in the back of the lot, located close to Western.

Smith set his gaze on the back of the restaurant, Cel’s Café, a little bistro on the corner of Western and Selby Avenues. The café was a busy hub in St. Paul’s Cathedral Hill neighborhood, an area of turn-of-the-century Victorian homes encircling the majestic Cathedral of Saint Paul. The stately mansions of Summit Avenue lay a mere three blocks away. The café was a busy post-church lunching spot. By the mid-to-late afternoon, it changed over to a light crowd of book or newspaper readers, drinking coffee, iced tea, and, for those living on the edge, maybe a bloody mary. Cel’s also employed a young waitress named Shannon Hisle, the daughter of St. Paul’s wealthiest and most prominent lawyer.

Smith pulled black leather gloves tight over his hands and turned to the back of the van where two large men, brothers Dean and David, fiddled with duct tape, masks, and gloves of their own. There was also a gas-filled plastic milk carton with a detonator taped on the side for later. Each had a .45 lying on the floor. Smith turned his attention to the passenger seat and the police scanner, which reported little activity on this sleepy summer afternoon.

Smith had spent fifteen years in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. Because of who he was, the beatings started his first day. He had fought, but he didn’t have a fighting chance. Those first few years, he suffered broken ribs, fingers, and wrists more than once. In one of the last and most brutal of the assaults, he suffered a broken nose that left him with a large and permanent bulbous knot just below the bridge and a shattered eye socket that blurred the peripheral vision in his left eye. He spent long tours in the infirmary, recovering from the abuse, only to be put back into the general population to be unmercifully beaten again and again. He had no allies, no protection, and no hope in those early years.

If it wasn’t for the arrival of the two hulking brothers in the back of the van, he wouldn’t have made it. Three years into Smith’s sentence, David who was six foot three and 240 pounds of bulging muscles, moved into a neighboring cell. David saw firsthand the results of the beatings. He didn’t like what he saw. Along with his equally large and skilled brother Dean, three cells further down, David used skills honed in the Golden Gloves to put a stop to it.

David and Dean had saved his life. Smith would do anything for his two friends. It was one of the reasons why he now sat behind the wheel and had masterminded what was about to take place. Before he could get his, Dean and David needed to get theirs.

• • • • •

Monica sat at her table at the front of the bistro, sipping her iced tea, alternately reading her Harlequin novel, watching the target, and making calls on her cell phone.

Dressed in a frumpy floral blouse, faded black spandex pants, and black heels, sporting a 1960s bouffant wig of black hair, she had the look of a mid-forties woman whose social life revolved around reading about romances she would never have. It was far from her normal, stylish look, but it was the look she wanted for today. She had used it the previous three weeks when she came in on Sunday afternoons to scout the movements of Shannon Hisle. The mark was sitting at the bar now, closing out her tables, sipping a Diet Coke. She would be leaving soon.

Taking one last sip of her iced tea, Monica put the receipt in her purse, popped a complimentary mint in her mouth, and discreetly wiped down the table and the arms of her chair. She’d never been arrested nor had her prints taken, but she didn’t want to take a chance.

Hisle finished the last of her tabs and handed them to her manager, who gave them a quick look and approval. Monica checked her watch—4:56 p.m.—and placed a call as Hisle put her purse over her shoulder. Smith picked up on the first ring.

“Fifteen seconds.”

As Hisle pushed the back door open, Monica slung her purse over her shoulder, walked out the front door and turned right, casually strolling east along Selby Avenue and away from the action beginning to unfold.

• • • • •

Dean, a black ski mask over his head, was out of the van now, crouched down behind a parked pickup truck three cars to the right of Hisle’s Prius. David, his mask down as well, was stationed at the van’s side sliding door. Smith focused on the back door and saw the pretty brunette push her way through. He pulled the van into the alley and turned left, driving slowly down the alley, watching Hisle all the way.

• • • • •

Shannon hustled to her car with her head down and digging with her right hand across her body deep into her black purse, searching for her car keys.

When she reached the back bumper of her car, she halted and dug with both hands, leaning down and peering in.

“Where the heck did they go?” she muttered. Ah ha, there they were, buried in a corner, under her cell phone. She grabbed the cell phone and keys and sensed the sudden flash of movement from her left. She looked up in time to see a mammoth black-masked man barreling toward her.

“NO!… NO!….”

• • • • •

Dean scooped Hisle, putting his hand over her mouth as she screamed and thrashed against his iron grip.

Smith quickly turned right out of the alley and pulled up along the curb. David slid the door open and grabbed the struggling Hisle out of his brother’s hands. He dragged her inside, sat on top of her, and pinned her arms down. Dean jumped in, closed the door, and grabbed the duct tape as Smith punched the gas and took a hard right turn on Selby and accelerated east to Summit Avenue. Dean and David duct taped the girl’s hands, ankles, and mouth. Hisle squirmed and tried to scream through the duct tape pasted over her mouth. A brief look in the rearview mirror and Smith could see the horror in her eyes. They then put a pillow case over her head. It was only beginning for her.

Chapter Two

“How do they know she’s coming?”

Mac McRyan swerved his Ford Explorer through traffic in Spaghetti Junction just north of downtown St. Paul, flasher and siren going strong, as it had been since he left Stillwater and his boat fifteen minutes earlier. It had been a wonderful Sunday up until now. With his sister, Julia, her husband, Jack, and his girlfriend, Sally, he had spent the day on his family’s boat on the St. Croix River, picnicking and soaking up the sun. It was the most relaxing day that he and Sally, a busy Ramsey County prosecutor, had experienced in months—at least until now. As the group was tying up the boat and deciding where to go for dinner, the call came in. Now he skidded to a quick stop just short of the patrol car parked across the intersection of Selby and Western.

Mac’s full name was Michael McKenzie McRyan, but for all of his thirty-three years he’d simply been known as Mac. He’d been in the McRyan family business—the St. Paul Police Department—for eight years. A fourth-generation cop, Mac had relatives sprinkled throughout the department.

He rolled his athletic six-foot-one frame out of the Explorer. Ruggedly handsome, Mac had short blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a taut face with a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon on his scarred chin. A former captain of the University of Minnesota hockey team, he was still at his 190-pound playing weight and worked hard daily to keep it that way. Sliding on his Oakley sunglasses, he walked toward a uniform cop who waved him through. Mac took in the scene, with squad cars and Crown Vics everywhere. He saw two techs from County Forensics taking pictures and prowling around the parking lot behind Cel’s. And, of course, the chief’s Boys stood just behind them.

The Boys were Detectives Pat Riley, Riley’s partner, Bobby Rockford, and Mac’s own partner, Richard Lich. When St. Paul Police Chief Charles Flanagan needed results—when the shit hit the fan—he turned to his Boys. Lyman Hisle was as high profile as it got in the Twin Cities, and his daughter had been abducted in broad daylight. Not to mention, Hisle was a close personal friend of Charlie Flanagan. Needless to say, the chief needed his best cops on the case.

They were a motley crew.

Pat “Riles” Riley was a sizeable man, well over six feet tall and two hundred pounds. The veteran detective had dark eyes, a heavy Nixonian five o’clock shadow, and a thick mane of black hair, which he combed back. A sharp dresser, Riles looked like a mobster in his pinstripe suits, perfectly pressed shirts, and stylish ties. Loud, boisterous, and loyal, Riles was like a brother to Mac, having served with Mac’s father, Simon, when he first became a detective years ago.

Bobby “Rock” Rockford was even larger than Riley. He was black, dark black, with his eyes deeply embedded in his large, shaved head. When he smiled, he showed a gap between his two front teeth. He’d been a college defensive tackle and wasn’t averse to getting physical when the circumstances warranted. Rock, given his size, appearance, and growl, could be downright frightening. Mac had watched him scare a guy into shitting his pants once.

Then there was “Dick Lick.”

Richard Lich was short, squat, and balding with a bushy porn star mustache in constant need of trimming. Twice divorced, he spent plenty of time lamenting his perpetually dire financial circumstances. He blamed both ex-wives not only for his financial difficulties, but also for his inability to fix his wardrobe. Perhaps the worst dresser ever to carry a shield, Dick donned a pitiful series of old soiled suits, all some shade of brown, whether it be gravy brown, dirt brown, or shit brown. He topped each ensemble off with scuffed shoes, faded shirts, chewed-on cigars, and in the winter, either a black or brown fedora. While Riles and Rock scared the hell out of people, Lich was comic relief, a true piece of work. But he was a piece of work that people tended to underestimate. Few realized that he was a damn fine detective. Possessed with a quick wit and an easy manner, he was a perfect partner for Mac, smoothing out his younger partner’s abrasive edges.

With Mac as the catalyst, the boys had earned their reputation on the PTA case. Their work had brought down a small band of retired CIA agents and their corporate employer, PTA, a St. Paul military and intelligence contractor. PTA and its various players were behind the murders of an investigative reporter, a US senator, and the company CFO, while trying to cover up illegal arms deals. Since that case, the chief often had the four of them work cases together as an unofficial special investigative unit.

As Mac approached the boys, Lich called out, “Nice outfit.”

Mac still wore his boating gear: tan cargo shorts, navy blue Polo golf shirt, and leather sandals—all of which was at odds with the badge hanging around his neck. His blond hair stood up just a bit more than usual, wind-blown from a day on the river.

“You’re the last person who should give fashion advice,” was Mac’s ready response. Lich had matched his shit-brown slacks with a faded orange golf shirt, untucked and fully open at the collar. Mac turned to Riley.

“What the hell happened? Are we sure this was a kidnapping?”

Riley exhaled, running his hand through his large mane of black hair.

“Let me run it down, and you tell me what you think.” Riles walked to the back of the Prius. “Shannon Hisle got off work at 5:00. She walked out the back door. Her car is this Prius. It looks like when she reached the back of her car somebody grabbed her. The positioning of her keys and phone on the pavement away from her car at least suggest that.”

“And then what happened?”

“We think whoever grabbed her jumped into a white van that pulled away and turned right on Selby. From there…” Riley’s voice trailed off.

Rock jumped in, rubbing a hand across his shaved head, “Our witnesses… well… kind of…”

“Suck,” Lich finished.

“Suck, like they didn’t see anything?” Mac asked.

“Regular Havercamps,” Riles replied, never one to pass up a Caddyshack moment. He pointed across and to the south along Western Avenue. “An old couple was walking along the sidewalk down there, maybe a hundred yards away, and they think they saw a guy dressed in black pick her up and throw her into the van.”

“Think?” Mac asked.

“Older couple, in their seventies, maybe early eighties, vision is a bit of an issue.”

“Anything about the van?”

“White. It comes out of the alley, and turns right. The guy in black throws her in and off they go,” Riles said.

“Anything else?”

“Another witness, female,” Riles turned and pointed to the southwest corner of Selby and Western, “was waiting on that corner, facing north, about ready to cross the street when she thought she heard a scream. She turned around and saw the van slow and then quickly pull away, turn right and go east on Selby.”

“So then what happened?”

“Confusion really,” Lich said. “The elderly couple came walking up and spoke with the woman on the corner, asking, you know, ‘did you see that?’ They’re not sure what they all saw, so they walk across the street into the parking lot and see keys and a cell phone lying on the ground. They go inside the café and explain what they saw. The café workers come outside, see that Hisle’s car is still in the lot, and call 911.”

“How long did all that take?”

“Three or four minutes at best, maybe more,” Lich replied. “Nobody saw it all happen, just bits and pieces.”

“So anyway, a squad gets here maybe a minute or two later,” Rock added. “They ask some questions, get basically what we’re talking about now, and make the call.”

“So before we even have an alert out about a white van, it’s what?” Mac asked.

Lich shook his head, skeptical, voicing what everyone else was thinking.

“At best, eight to ten minutes, probably more.”

“Maaaaaan,” Mac groaned. “That’s a lot of time to get away before we even start looking. Did we get anything on the van? Plate, make, model, anything?”

“No plate, white van. It looked like a typical delivery or repair van, panel type, no lettering, maybe slightly dented behind the driver side door, but that’s it.”

“Nothing striking that would draw attention,” Lich added.

“Where did the van come from?” Mac asked.

“The older couple said it came out of the alley,” Rock answered. “We’re not entirely sure, but we’re thinking it was parked behind the office building.” He pointed across the alley and to their left. “From there, they would be able to see her come out the back door and take her.”

“How many people?”

“Driver, guy to take her,” Riles answered, counting on his fingers.

“Maybe another guy in the van,” Lich added.

“Why do you think not just two?” Mac asked Lich.

“The older couple thinks he threw her into the van. I’m thinking there might have been someone in there to take or catch her. We don’t know for sure, just speculatin’.”

“Any surveillance cameras or anything?”

“Nada,” Rock replied. “Nothing outside. Hell, nothing inside the café.”

“We’re askin’ the café people,” Lich asked.

“Was there anyone unusual inside or outside today, last few days, anything like that?” Mac added.

“Not that anyone can recall,” Rock answered. “It was busy early in the afternoon with the post-church crowd. However, after that rush, the staff says there were just regulars sitting around reading, having coffee. Pretty mellow.”

“In other words,” Mac said, summing up, “we got shit.”

“Hell, we ain’t even got that,” Lich replied, looking down, shaking his head.

The group stood in silence for a minute before Mac asked, “Where is the chief?”

“In a sad irony, already at Hisle’s,” answered their captain, Marion Peters, as he ducked under the crime scene tape and joined the group. “The chief was out there for Hisle’s annual barbeque when the call came in.”

“I assume they haven’t heard from the kidnappers yet?”

“No,” Peters answered.

“Are we on the phone?”

“Yeah, both landline and cell,” Peters replied. “I’ve been setting that up. We’re watching the phone at her place. We have someone at his law firm watching the phone. But we expect he’ll get the call at home, and we have people and the chief out there.”

“What about the Feds?” Rock asked. “Will they be coming in?”

Peters shrugged. “At some point they will. Kidnapping is one of their gigs. Hisle’s a prominent guy, politically connected, so the bureau will be involved at some point and somehow.”

“We don’t know that they took her over state lines,” Lich replied.

“True. But again, we’re talking Lyman here. He’ll probably want them in and the chief will accede to his wishes, they being friends and all.”

“Yeah,” Mac added, “and given what we have thus far, we’ll need their resources.”

Riley’s and Peter’s cell phones chirped, and they walked away from the group. Mac left Rock, and he and Lich walked over toward Hisle’s car.

“So did her old man piss someone off?” Lich asked.

“Possibly,” Mac answered. Lyman had made the big time both financially and politically. You do that and you’ve made some people mad, very mad, along the way. He’d made millions on class-action and discrimination cases, fighting businesses for years. On the criminal side, he’d tussled with the police departments around town for years. Yet, given his practice, he was still popular with the local police departments. He often waived his hefty retainer and fees to help the men in blue. Consequently, there would be no “what goes around comes around” feeling that cops might have for many of the lawyers they dealt with. The cops would have Lyman’s back on this one.

“It could be a nut, or…”

“Or what?” Lich asked following Mac back toward Hisle’s car.

“Maybe not a nut,” Mac answered blandly as he walked over to the yellow numbered evidence tags by the keys and cell phone. They were lying on the ground, to the right of Shannon Hisle’s car, strewn toward Western Avenue. The way the keys and phone had spilled suggested that whoever grabbed her had come from the left, and with force. The cell phone was a few feet from the car and the keys a good ten feet from the car, nearly reaching the sidewalk separating the parking lot from Western.

Mac pivoted to his left and scanned the cars parked to the left of Hisle’s. There was a Ford Focus and Chevy Cavalier, both compact cars. The third was a black Ford F-150, a hefty pickup truck. The pickup was parked with its back end pointing out. Mac walked around the truck to the driver’s side and crouched down. There was little of interest on the asphalt, beyond gravel and litter. It would be collected and analyzed but it was unlikely to be of any help. However, there was a definite fresh footprint in a bare patch of black dirt between the alley and the parking lot. Mac called a crime scene tech over. The print looked fresh and was big, probably size twelve or thirteen, Mac thought. The tread of the impression looked like a hiking boot. “Get a picture of that,” Mac directed, “and dust this side of the truck, especially the back quarter panel, for prints.”

“What do you have?” Lich asked, walking over.

“The keys and cell phone landed toward Western, to the right of the rear bumper of the car?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So it looks like whoever took Hisle came from this way, by the truck here. Scooped her up and ran to the van on Western. This is a big truck. You could hide behind it and wait for her. There’s a fresh footprint in that bare spot between the alley and the parking lot. If you line it up, the footprint is coming straight, as if the guy came from right across the alley.” Mac pointed toward the back of the office building on the other side of the alley. “The van was across the alley. They know Hisle’s coming out, one guy hides here, the other drives the van from behind the building, down the alley and pulls up along the curb.”

Lich picked up on the thought. “Yeah. I see what you’re gettin’ at. Our guy comes from this spot. It’s three cars to Hisle. She comes out; he pops out, scoops her up.”

“Right. Three cars to here is nothing. He’d be on her in an instant,” Mac replied. “I bet that’s what happened.”

They stood in silence for a moment, and then Mac asked, “But do they know when she’s coming?”

“Huh?” Lich asked.

“How do they know she’s coming? I mean, their timing was pretty good.”

“Beats me. Guy sits and waits for her.”

“Yeah, but if the guy is hiding behind the truck here, he can’t wait all afternoon, can he?”

Lich nodded, “I see what you’re saying. They had to have an idea of when she was leaving.”

“So how do they know?”

“Maybe she always leaves at 5:00 p.m.”

“Maybe,” Mac answered. “But that could be four fifty-five or five ten, depending on her schedule and what not. This is a good spot, but you wouldn’t want to be exposed for too long here. Somebody might still notice if you were here more than a minute or two. No, you’d want to know exactly when she was coming.”

Lich’s eyebrows went up. “Someone inside?”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Mac replied, already walking toward the back door of the café.

• • • • •

Smith peered in the rearview mirror as he slowly backed the van into the garage of the safe house. Once parked, he killed the engine and let the garage door down, not getting out until the door had closed. Once down, he donned a mask to match the ones worn by David and Dean. He climbed out of the van and opened the sliding door for the brothers.

The safe house was a small, nondescript white 1950s rambler located in a working-class neighborhood a few blocks off of West Seventh Street on St. Paul’s south side. While there were houses on either side and across the street, there was a large wood privacy fence surrounding the back of the property as well as railroad tracks running behind. They’d only been in the house for two days, although it had been rented since June first.

A stairway in the garage led down to the basement. Smith led the way down as Dean and David, still masked, followed carrying the pixie-sized Hisle. The basement had a small family room, a bedroom, and a full bath. In the bedroom, there were two twin beds with metal frames as well as steel-barred head and footboards. A piece of plywood was screwed into place over the small egress window. A solitary low-watt ceiling light lit the bedroom.

The two brothers set Hisle down on the bed, and Dean pinned her down. The girl began fighting, perhaps fearing she was going to be raped. But rape wasn’t part of the plan. David pulled the hunting knife attached to his belt and cut the duct tape from her wrists. He then used two pairs of handcuffs to secure each hand to a metal post on the headboard. David then cut the tape around her ankles and manacled each to the footboard. Once the girl was fully secured, Dean pushed off, and she struggled against the cuffs, grunting and pulling to no avail. The men, masks still on, watched the young woman struggle and flail. Smith wanted her to get the last of it out of her system. He wanted and needed her calm. After a few minutes, Hisle began to settle down, exhaustion setting in from fighting her restraints. She wasn’t getting away, and they weren’t doing anything more to her.

Smith nodded and Dean and David backed away as Smith sat down on the side of the bed and removed the pillow case from her head.

“Settle down now, Shannon,” Smith said quietly. “We don’t want to harm you. Neither these men nor I is going to rape you or anything like that, so you needn’t worry about those kinds of things.”

She lay still, but fear showed in her eyes. Smith wanted her calm for what he needed from her. He sat silent for a few moments and let her settle down.

“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, okay? But don’t yell,” he said, holding his hand just over her mouth. “If you try to yell, I will have to hurt you. Do you understand? And I really don’t want to do that.”

Shannon nodded slightly. Smith slowly removed the duct tape, trying not to harm her. She breathed deeply before speaking.

“What are you going to… do with me?”

“We have taken you for a specific purpose, Shannon. A very specific purpose.”

“Money? Is it money you want?”

“Of course, of course,” Smith answered. “It’s exactly why we chose you, Shannon. Your father has a lot of money, and we want some of it. Now if you play ball with us, and if your dad plays ball…” Smith patted her lightly on her thigh. “Well, everything will work out just fine.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, if you do as we ask, your chances of making it out of this are a whole lot better. If you don’t help us out, well… it certainly could go much worse.”

“So this is just about money?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” Smith replied, patting her thigh again. “That’s all we’re looking for. If you’re hurt, it makes it harder for us to get paid. So, I assure you, we do not wish to harm you.”

“How will you convince him you’re not going to harm me?”

Smith smiled under his mask. The girl was smart, but what would you expect from the daughter of a lawyer—a good lawyer for that matter. “Don’t you spend time thinking about that,” Smith answered. “I don’t have to harm you to make sure your father is motivated to pay what he’s going to have to pay.”

“How?”

“Because you’re his little girl and you’re going to help us.”

• • • • •

The café manager was Mike Haines, a balding, soft-spoken man in his late twenties. He placed the original 911 call and did a good job of holding the scene, having all of the patrons and staff stay until the police arrived. Shannon Hisle had worked for him for two years and normally worked Sundays. Pulling the schedules for the past two months confirmed that she’d been scheduled for every Sunday until 5:00 p.m. Haines said that she liked to work the shift, which was fine by him because it usually wasn’t a busy day and he often had difficulty scheduling staff for it.

“When she got off at 5:00, was it always right at 5:00, or could it be earlier or later?” Mac asked.

“She might leave a little early on occasion, maybe at 4:45 or so, but usually she would leave right around 5:00 p.m.”

“What does she have to do when it’s time to leave?” Lich followed up. Haines ran a hand over his balding head.

“Close out her tables, which are usually just three or four at that point. Make sure her transactions balance, tip the bartender, and that’s pretty much it,” Haines explained.

“How long would it take her to do all that?” Mac asked.

“On a Sunday, not long. Five, ten minutes tops.”

“Where does she do that, settle up?”

“If we’re busy, it would usually be in my office in the back. But on Sundays we’re a little more informal, and I don’t mind if they sit at the bar and drink a soda while they’re doing it. Most of our wait staff does that, and Shannon did it this afternoon.”

“So what happens is, she sits at the bar, closes everything out, and that’s it?” Mac said, moving toward the bar.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Haines replied.

Mac sat on the bar stool, his back to the bar, looking out over the restaurant. He looked to his right, where a small hallway led to the back door, the patio, and then the parking lot where Hisle was abducted. He looked back out into the restaurant, where there were sixteen tables in four rows. To Mac’s left a row of tables sat along the front windows of the restaurant. There were two rows down the center and then a row along the wall to his right. He looked at the back door again.

“How many people in the restaurant about the time Hisle left?” Mac asked.

Haines tilted his head, squinted, and pondered for a minute, “I’d say we had maybe four or five tables going at that point.”

“How about in the half hour before she left?”

“Give me a minute,” Haines said. “I can go through the receipts and get a count.”

“What are you thinking?” Riles asked after Haines walked off for the receipts.

“They had someone on the inside.”

“How do you figure?” Rock asked, puzzled.

“She leaves at 5:00 p.m. or thereabouts on Sundays, right?”

“Yeah, that gives them a time to be ready.”

“Fine,” Mac replied, “but let’s assume for a second that our guy is waiting behind that truck for Shannon to leave. He can’t just sit there for five or ten minutes with a mask on and not risk drawing some attention.”

Riley picked up on the thread.

“So they know when she’s generally going to leave, but they need to know when she’s heading out so as to be ready.”

“Right,” Mac said. “Somebody sits in here, eyes the situation, and calls out when she’s getting ready to go.”

“And this person knows when Shannon is getting ready to go, since she sits up at the bar, having a soda and closing out her tables,” Rock added.

“Probably because the inside person has been in here on Sundays, watching the pattern and knew when she was getting ready to roll,” Mac finished.

Just then, Haines came back.

“In the half hour before Shannon left we had eight tables active.”

“How many closed out between 4:30 and 5:00 p.m.?” Lich asked.

Haines reviewed them quickly, “I have four closing out in that time period.”

“Which is the latest?”

Haines flipped through the four that closed, looking for the time along the top of the white receipt, “Last one was at 4:52 p.m. Shannon closed it out.”

“How’d the person pay?” Riley asked before the others could spit it out, all thinking the same thing and knowing the answer.

“Cash.”

Not a surprise. A credit card would have made it easier, Mac thought.

“How much was the tab?”

“$18.76,” Haines replied. “A few iced teas and a sandwich.”

“Which table?” Mac asked.

“Four.”

“Where’s that?”

“Over by the front door.”

They all walked over to the table. It was empty, except for the ceramic sugar holder and the glass salt and pepper shakers in the middle. Mac stood on the side that backed up to the front door. He could take in the entire restaurant, including the bar and the hallway to the back door.

“Mr. Haines, do you recall who was sitting here?”

“Vaguely. Black hair, flowery blouse. She was here for a while, reading a book.”

“Was she ever on a cell phone?”

“I think she was from time to time.”

“Have you seen her in here before?”

“Yeah, a few times.”

“Over the years? Last couple of months? What?” Mac asked.

“Probably more recent,” Haines replied.

“Do you recall when she left today?”

“Not exactly when.”

“Do you think it was before or after Shannon left?”

“I really can’t recall. I do know she wasn’t here when the patrol car arrived. She wasn’t here when I asked everyone to stay. She was gone by then.”

“You think she went out the front door?” Lich asked.

“I don’t recall her going out the back.”

“We need forensics to work this table over,” Mac said.

“I’ll go get them,” Lich said and left the group.

“Your entire staff has to remember this woman as best they can,” Riley told Haines. “We need a name, full description, anything and everything they can think of. Call anyone in who has worked Sundays for the last month. We’ll get a sketch artist down here as well.”

“Why?” Haines asked.

Because,” Mac replied, “this person may have sat right here and let the kidnappers know when Shannon bailed.”

Riley’s cell phone went off again.

“Riley,” he answered. He nodded his head a few times. “Where?” He took out a notepad and started writing. “Okay… thanks.”

“What’s up?” Rock asked.

“We might have the van.”

“Where?”

“River Falls.”

Chapter Three

“Who’s the guy?”

River Falls, Wisconsin, was a sleepy community half an hour from downtown St. Paul, fifteen miles into western Wisconsin. Mac pulled up to the crime scene tape in front of a bland industrial park. Mac, Dick, Riles, and Rock all filed out of the Explorer and walked up to the officer on guard standing in the opening between two one-story buildings and flashed their shields. The officer took a quick look at their badges and waved them through. Behind the building on the left, they found a burned-out van, a Ford Econoline Cargo. It was white, or at least used to be before it was torched. It was now massively disfigured with the frame and body distorted by the extreme heat of the fire. The van now listed to the right over the slag of melted tires. As they walked around it, Mac noted a distinguishing feature: a dent that ran for two feet just behind the bottom of the driver’s side door.

A stocky man in his mid-fifties approached, a large dip of tobacco in his lower right front lip.

“You guys from St. Paul?” he asked. Everyone nodded. “Paul Fletcher, chief here in River Falls.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Riles replied and then introduced everyone. “How’d the call come in?”

Fletcher pulled a little black notebook out of his chest pocket, “Call came in to us around 5:45 p.m. The woman over there made the call,” Fletcher pointed to an older lady holding a small terrier, “heard an explosion. She walked around to the back of the building here and found the van in flames.”

“Did she see anyone, any other vehicles pulling away, anything like that?”

“Says no,” Fletcher answered, spitting tobacco to the ground. “She was just walking along the street with her little dog and then heard the boom.”

“How long for you to get here, Chief?” Riles asked.

“We got here about five minutes later, and the fire department just after that to put it out,” Fletcher said, spitting again off to the side. “It was blown up intentionally. There’s part of some sort of detonator in there and what might have been part of a plastic milk carton. The van has a Minnesota plate. And then we started hearing the radio traffic out of St. Paul about the kidnapping and to keep a look out for a white van, maybe dented. We thought this might be of interest.”

“Not much left of her,” Lich said.

“Nope,” Fletcher replied, spitting again. “They did a pretty good job blowin’ ‘er up.”

“I don’t imagine we’ll be able to get any prints or anything out of it,” Rock said.

“I seriously doubt it,” Fletcher replied. “The blast and fire probably took care of all that. Then us pourin’ that water on it.” Fletcher scratched his head. “Well shit, there probably isn’t much left. Once we realized what might be going on, we left ‘er alone. But at that point…” He squinted and shook his head. “It was probably too late.”

“You run the plate?” Mac asked Fletcher.

“Yeah, the plate is for a van in Willmar. But the VIN number matches a van stolen in Breckenridge two weeks ago.” Willmar was a town in south central Minnesota, and Breckenridge was in far western Minnesota, along the North Dakota border, two hours from Willmar. Mac snorted.

“These guys are being very careful.”

“I’ll say,” Lich said. “So they dump the van here and use a pickup vehicle?” Lich asked.

“I imagine that’s the case,” Mac replied. “However, I suspect that in putting out the fire, any tracks and anything else was washed out.”

“Probably so,” Fletcher sighed, resignation in his voice.

“Not your fault, Chief,” Riles replied. “Safety first, ya know. Gotta put out the fire. I’ll make a call and get some forensics help out here. You never know, we might get something.” He walked away from the group, cell phone already to his ear.

“So, they’re being extra careful,” Mac said. “They drop the van well out of the city, it’s a stolen van with stolen plates, and they blow it up after the abduction. Smart.”

“That it is,” was Fletcher’s reply. A local cop called to Fletcher and he walked away.

“You know what this means,” Lich said.

“What?” Rock said. Mac finished off Lich’s thought.

“Shannon Hisle went over state lines. If the Feds weren’t in already, they’ll be in now.”

• • • • •

Smith and the others came up out of the basement, leaving Hisle bound, cuffed, and gagged downstairs in the bedroom. She’s been cooperative and gave them what they needed. “So, you’re off?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Smith replied. “I’ll be a couple of hours. Keep your ears on your scanner as well. Call if anything comes up,” he ordered.

Smith went out into the garage and jumped in the van. They’d dumped the Econoline in River Falls. Now he was driving a Chevy Express Cargo. Within five minutes he’d maneuvered his way via Shepard Road to a Park & Fly lot for the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. He dropped the van next to a light blue Chevy Impala. On a quiet Sunday night leading into a holiday week, the lot was quiet; most of the people intending to fly out were long gone. Nevertheless, he quickly scanned the lot before leaving the van. Noticing nobody nearby, he hopped out and slid into the Impala.

He maneuvered the Impala onto Interstate 494 and made his way through the southern and then western suburbs of the Twin Cities. When he reached Maple Grove, on the northwest side of the metro area, he took Interstate 94 toward the college town of St. Cloud, sixty miles to the northwest.

• • • • •

Lyman Hisle lived just north of Stillwater, a burgeoning suburb fifteen miles northeast of St. Paul. Perched above the picturesque St. Croix River, Stillwater looked like a town right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Of course, in a Rockwell painting the shops would be used by the locals, but that was not always the case in Stillwater. On its main street, two-story storefronts of aged red brick and sandstone housed shops filled with antique furniture and trinkets. The narrow sidewalks teemed with antiques’ shoppers from all over the Midwest, who milled through the maze of shops and ate at the small bistros. Stillwater was also a popular place to begin a cruise on the St. Croix River. Mac had his boat docked in the marina on the north side of town.

It had been a quiet ride to Stillwater from River Falls as the four detectives silently contemplated the case. As they idled at a stoplight in the midst of the town, Mac broke the silence. “Whoever is pulling this off is smart and ballsy.”

“Is it someone Hisle pissed off or just a random grab for money?” Riles asked.

“Good question. It could be either, I suppose,” Mac answered. “Lyman’s apt to have some enemies we’ll need to get to know. At the same time, this could be about money and nothing more. A sharp set of kidnappers decides to take Shannon and see what they can get.”

“Could be a nut or a group of nuts,” Lich added. “Some sex pervert who took Shannon for reasons other than money.”

“That doesn’t feel right,” Mac disagreed. “This was too well-planned and thought out to be a nut. Shannon was picked out for some reason. The key will be whether, as I said, it was random in the sense that the kidnappers just picked her because Lyman was wealthy, or…”

“…they picked her because they want to hurt Lyman,” Riles added.

“Right, or maybe both. We’ll see.”

“So,” Lich asked Mac, “what’s your bet? Financial or personal?”

“Hell if I know,” Mac said, exhaling. “Lyman’s rich. He’s got lots of money, but it’s not like he’s the wealthiest guy in town. There are a lot of people with far more, so…”

“Personal,” Lich finished.

“If I had to lay a two-dollar bet, yeah. At least personal in the sense there was a reason, a specific reason, to pick Hisle’s daughter. It wasn’t just random. There must be some reason to pick her. We have to figure out the why and maybe that’ll give us the who.”

“That would mean we’re looking at his client list,” Rock said. “That’s apt to be a fuckin’ long list.”

“You practice law for thirty years and have his level of success…” Mac whistled. “It’ll be long indeed. We should probably look at his opponents as well.” Hisle had hundreds, maybe thousands of criminal clients over the years, not to mention clients in his civil practice, discrimination cases, and class-action suits. “We’ll have to get that list going in a hurry.”

“Wonder if we’ll run into any issues in looking at his files.”

“Possible. Attorney-client privilege will be something of an issue, I suspect,” Mac responded. He was a licensed lawyer, but he’d never practiced before deciding to be a cop instead. “He’ll undoubtedly have a client or two who doesn’t want us rifling through their files.”

“I imagine that’s the case,” Lich answered, as he looked to the marina on his right and changed the subject.

“Isn’t that where your boat is docked?”

“Yeah. Sally and I have to get you and Dot out sometime soon.”

“She’d love it. Besides, I’d get to see Sally in a two-piece and that would be quite a sight,” Lich replied with a dirty grim. Dick knew his comments about Sally’s shapely body got under Mac’s skin just a little. Rock and Riles laughed heartily in the back.

“I’ll make sure she wears a one-piece for you,” Mac snickered.

“Asshole,” Lich said.

“Pervert,” Mac retorted.

Hisle’s house lay a mile or so north of town on a high bluff overlooking the river. Normally you wouldn’t think there was a house on the bluff, as it was set back from the road behind a ten-foot-high wall of thick bushes and a line of mature trees. Beyond that natural barrier, well tended flower beds dotted an expansive and finely manicured three-acre lawn that gradually sloped down from the road toward the river. The house itself was a wide, prairie-style home that looked like Southfork from Dallas. However, tonight the house, or at least its location, was easy to spot, given the collection of police cars and media trucks with lights flashing, parked at the gated entrance to the winding driveway.

Mac pulled up and waited for the sheriff’s deputies to clear the cars blocking the driveway. Lich had his window down, and they could all hear Heather Foxx from Channel 12 starting her report fifteen feet to the right.

“Thanks John. Right now, we’re in front of the Stillwater home of prominent attorney Lyman Hisle. At this point, we don’t know if Mr. Hisle has been contacted by the kidnappers. What we do know is that his daughter Shannon was abducted outside Cel’s Café on Selby and Western Avenues in St. Paul. It is believed there were three men involved, who appear to have abducted her behind the restaurant and left the area in a white van.”

There was a pause in Heather’s report, although she didn’t take her eyes off the camera.

“That’s a good question, Sheila. What we do know is that the van may have been dropped behind an industrial park in River Falls. Apparently, the kidnappers dropped it there and transferred Shannon to another vehicle. However, before the van was found by the police, it was burned, apparently through the use of an explosive device.”

A uniform cop moved one of the cars blocking the driveway, and Mac pulled through while Heather finished her report, her voice trailing away behind them.

“Man is she aptly named,” Lich said, his mind ending up where it normally did. Heather Foxx was a leggy brunette with inviting green eyes, a perfect little ski-slope nose, and a dynamite smile. One come hither look from her and men melted. She’d been covering crime in town for two years and had developed many a good source, which she obviously already plumbed for information.

“Man, what I wouldn’t give to throw a fuck into her,” Dick said, his eyes shut, dreaming of the lovely Heather. Riles laughed from the back.

“Forget it, Dickey-boy. Your only hope is if your partner made a move on her and then gave you the post-game recap.”

“Jesus Christ, not this again?” Mac said, shooting Riles a disgusted look.

“Whatever,” Riles replied with a big grin, “I saw her try to get in your pants that night. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t let her.”

Heather had been at the pub a few months ago with a group of friends. Mac was there after work with Riley, Lich, and Rock, but not Sally, and the two groups eventually found themselves together. Heather was well served and, at the end of the night, horny. As they were getting ready to walk out of the pub, she made a less-than-subtle pass that Mac was forced to decline in front of the boys. Of course, with these guys around to see it, he never heard the end of it.

“Hey Mac,” Rock said, “there are worse things to live down than having Heather Foxx want to screw your brains out.”

“This is true,” Mac replied with an evil grin. “It’s one problem I have that you all never will.”

“Fucker,” Lich replied.

“Prick” and “Smartass” were added by Riles and Rock, respectively, as Mac parked the Explorer at the edge of the circular drive. Theirs was the last in a long line of cars, both police and private. Inside the front door, they found Chief Flanagan and Captain Peters awaiting their arrival. The group quickly ducked into a small, well-appointed study.

Charlie Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for nine years. The chief was an angular man with a shock of bright white hair that had, at one time, been an equally bright red. He was a thirty-four-year veteran of the force who worked his way up from uniform cop to chief the old-school way.

While usually a man of good cheer, tonight the chief was pensive and foul-mouthed. The daughter of one of his best friends had been abducted, and in his city, no less. Not only that, but the mayor, Hizzoner Ted Olson, and the FBI’s local agent in charge, Ed Duffy, were standing just outside their room, monitoring the chief’s every move. Neither of them had much love for the chief, nor he for them.

“Where are we at?” the chief demanded.

“We’ve got what apparently the media’s got,” Riles said.

“Which is?”

“Zip,” Riles started, opening his notebook. “She was taken in the parking lot behind the café. She was thrown into a white van, which we found in River Falls. The kidnappers burned it there. Doesn’t look like there was much left behind. We have some crime scene techs going out there. Who knows, they might turn something up.”

The chief sighed and ran his hand through his thinning hair. Peters asked the obvious.

“So you don’t think you’ll get anything?”

“Doubtful,” Mac replied. “The River Falls cops didn’t know they were dealing with a crime scene right away. Police and fire trampled all over the place and hosed up what evidence there might have been.”

“Maybe the FBI can help,” Peters replied.

“They’re in for sure then?” Rock asked.

“Yup,” the chief said. “As you saw, Ed Duffy is in the house.”

“Bet that makes you happy,” Lich said with a wry smile.

“Well, no it doesn’t. But let’s put that all aside tonight, shall we,” the chief replied. For whatever reason, the two men did not get along with one another. Duffy replaced an old friend of the chief’s whose career was unceremoniously brought to a premature end due to some management discrepancies. Duffy came in, aired the management issues, made changes, and did a little more end zone dancing about his predecessor’s departure than the chief thought appropriated. On top of that, Duffy was good friends with Mayor Olson. Chief Flanagan and Olson were also on the outs, the mayor tiring of the city’s long-serving police chief.

“I’m more worried about Shannon Hisle than fighting a turf war,” the chief continued. “The FBI can help.”

“Lyman’s political friends have been on the horn,” Peters added. “And apparently one of the bureau’s best on kidnapping is in town this week to work with local agents. He’s coming in on this.”

“Who’s the guy?” Mac asked.

“A fellow named Burton. John Burton,” Peters replied.

“That guy!” Riley replied, surprised. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Is he the guy who brought that judge’s daughter home? The one who was kidnapped by the white supremacists in Montana last summer?” Mac asked.

“He is,” Peters replied.

“I remember that,” Rock added. “That’s this guy? He won’t need us much.”

“He is that guy,” the chief replied. “But don’t worry, you boys are working this. That’s the way I want it. That’s the way Lyman wants it, and that’s the way the FBI will deal with it.”

“I saw the mayor hanging around out there,” Mac noted. “The four of us aren’t exactly his favorites.” That all stemmed from the PTA case last winter, not to mention a recent investigation into a cop killing. Rock and Mac, with Riley and Lich in tow, finished a controversial chase and shootout with an African-American suspect in the old Rondo neighborhood. There were complaints of excessive force and the shootout was in the news for weeks. The chief was unyielding in his support of his men, which led to political discomfort for the mayor. And if there was anything the mayor hated, it was political discomfort.

“Hizzoner pushed hard for the FBI’s involvement,” Peters said. Everyone groaned.

“Nice he has confidence in his department,” Mac commented.

“It is what it is,” the chief said. “But listen, I want to get Shannon back, so we eighty-six the political bullshit. Do you boys read me on that?”

Everyone nodded.

“How’s Lyman doing?” Mac asked

“About as well as could be expected,” the chief answered. “I can’t possibly imagine what he’s going through.”

“He wanted to see you guys when you got here.” Peters opened the door. “He’s back in his library.” Everyone fell in behind Peters, walking down the back hallway and into the library, where they found Lyman sitting at his desk. He was talking with Detective Frank Franklin, better known as Double Frank, as well as a few other dark suited men that they all recognized from the local FBI field office.

Mac made eye contact with Lyman, who broke away from the group and walked over. Mac gave him a hug.

“Michael, I’m glad you are here,” he said. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know Lyman, I know,” Mac answered quietly. “We’ll get her back.”

Lyman gripped Mac’s shoulders and looked at Lich, then to Riles and Rock as well.

“Gentlemen, it’s good to have you working on this.”

“We’ll do everything we can, Lyman, you know that,” Riles replied. Everyone else nodded.

“I know you men will; I know you will. Now, tell me where you’re at and don’t bullshit me. I need to know.”

Riles gave Lyman the rundown of what they had and then asked, “And I assume we haven’t heard from the kidnappers yet?”

“No,” Double Frank replied. “We’ll be ready when they call.”

Just then there was a commotion in the hallway and a rangy man with a shaved head strode into the room with Ed Duffy in tow. Duffy made the introduction, “Chief, Mr. Hisle, this is Special Agent John Burton.”

“Burton,” the chief replied, taking his hand. Then Flanagan paused and gave the FBI man a long look. “You look familiar for some reason.”

“I worked out of the Minneapolis office way back in the early nineties, Chief,” Burton replied. “Our paths crossed on occasion. I wondered if you would remember.”

“Good to have you,” Flanagan replied. “This is the girl’s father, and a friend of mine, Lyman Hisle.”

Hisle took Burton’s hand. “Word is you’re pretty good at this sort of thing,” Lyman said.

“I’ve had some success, sir. We’re going to do everything we can to get your daughter back.”

“Well, let me tell you one thing that will help you,” the chief said. “You keep my boys over here in the loop,” Flanagan waved toward Mac and the others. “They’re damn good.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Burton replied blandly, shaking hands and getting names. When he got to Mac, he held his hand an extra moment, “McRyan? Are you a relation of Simon McRyan?” Burton inquired with an unmistakable tone of respect.

“He was my father.”

Burton held the handshake and pointed, “He was a hell of a cop, son, a hell of a cop. You worked that PTA case with the CIA guys, right?”

“With these three,” Mac answered, gesturing to Riley, Rock, and Lich. Burton turned to the chief.

“Damn right I want to work with these guys.” There was noticeable approval in the FBI man’s voice. Then he looked to Riley, the senior officer.

“What do we know?” Riley gave the run down for what seemed like the tenth time. It didn’t sound any better no matter how many times he told it, Mac thought.

“Well, probably not a nut then,” Burton said.

“No,” Mac replied, “it was a well-orchestrated attack. These guys knew exactly what they were doing.”

• • • • •

It was dark now, approaching 10:00 p.m., but the temperature was still in the mid-seventies. It if weren’t for the fact he had just completed a kidnapping, it would have been a lovely night to be out for a drive, Smith thought. Apparently, many Minnesotans agreed. During the summer, Minnesota cabin owners tended to stay up north at their lake places as long as possible before trekking home for another week grinding away at their jobs. As a consequence, even at this late hour, an endless stream of headlights glowed for miles in the distance, coming in the opposite direction on Interstate 94. The mass of traffic heading back into the Twin Cities would be of assistance to him soon enough.

Smith approached the Clearwater exit, which was forty-five miles from the Twin Cities and eleven miles southeast of St. Cloud. He took the exit ramp up, turned right, and drove a quarter mile before turning right into the parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. The lot was full of weeds, plastic soda bottles, and discarded fast-food bags. He pulled his car up to the single pay phone on the side of the building, the back of the car facing the road.

He stepped out of the car with a duffel bag. At the phone, he reached into the bag and pulled out a plastic bag with ten dollars worth of quarters, a Dictaphone, and a portable voice changer. He attached the acoustic coupler to the handset and adjusted the selector switch for a low voice. He then reached with his gloved hand for the pay phone and put in enough quarters to cover his call back to the Twin Cities. He dialed the number and put the receiver to his head with his left hand and held the Dictaphone in his right hand.

• • • • •

“Here we go,” Burton said, jumping into action as the phone rang. Waving Lyman over, he put an arm around his shoulder, directing him. “Try to keep him on as long as you can,” Burton said to Lyman. “Keep him talking and maybe we get a fix on his position. Keep him going a little longer and maybe we can get somebody there. Get your daughter back! That’s your job, your mission here. Get her back. Keep him talking.”

On the third ring, Lyman picked up, “Lyman Hisle.”

The voice came over the intercom, obviously disguised.

“We have your daughter.”

“How do I know that? How do I know she’s alive?”

There was a muffled sound followed by a click and then the slow, quivering voice that made Lyman cringe.

“Daddy, I am okay. I have not been hurt. Please do as these men say, and I won’t be harmed. I love you…”

The tape cut off. There was another muffled sound, and a few seconds later the voice was back. “Satisfied?”

“No, I want to speak with her,” Lyman answered.

“That is all for now,” the voice answered.

“Wait,” Lyman pleaded, “I need to tell you something. Shannon is a diabetic.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you hearing me?” Lyman implored, stringing it out as best he could. “She’s a Type I diabetic. She requires daily injections of insulin. If she doesn’t get it, she can get very sick. She could go into a coma without it; she could die. What good is she to you if she’s dead? You have to help her with that.”

“Then you better do as we say,” the kidnapper replied.

“I won’t do that until I speak with her, so I can hear her voice, so I know that she’s okay.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, wait… Her insulin! She needs her insulin!” Lyman yelped, but the line was already dead. He looked helplessly to Burton as he slowly set the receiver back into the cradle. The chief went to his friend, putting an arm around him.

Burton looked to the agent working a laptop.

“Anything?”

The agent held his hand up while watching the screen.

“It’s coming… wait… Bingo! A landline… payphone, in… Clearwater.”

“Where’s that?” Burton asked.

“An hour northwest, up Interstate 94, toward St. Cloud,” the chief said, turning back to the group. “I take that exit going north to my cabin.”

Chapter Four

“He’s got options from here.”

The Explorer sped north, engine roaring, the siren and lights moving traffic out of the left lane as the needle on the speedometer passed one hundred. Mac worked the wheel, with Lich scanning a Minnesota map, checking out Clearwater. Riley and Rock were trailing in an unmarked sedan, alternately on the phone with the Clearwater Police, the State Patrol, Mac and Lich, as well as Burton and Peters.

Five miles from the exit, Mac said, “You know what was weird about the call?”

“What?” Lich asked.

“They didn’t ask for the ransom,” Mac replied. “If this is about ransom, why not ask for it right then?”

“They’ll call back, I’m sure,” Lich replied. “Maybe he figures if he stays on the line too long he’ll get pinched.”

“Maybe. Maybe. But something doesn’t seem right.”

“There’s nothing right about any of this.”

Mac hit the exit ramp, hammered the brakes, and turned hard right. Two state patrol cruisers, a Clearwater squad car, and a Sherburne County Suburban, lights flashing, clustered at a pay phone in the parking lot for an abandoned fast-food joint. Lich sighed.

“That’s what I feared.”

“What’s that?” Mac asked.

“He’s got options from here.”

“Options?”

Lich pointed at the map, where Interstate 94 and State Highway 10 bracketed their position. Mac understood immediately.

“He could make the call and go north on County Road 24 for four miles, which gets him to State Highway 10, or he could go left and back over to 94,” Lich said.

“Or just stay south on 24, which will take you toward Annandale and Maple Lake twenty miles to the south,” Mac added. “Shit.”

“And if he jumps onto 94 heading back to the cities, with the traffic coming home from up north, he just blends in with everyone else,” Lich said glumly as he climbed out. Riles and Rock were out of their car, and Riles immediately started in.

“Shit, he could go any number of ways…”

“…out of here,” Mac finished.

“We know,” Lich said with disgust. “He has options.”

The area around the phone had been taped off by the locals. Forensics personnel from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA) would arrive shortly and begin processing the scene. The Clearwater police chief, a pot belly man named Billy Miller, introduced himself and then ran it down.

“No surveillance cameras, this old burger stand’s been closed for over a year now.”

“How about at the convenience store across the road, Chief? Is there any surveillance over there?”

“A trooper went over and asked and looked at their surveillance system. But…”

“You can’t see anything across the road and into this parking lot,” Mac said, shaking his head.

“Correct,” Miller replied.

“Are we checking with all these businesses, gas stations, and restaurants around here?” Riley asked.

“My two guys are on it,” Miller answered, “along with a couple of troopers. They’ve been at it for a half hour, but as far as I know, they haven’t come up with anything.”

They turned and watched as the BCA folks arrived and began walking around with flashlights, fingerprinting the telephone, bagging everything in sight. The effort was being made.

“Maybe the BCA will turn up something,” Rock said unconvincingly.

Miller shook his head, downcast as the rest of them.

“I don’t suspect much will be found, and when he rolls out of here…”

“We know,” Rock replied, waving to County Road 24. “He’s got options.”

• • • • •

11:42 p.m.

Smith dropped the car at the Park & Fly, which was emptier now, and jumped back into the van. Inside the van, he revved the engine and turned the radio to the talk station. The kidnapping of Shannon Hisle was big news, and the talking heads were focused on it. Of course, so were the nuts, all of whom were frothing at the mouth, ranting for all to hear.

“I agree, it was a brazen act in broad daylight,” the host responded to a caller.

“Well, with something like that, it’s just further evidence that people should be carrying a gun to defend themselves. If this girl had a gun, she could have defended herself.”

“Well, as all you listeners know I’m an ardent supporter of the Second Amendment, conceal and carry,” the host responded, “but I think that response is perhaps an overreaction…”

Smith smiled at this as he turned left onto Shepard Road, motoring east back to the safe house. A gun wouldn’t have mattered for Hisle. Even if she did have one, Dean was on her so fast she never could have used it. But what really made him smile was the environment such coverage created—of people behaving hysterically, stupidly, carrying guns, calling the police to report every little thing, distracting them from the task at hand. It was perfect.

And then he smiled again.

If people were hysterical now, just wait until his next plan went into effect.

Chapter Five

“Only the paranoid survive.”

It was after midnight when Mac pulled back into Lyman’s driveway. The crowd had thinned some, but there were plenty of folks hanging around, family, friends, and media, all hoping for a break.

The group made its way back to Lyman’s office and found him, the chief, Burton, Duffy, Peters, and the mayor quietly talking. For now, it appeared that the chief, the mayor, and Duffy were all tolerating one another. The chief had to be chafing. They learned on the way back that the mayor wanted the FBI to take a prominent role and had essentially forced it on the chief. Mac imagined that, when they got in private with no mayor, no Duffy, and no Burton around, the chief would swear a blue streak.

“Nothing, I assume?” the chief said.

“We crapped out,” Riles replied.

“No surveillance cameras?” Burton asked.

Everyone just shook their heads.

“Probably wouldn’t have mattered,” the chief said. “I know the place. It’s right on County 24 up there and when he pulls out of the parking lot…”

“He’s got options,” they all replied in unison.

“Plus, if the abduction is any indication, even if there was surveillance or we got a plate, I’ll bet you it was stolen,” Mac said. “These guys have thought this through. They knew exactly what they were doing and were gone like that.” He snapped his fingers, a little admiration in his voice.

The group hashed over the abduction, River Falls and Clearwater all over again, but a sense of helplessness, at least for the time being, pervaded the room. If there was to be any progress, it would come from Lyman’s files, some tip, or a mistake by the kidnappers. Finally, the chief suggested Lyman try to get some rest.

“One thing I want to do first,” Lyman said as he reached inside a duffel bag. “I prepared a couple of these black bags while you were gone.” He handed one to Mac and one to Riley. “The bag contains a vial of Glucagon, a needle, and a syringe. You would administer this if her sugar is too low.”

“Wouldn’t she need insulin?” Mac asked.

“She may and I’ve included a vial of that as well. I’ve also included a spare glucose meter. If you find her, depending upon when the last time she took insulin was and depending upon what her blood sugar is, she may need either Glucagon or insulin. Are you familiar with this, Mac?”

“I used one once,” Mac said.

“Me, too,” Riles added.

“Good. But as a refresher for you guys, here is what you do.” Hisle showed the group the contents and instructed them in administering the proper dosage.

Mac asked the hard question.

“How long can she go without insulin?”

“It’s hard to say,” Hisle answered. “She has had some episodes in the past where she went without insulin for just a few days and got very sick. So it depends upon when she last took insulin and I suppose whether she has any with her and they let her take it. If she hasn’t been diligent and she doesn’t have any with her she could have issues within a few days. So it just depends on when she last had insulin. Did you find her purse at Cel’s?”

“No,” Mac answered, “just her cell phone and keys.”

“Well, if they have her purse, hopefully she’ll have an extra dose or two with her. She should. I’ve always told her she needs to do that, but she’s a college kid. If she has insulin with her and they allow her to take it, she shouldn’t have a problem, at least not for a few days. If she doesn’t have insulin with her, she doesn’t get the proper food, and then if this goes for a while, it could be an issue, a big issue.”

“What do you mean by a big issue?” Mac pressed.

“If she goes too long without insulin, she can become disoriented and then eventually pass out. If it goes beyond that, she could end up in a coma. That almost happened once a few years ago.”

“So if we find her, we give her some insulin or Glucagon and that should help get her blood sugar back in line.”

“At least until she gets medical attention. She knows what to do if she has insulin and food available.”

“Then let’s hope they’re taking care of her,” Burton said. “I expect they will. If there is a demand for ransom, which is what we’re hoping for here, they’ll take care of her.”

“If anything comes up, anything at all, we’ll let you know,” the chief said. “But for now, my friend, you need to try to get some sleep,” the chief added as he walked Lyman out of the library and put him in the custody of his sister, who would take him across the house to his room. Hisle was spent and exhausted. He needed to rest, although sleep would likely prove elusive.

Once sure that Lyman was gone, Lich cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Are we sure Lyman is in the clear?” Mac shot Lich a look, as did a few others, but he was undeterred.

“I’m sorry, but the question has to be asked.”

“And it’s been answered,” the chief answered sternly. “Lyman’s clear.”

“Burton and I put him through the paces,” Peters added.

“For the record,” Lich replied, noting the looks from others, “I didn’t think he had anything to do with it. But I thought a prudent investigator should ask the question.”

Mac took his chance to change topics.

“So what do you think? Is this all about money?” he asked Burton. There was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“That’s certainly a part of it,” Burton replied and added confidently, “and if it is, we’ll have a good shot at catching them.”

“Because of the drop?” Lich asked.

“Exactly,” Burton replied, “Hell, I always pray it’s about the money. If it’s about the money, the person kidnapped stands a better chance of making it. The other thing is that if it’s about the money, that gives us a good chance of catching them because they have to pick up the money. That’s when we get ‘em.”

“What are the odds on the drop?” Peters asked.

“Overall, really good,” Burton answered confidently. “Like I said, they have to expose themselves to get the ransom, that’s when we can catch them.”

“What about doing the money electronically?” Lich asked.

“Nah,” Mac answered before Burton could answer, “I’d think it would be easier for the FBI to track that. Especially as good as the government has gotten on that with the war on terror.”

“You’re mostly correct about that,” Burton answered. “Since 9/11, I haven’t had anyone try it on me that way, at least on a domestic kidnapping. If you have someone, however, who’s really good at the electronic transfer process, and moves it to countries that have been less than helpful, then it could be an issue, although in the end we’d still probably be able to track it down.”

“We’re talking money here, aren’t we being just a little presumptuous? I mean, they didn’t demand the ransom when they called,” Mac stated and then he turned to Burton. “Does that strike you as odd?”

Burton was nonplussed. “A little. But I’m pretty confident they’ll get to it. Given how they’ve operated thus far, I sense we’re only part way into whatever it is they have planned.”

“You’re thinking this is only about money though?” Riley pressed.

“Not necessarily,” Burton answered. “I suspect there is a personal element to this as well. These guys aren’t crazy. What they did was well planned, well thought out. They picked Shannon Hisle for a reason, and that reason may well have something to do with her, or…”

“Or more likely her father,” Mac finished. “Lyman has represented a lot of high-profile people and taken on a lot of high-profile cases. Somebody certainly could have it in for him.”

“So I’ve been told,” Burton said. “So we need to be looking at his associates, clients, everyone he’s come into contact with over the years.”

“Man, that’s a lot of people,” Lich said, running a hand over his bald head. “That could be hundreds of people.”

“More likely thousands, given clients, friends, political contacts, business contacts,” Riles tallied.

“Speaking of clients, that will be the deepest pool we’ll fish from, have we started that process?” Burton inquired.

“I’ve started the process of looking through his client files,” Peters said. “I’m not getting too much flack from his law firm. We’ll have files to look at first thing in the morning. They’re trucking them over to our place.”

“Criminal and civil?” Mac asked.

“We should probably focus on his criminal clientele,” the chief said.

“What about his civil cases?” Mac asked. “Lyman’s done a lot of work there. I don’t want to forget those.”

“We can and should look at those well,” Burton answered, looking to Peters for confirmation.

Peters nodded.

“Good,” Burton replied. “However, I think the chief is right. The criminal files are the better bet, at least to start with.”

“Even looking at just the criminal files, it’s going to be a long list,” Peters pointed out. “And if we find someone in these files worth looking at, it’ll be a bear to track them down.”

“Indeed,” Duffy said. Burton snorted his disagreement.

“Difficult? Yes. But we have all of the FBI’s resources at our disposal,” he said. He turned to Peters, adding, “What’s mine is yours. We’ll hook you up with everything we’ve got, including manpower. Just let me know what you need, and we’ll make it happen.”

“I appreciate it,” Peters said, taking out his cell phone and calling downtown.

“No problem,” Burton replied. “Look, technology is our strength. We can find patterns, tap phones, conduct electronic surveillance, run censuses, and create spreadsheets like nobody’s business.” Nodding to Mac and the boys, he smiled. “You guys are good street cops, not always the bureau’s strong suit. I need to have you guys looking over the data we get, checking the possibilities we find, talking to your folks on the street. A cop is only as good as his informants, and around here, you guys are the ones who have them. Let’s share and stay in touch.”

“We can do that,” Riles agreed.

“Good,” Burton answered, rubbing his hands together, on a roll now. “I’m going to have my team in first thing tomorrow, three men and two women. Everything we collect, no matter from where, we feed in to the team and see what we come up with. It’s a process that’s worked well for us, helped us get people back. Add that to your resources and we have a shot at bringing the girl home in one piece.”

“Sounds good,” Peters replied. “Where do you want to work out of, your local office?”

“You can run out of your place,” Duffy added, “We’ll run out of our…”

Burton cut Duffy off, “No. No. No. Ed. We’ll run everything from the police department headquarters. If we’re split, we’re not sharing information and we get dumbass turf wars, people trying to one-up each other. Us Fed types are classic for that. I don’t care who cracks this thing. I know that doesn’t necessarily sound right to all of you, but I really don’t care. So let’s work it together; feed your information to my team on the technical side, and you can access anything you need. You feed us what you’re hearing on the street, and we’ll crack this thing. And getting back to business, when is it again we’ll have Hisle’s files to work through?”

“First thing in the morning,” Peters answered.

“So until it’s ready, you boys get some sleep,” the chief ordered.

• • • • •

Mac quietly opened the door to the bedroom and went to his side of the bed. He lightly laid his wallet, badge, and watch on the nightstand and looked down at Sally lying under the bed sheet, wearing a red teddy, looking beautiful.

He had met her eight months earlier. Sally Kennedy was the prosecutor on the case where he made his name. Mac was immediately attracted to her long red hair, curvaceous body, perfect bright smile, and passion for everything. Not to mention, she was smart, tough as nails, and a damn fine prosecutor.

Both were recently divorced when they met, and both were looking to get back into the dating game. But they knew it right away—they were right for one another. The relationship quickly moved beyond dating, and they were now practically living together. Well, there was no practically about it—there were half-emptied boxes all over the house and far too much furniture. Some of it would have to go into storage—the two of them just hadn’t figured out which pieces yet. His mother, a devout Catholic, of course protested the living arrangement prior to moving in.

“That’s living in sin,” she had lectured.

“I’m already divorced, Mom. What could I possibly have to lose in God’s eyes at this point?”

“Well at least make her an honest woman then,” his mother said.

“Mom, don’t even go there,” Mac had replied. He and Sally hadn’t even uttered the word. It was as if there was an unspoken agreement to not discuss marriage. Their divorces left them both scarred and fearful of the “m” word, but not commitment. They loved each other, said so to each other often and were very happy together. For now, that was enough for both of them.

Sally woke as he put his keys down.

“Tell me. Is it as bad as it seems on the news?”

“Right now, yes,” Mac answered and then brought her up to date. “I don’t know,” he finished. “Something about this is off.”

“They didn’t make the ransom demand, perhaps?”

“That’s exactly it, babe. It’s got me wondering,” Mac replied, nodding. “Nobody else seems terribly bothered by that, but I thought it was odd. I figured the kidnappers would want to move quickly on that before we had a chance to start digging. Instead they’re giving us a chance to start the hunt.”

“But the kidnappers said they want money.”

“They didn’t say that specifically. It sounds like they do, their actions suggest they do, everyone assumes that’s the case, but there was not a specific demand made. But if that’s what they’re after, not asking for it right away is strange in my mind.”

“Maybe they’re after Shannon,” Sally offered. “It could be they want her.”

Mac shook his head. “Naw. If that’s what they wanted, why call? Just to be sadistic? I don’t think so. I don’t think harming Shannon for the sake of harming her is part of the game here.”

“So they’re not crazy.”

“Other than kidnapping a woman in broad daylight in the middle of a big city—no.”

“It sounds like they’ve planned it well so far,” Sally noted.

“That’s for sure. The abduction was ballsy, but it was done with precision and planning.”

“They sound like they’re good,” Sally replied. “And from what you’re telling me, the pay phone, on that road, left him…”

“…with options,” Mac finished, frustration seeping into his voice. “Damn it. To me, abductions are the worst. You know something bad is coming and you’re almost powerless to stop it, no matter how hard you try.” He undid his shorts. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he grumbled.

Mac went into the bathroom and started the shower, letting the water heat up. The house was over seventy years old and had a bathroom that, while remodeled, retained its original charm and fixtures. The shower poured water into a long and wide cast-iron bathtub.

Climbing inside the shower, he tilted his head up and let the warm water wash over his head while he had both arms up against the wall of the shower. He needed to unwind. For five minutes he let the shower loosen his muscles, letting his mind clear. The shower curtain slid open and Sally stepped into the shower behind him. He turned to say something, but she put her fingers to his mouth and then kissed him lightly.

“I know you. You’re all wound up.” She reached for the soap. “I’m going to help you relax. Otherwise you’re no good to Lyman, and he needs you.”

Mac didn’t fight it and just let the water run down his body while Sally soaped his back and lightly rubbed his muscles, letting her breasts brush lightly against his back. After a few minutes of washing and rubbing, she spoke.

“What about the FBI? They’re in?”

“Yes,” Mac replied, not moving. “We’re lucky… I guess. Their best kidnapping guy—this guy named John Burton—was coming to town to do some training, so now he’s working it.”

Sally detected his uncertain tone.

“What’s the problem with the FBI guy?” she asked, washing around his right hip.

“I don’t know, he was awfully…”

“What?”

“Helpful. Seemed like a good guy.”

“And that’s bad?” Sally asked, lightly reaching around him, washing lightly down his lower stomach, moving ever lower.

“No, except…” Mac hesitated, Sally’s hand having gone very low. He was about to turn to her when she lightly pushed him back into place.

“Juuuust relaaaaax,” she murmured, moving the soap to her left hand, “and tell me about the FBI guy.”

Mac did as he was told and let her continue washing and relaxing him.

“He said all the right things. ‘We’re here to help, we’ll coordinate with you, access to everything they have, anything you need, we’re going to get Hisle’s girl back,’ so on and so forth.”

“Again, that’s bad?” Sally replied, coming around in front of him.

Mac smiled—a small wan one.

“The FBI can often be territorial and condescending. They consider the local cops to be good for traffic control, writing parking tickets, breaking up domestics—and maybe, just maybe, a run-of-the-mill homicide. We usually don’t have college or law degrees, nor have we gone through the mystical Quantico. We’re not the almighty F-B-fuckin’-I.”

“You’re paranoid, you know that?”

“Only the paranoid survive.”

Sally laughed and then continued.

“I’ve heard that about the FBI before, but they want to make the case just like you do. They want to get Shannon back—maybe not at the emotional level that you do, but they want to get her back just the same.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, leaning down and kissing her on the lips. She returned the kiss, slowly putting her arms up around his neck and pulling him to her. After kissing him deeply, Sally pulled away and looked Mac in the eye as she slowly guided him down onto the bottom of the tub and then followed, straddling his body while kissing him deeply, probing with her soft, moist tongue. Mac pulled his mouth away.

“Is this what you meant by relaxing me?” he whispered.

“Uh huh,” Sally replied in a hushed moan. She rose up and let Mac softly suckle on her breasts while she eased him in, the water of the shower cascading down on their bodies. Sally slowly increased her pace, breathing faster and arching her back, her breasts flattening. Mac responded to her need, pulling her hips closer and pushing his thighs up so that her back rested against them. He moved his hips faster and in rhythm with her, causing her moans to become louder. He felt the wet ends of her hair brush against his legs as he brought her close to climax. And then, as she so often did when they made love, she brought her mouth back to his, breathing heavily and moaning lightly as she came, her body trembling, causing him to respond in kind, as he exhaled a breath into her mouth, his lips brushing against hers.

As the water continued to flow down, the two lay in a silent embrace, looking in each other’s eyes, quietly catching their breath. After a minute, Sally sat up, and he looked into her deep green eyes.

“I love you, you know that?” he murmured.

“Yeah, I do,” she replied softly, leaning back down, and gently kissing him on the lips. “The feeling is quite mutual.”

Chapter Six

“What are we looking for?”

MONDAY, JULY 2ND

7:54 a.m.

Mac, Lich, Riley, and Rock were joined by a half dozen other detectives milling around in a conference room, mixing coffee, and talking the case. Burton and his crew, along with Duffy, joined them with a quick exchange of pleasantries and introductions.

The map of the area around the café was tacked to the left side of a bulletin board. Pictures of the scene and a sketch of the woman suspected of signaling the kidnappers were pinned up on the right. The St. Paul cops and FBI agents discussed the situation that was less than sixteen hours old. A couple of hours of sleep and contemplation provided no answers, only more questions.

Peters walked in and called everyone together.

“I’ve got two things,” he announced through a yawn. “First, this is a list compiled by Hisle of former clients that he thinks might have the ability to pull this off.”

“What’s the second thing?” Rock asked.

Peters turned and into the room came men with boxes on dollies.

“We’ve got boxes and boxes of Hisle’s old criminal files coming, stuff from his firm and an off-site storage place. We need to start digging through it all.”

“What are we looking for?” someone asked.

“You’re the cops, you tell me,” Peters replied edgily. He was sleep deprived, all of them were. He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Sorry, it’s been a long night. What you’re looking for, it’s a little bit of you-know-it-when-you-see-it. These guys yesterday set up and executed a complicated plan. In looking through the client files, does anyone strike you as having the ability to develop and execute such a plan? It wouldn’t necessarily have to be a kidnapping. Lyman’s represented jewel thieves, break-in artists, confidence guys, and the leaders of some crews who specialized in high-end crimes. Not to mention all the white-collar criminals he’s represented. So, if you run across anyone who has pulled off or was accused of pulling off an elaborate, well-planned crime, let’s take a look at them.”

“It also could be someone who wasn’t a client,” someone else noted.

“That’s right,” Peters said. “This is just one avenue to pursue. We’re looking at other angles as well. We’re talking to Hisle’s family, her roommates, her friends to see if anyone unusual was hanging around, any strange phone calls, angry ex-boyfriends, etcetera.”

“Anything from the café or over in River Falls?” someone asked.

“Not yet,” was Peters’s response. “BCA and FBI are going through it all, but our sense is, don’t hold your breath.”

“How about from the Clearwater phone?”

“Ditto,” Peters replied.

“These guys know what they’re doing and probably have a pretty good idea of what we’ll be doing,” Mac added. “So we’re not just looking for someone who would have something against Lyman. We’re looking for someone who has something against Lyman and the mental acuity to pull it off without a trace.”

“Mental acuity?” Lich whispered mockingly. “What the fuck’s mental acuity?”

“Something you don’t have, knuckle-dragger,” Mac snickered back, though Lich possessed plenty of it.

“One other thing,” Captain Peters added, pointing to four other people who entered the room. “These are lawyers from Hisle’s office. They’re in a…” the captain struggled for the right works. “…a difficult spot. There are some attorney-client issues related to our reviewing the files. These lawyers will help with that.”

“How will they help?” Lich asked.

“By helping us work through the files. They have clearance from the Minnesota Lawyers Professional Responsibility Board for us to access the files. But at the same time, we don’t know if anyone in these files is even involved with this. So there needs to be some sensitivity to that.”

“So what’s going to happen?” Double Frank asked. “Are they going to read it first and tell us if something’s relevant? What we think matters and what they think matters could be entirely different.”

Summer Plantagenate, one of the Hisle’s lawyers, spoke up.

“We’re not going to pre-screen for you. You can look at everything. We’re more concerned with where the information goes after you review it, especially for people you conclude are not involved. My firm needs to protect those folks, so that’s where we could have issues. But you can access everything and we’ll go from there.”

That answer satisfied everyone. Coats were jettisoned, more coffee was brewed and poured—and boxes were opened. Mac sidled up to Summer, whom he’d known since law school, their time at William Mitchell overlapping. She had recently been named a partner at Lyman’s firm and was viewed by many as his protégé. Always immaculately dressed, Summer was a cool customer, and an attractive woman with icy blonde hair and a cool demeanor to match. That demeanor caused some to call her “Winter.” But at the moment, it wasn’t hard to see the anguish on her face. Not only was Lyman like a father to her, she also knew Shannon Hisle well.

“So you guys get to work the other side of a case, huh?” Mac asked.

“Yes, we have to,” was her short reply. The attorneys were there to help, but also ethically bound to protect their clients’ interests. Letting the police rifle through clients’ files created an ethical quandary for any attorney.

“So what do we have here?”

“All of Lyman’s criminal files, both from the office and from off-site storage,” Summer replied.

“How about his civil stuff?” Mac asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Burton walked up as Summer answered.

“It’ll be here soon,” Summer answered. “Agent Burton and the chief think this is coming from the criminal side, and I tend to agree with them, but the civil files are coming just the same. We’ll get them over here by early afternoon.”

Mac nodded, recalling the conversation from the night before, and began to survey the mass of files, running a hand through his hair.

“You’ve worked for him for a while.” He asked, “Does anyone come to mind that would have the ability to pull this off?”

“I’ve been racking my brain on this, but no,” she replied. “But some of these files go back long before my time, so there are names I’m not familiar with. I mean, there are files that have old dittos with the yellow and pink carbons.”

Mac and Lich flipped the top off a box and started working a file. The folders had notes, photos, statements, news clippings, and listings of evidence. For the next four hours, the group worked through the file folders, reading through cases and names, some of which were familiar to the cops in the room. Detectives made frequent comments on the file notes and the lawyer’s written evaluations of the detectives involved in the case. A few inspired snide comments directed at the attorneys in the room.

Possible suspects went into a pile so that current whereabouts could be determined. Detectives, vice cops, uniforms in plain clothes, and local FBI were already out on the streets, interviewing potentials. If something didn’t seem right, the cops or agents were to bring the potentials in for further questioning. It was tedious work, reading through case notes, getting a feel for Lyman’s clients, their families, and witnesses in the case. Problem was, everyone was a potential suspect, whether a client, witness, or victim.

Mac was reading through a file when he ran across the name Bobby Jacobs. The name rang a bell.

“I remember this guy,” he said to himself. Bobby Jacobs was the debonair leader of a clever crew that the chief, a detective back then, had busted after a jewelry store heist. It was suspected that Jacobs had been involved in many high-end robberies: a bank, an armored car, and even homes, but the chief had no evidence to tie Jacobs to any of the others. None, that was, until the chief busted a fence, who, in an effort to avoid a long prison stretch, spilled the beans about fencing for the Jacobs crew. Jacobs ended up with a much longer sentence, even though he’d been represented by Lyman. That might be motive.

“Riles?”

“Yeah.”

“You remember Bobby Jacobs?”

“Hell yes,” Riles said with a smile. “One of the best damn crews I ever saw. Best the chief ever saw. They were damn good.”

“He had fourteen years in the can; he’d be out by now wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah he would, except…”

“Except what?”

“He’s dead.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, he died of cancer a few years ago while still serving the tail end of his sentence out at Stillwater.”

“How about the rest of that crew?”

Riles looked skeptical.

“Jacobs was the brains of that operation. The other guys made for a good crew, had good skills and all, but Bobby ran the show. But you know what?” Pat added, “Bobby Jacobs and people like him are what we should be looking at.”

Mac kept at it. He was looking through a file covering a builder who defrauded a loan company when Peters burst into the room, white as a ghost, shock on his face.

“What is it?” Riles asked, seeing the fear in Peters’s face. “Is it Shannon?”

Peters shook his head. “No. It’s worse than that. There’s been another abduction.”

“Who?” Mac asked, getting out of his chair and grabbing his suit coat.

“Carrie,” Peters responded. “Carrie Flanagan.”

That stopped everyone in their tracks, the room falling deathly silent.

“Flanagan? Any relation to the chief?” Burton cautiously asked Peters, who nodded slowly, responding in almost a croak.

“It’s his daughter.”

Chapter Seven

“People see parts but not the whole thing.”

The crime scene was Fairview Avenue between Summit and Grand Avenues on St. Paul’s far west side. Half a dozen squads were already on the scene, concentrated around the entrance to a parking lot of a natural foods store at the northeast corner of Fairview and Grand Avenues. Another cluster of cops worked the entrance to an alley on the opposite side of the street. The abduction had taken place in the midst of a commercial area bounded by the natural foods store, a small bank across Fairview, and a couple of restaurants across Grand.

Patrol was holding everyone, asking questions, taking notes, talking on radios. Sirens signaled more units were on the way, flooding the area around the crime scene. The whole of Fairview Avenue between Summit and Grand was already taped off. Any van within the area was being pulled over. A helicopter hovered overhead. The media, on alert since yesterday for any breaking news, was already on the scene, filming the action. With the noon hour just minutes away, they’d be reporting live on the news shows. Dozens of onlookers were gathering around despite the weather, already ninety-two degrees with matching humidity.

Mac and the others climbed out of the Explorer, walked under the crime scene tape and took in the scene. Outside his truck only thirty seconds, Mac could feel the sweat beading on his brow, his sunglasses fighting to keep the glare of the day out. He checked his watch, 11:57 a.m., the sun directly overhead now, the heat of the day rising.

A uniform cop named D.B. Skrypek ran up with a notepad.

“Whatcha ya got, Pecker?” Mac asked, using the patrolman’s well-worn nickname.

Skrypek pointed to the entrance to the natural foods store. “A black van, panel type, came out of the grocery store parking lot and turned left. A guy—big guy—came out of the alley on the other side of the street behind the bank, scooped up Flanagan, and threw her into the van while it was on the move. The van then peeled off and turned right, headed west on Grand. Sounds like the same thing as yesterday.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Do we have a broadcast out on that? Black van, etcetera?” Mac asked, looking around the scene, using his hand to shade his eyes.

“Yes,” Skrypek replied.

“How long between their taking her and us getting it out on the air? How long before we were pulling over vans?”

The young patrolman’s shoulders slumped.

“The witnesses,” he pointed toward a group of four people by his squad car, “seem to think it took us two or three minutes to get here. I asked a few questions and put it out. At best, it’s five, more likely six or seven minutes before we got it out.”

“How do we know it was Carrie? Are we sure?” Riles asked.

“A guy that Carrie works with at Lamonica’s Pizza over there was standing out front and sweeping the sidewalk,” Skrypek answered. “He heard a squealing of tires and looked up in time to see a brunette woman who looked like Flanagan get scooped up and thrown into the van. Her shift starts at 11:45 a.m., after her class ends over at St. Thomas, just in time for the lunch rush.”

Carrie Flanagan was a summer student at the University of St. Thomas, which sat six blocks to the west. The campus was a classic, with old stone buildings and ivy-covered walls set on the north side of Summit Avenue.

“The Lamonica’s guy told me Flanagan has an apartment a block further east on Grand,” Skrypek continued. “She usually walks the five or six blocks over to the school and then walks back this way along Summit, then takes a right on Fairview and comes to the pizza joint. She hasn’t showed for her shift, so we’re pretty sure it was her.”

Before they could discuss matters further, Burton pulled up with his entourage. Riles gave him the rundown.

“What’s the connection between Hisle and Flanagan?” Burton asked.

“We don’t know,” Pat replied. “The chief and Lyman have been involved in a lot of cases over the years. Hell, we’ve all… crossed… paths with… Lyman… over the years. Shit. Are we all the targets?”

“Shit,” Rock said, suddenly panicked. “My wife…”

“I gotta call Dot,” Lich said, reaching for his cell phone.

“Let’s get uniforms with spouses and kids,” Burton ordered.

“Hold it! Hold it! HOLD IT!” Mac said, putting his hands up. “Calm the heck down and keep your heads, for cripes’ sake. They’re not taking everyone right this minute. We’ll get uniforms on our people and move them. But right now, we need to stay on Carrie. Let’s concentrate on these mother fuckers in the here and now.”

Everyone gave Mac a peeved look at first, but then quickly calmed, realizing he was right.

“McRyan has a point,” Burton said. “Though just to be safe, I’ll put a man on arranging protection for your families.”

Everyone nodded appreciation. Riley quickly got back to the case.

“Okay, so what do we know now?”

“We’ve got to work this,” Mac said.

“Lyman’s a criminal lawyer, and we got the chief,” Lich said. “That’s the connection, someone the chief busted and Lyman represented. The answer has to be in the criminal files.”

“That’s the most logical connection, and we’re already fishing in that pond,” Burton agreed. “That should narrow things down considerably, especially once we start matching up against cases Flanagan’s worked. That’s where all our resources will go now. We were going to start into civil cases as well but now we need to focus on those criminal files.”

“We got to get the chief and Lyman together,” Riles added. “Get them talking. If this is connected, which you’d think it has to be, then maybe there’s a name that will ring a bell to them.”

“We’re going to see Flanagan,” Burton said, turning back to his black Suburban. “You guys run the scene here. If these were our guys, the chief’s apt to be getting a phone call and I want to be there.”

“Burton,” Riles said, grabbing his arm, walking along with him. “You better have Rockford and I go with you. The chief’s going to need friendly faces.”

“The other thing is, we need Hisle as well,” Burton said.

“Agreed,” Riles answered, reaching for his pocket. “I’ll call Peters and ask him to bring Hisle in.”

“Mac, you and Lich work this,” Riles said, the urgency in his voice clear. “You work this fuckin’ scene.”

• • • • •

For the next hour, Mac and Lich worked the witnesses, standing where they stood, going over what they saw in detail, walking through it again and again. Mac went so far as to put the witnesses back in their spots, trying to get a picture for the abduction. He had them close their eyes and describe it, wringing every last detail out of their memories. It was frustrating work—the witnesses all saw parts of things, but nobody saw the whole thing.

Carrie’s coworker saw a brunette, who he thought was Carrie, get picked up and thrown into the van. He took down the plate. The plate was reported stolen, but didn’t match up with a van.

A female pedestrian, who had just crossed Summit seventy-five yards or so back from Flanagan, noted that the guy who threw the girl into the van was large and muscular. He wore a baseball cap, a black long sleeve shirt, and blue jeans. That was the extent of her description.

An elderly woman had been putting groceries in her car. She noted the squealing of tires and saw the van pull out, slow down in front of the alley, and then pull away and turn right on Grand Avenue. She knew the van was a Chevy Express Cargo, just like her son drove.

A St. Thomas student in a football jersey said that the driver was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses and had black gloves on his hands.

By the time Mac and Lich interviewed everyone, they thought they had a pretty good idea of what had happened. Carrie had been walking down the sidewalk on the west side of Fairview, going south, having left the St. Thomas campus on her way to work. The black van had been parked in the grocery store parking lot on the east side of Fairview, the perfect position to see her coming. The van probably signaled the man in the alley so that he could time it perfectly, coming to the alley opening just as Carrie reached it. When the man in the alley moved, the van pulled out of the grocery store parking lot, turned left, slowed long enough for the man from the alley to throw Flanagan inside, and then took a right on Grand Avenue.

From there it got a little sketchy. Mac looked at his notes. The van drove six blocks west to Cretin Avenue. One witness said he thought that the van turned right on Cretin Avenue, heading toward Interstate 94, a mile or so north. Another thought the van had turned left on Cretin, which takes you south toward Ford Parkway through a much more residential area. When Mac thought about it, he bet it was a right turn to the interstate, the quickest way out of the area.

“Man, it’s like yesterday,” Lich said. “People see parts but not the whole thing.”

“I hear ya,” Mac said, shaking his head. “The whole thing happens fast. Before anyone really realizes what happened, these guys are gone like that—” He snapped his fingers.

“In broad daylight no less,” Lich said, shaking his head, chewing harder on his unlit cigar.

“In the chief’s city, Dick. Not in Minneapolis. Not in some suburb. But in his own fuckin’ backyard.”

“These guys are good,” Lich said. “They’re really good.”

“They scouted this, Dick.” Mac agreed. “They knew she worked today. They knew when she would be coming and where she’d be coming from. They timed it perfectly. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t have someone watching her on campus and following her over here, over what, the six or seven blocks from campus.”

Lich looked at Mac closely.

“Is anyone pulling surveillance footage on campus?”

Dick was right. Mac whistled to Odegard and Goth, two uniform cops who quickly came over.

“Go over to St. Thomas. Find out what class Flanagan was in. Get campus security and get their surveillance footage. We think someone might have been giving these guys the eyeball.”

The two officers nodded and jogged away.

The two detectives stood with hands on hips for a few minutes, peering around, contemplating what happened and their next move. Mac took a white hanky out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He could feel the sweat forming on his body. Lich broke the silence.

“You don’t suppose,” he asked, “there’s something the chief and Lyman don’t want us to know, do you?”

“What the fuck?” Mac growled, turning on Lich, getting in his face.

“Easy partner, easy,” Lich replied, putting his hands up. “I know how close you are to the chief. But we got two girls missin’ here. So somebody ought to ask the hard question. Were the chief and Hisle up to something?”

“No way,” Mac replied, shaking his head.

“Well they sure as hell pissed someone off,” Lich replied.

“They did, but no way. Not in a million years,” Mac answered coolly. He pulled his sunglasses off to look Lich in the eye.

After a minute, Dick backed down and shook his head.

“I don’t think so either.”

“Then why the fuckin’ question?” Mac asked.

“Because your ability to detect bullshit is better than anyone’s I’ve ever seen,” Lich replied. “If you’re not thinking that, then I feel better, that’s all. But Mac,” Dick continued, “the question had to be asked and you know it. And I’ll tell you another thing: I’m not going to be the last one to ask it. You know King Burton and his pinstriped FBI court will be thinking it. And take a look at the frickin’ media. They’ll be taking connections, conspiracy theories, and scandals before 5:00 and they’ll be doing their own investigating on this, prying into the lives of the chief and Hisle.”

Mac nodded quietly, knowing his partner was probably right. He’d have probably asked the question himself but for the fact the chief was involved. But then something else occurred to him.

“You know how I said last night this could be personal? That maybe it wasn’t just about money?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m right. If you just want money, you don’t kidnap the chief of police’s daughter in his city.”

“The chief has money, Mac,” Lich answered. “His wife’s family. The money from the logging up north. They’ve got millions.”

“Sure, we’ll get a ransom demand,” Mac said, shaking his head, waving Lich off. “But there’s more in play here—a lot more.”

A uniform came running up.

“Mac. They got an explosion over near Lake Street behind an old abandoned building. Black Chevy Express Cargo van.”

Chapter Eight

“It’s like Groundhog Day.”

Smith backed the van into the garage and punched the button that closed the garage door. Carrie Flanagan lay still, finally done with her frantic squirming. A pillowcase covered her head and duct tape covered her mouth. Smith opened the sliding door to find Dean, David, and Monica pulling their ski masks back on. He pulled his own back on, then knelt down to Carrie and slid the cover off her head. He spoke softly.

“Carrie, we don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his hand placed lightly on her stomach. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not going to rape you. That was not why we’ve gone to all this trouble, okay? I want you to nod your head that you understand.”

Flanagan nodded. Smith continued.

“I know you’re afraid, but I want you to understand that we’re after money. You’re simply a means to an end. Once we get what we want, we’ll let you go. Okay?”

Flanagan nodded.

“Good, Carrie. If you play ball, things will go better.”

She nodded her head one more time. Smith smiled through his black mask.

“We’re going to move you inside the house now. You can’t break free, so it will be better for you to just be still and let us carry you, all right?”

She nodded again.

The brothers lifted her out of the van, Dean carrying her under the arms and David by the feet. Flanagan was relatively light in their arms, although a little heavier than the petite Hisle. Smith opened the door to the basement bedroom and Shannon Hisle turned her head to see them coming in.

“Carrie, like I said, we have no desire to hurt you,” Smith repeated. “Over on the other bed is Shannon Hisle. Do you know who she is?”

Flanagan nodded.

“She has her arms and legs cuffed to the bed, but she hasn’t been harmed in any way.” Smith looked over to Hisle. “Shannon, you haven’t been harmed, have you?”

Hisle shook her head.

Flanagan nodded, but she still had a frantic look in her eyes. Smith wanted her calm.

“We’re going to do the same with you. It will be easier if you just let us do it, okay? We’re not going to harm you, all right?”

Carrie nodded again, but the eyes were still wide.

The two brothers laid her on the bed. David got on top, sitting on her waist and holding her down while Dean cut away her restraints. He cuffed her arms and then her legs to the bed. Once she was secure, David eased off and moved back while Smith sat on the edge of the bed.

“Carrie, I’m going to remove the tape, okay?”

She nodded.

“Don’t scream.”

She nodded again.

“Because if you do scream, I will have to hurt you.”

Carrie looked over toward Shannon, who nodded back. Carrie looked up at the masked man and nodded her head.

“Okay, this will hurt a little,” Smith said as he yanked the tape from her mouth. Flanagan gasped for air, breathing deeply, trying to speak.

“Why…” she gasped. “Why… why are you doing…”

Smith laid his fingers lightly over her mouth.

“Why? Like I said upstairs, we’re after money. Your fathers have a lot of money and we want it. That’s all,” he said, his voice almost monotone and totally conversational. “This isn’t about you; this isn’t about harming you. That’s not what I want to do. It’s not what I intend to do.”

“Okay,” Flanagan answered weakly.

“All right then,” Smith said and then looked over to Hisle, who was gagged. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

Hisle nodded.

Smith looked back to Monica, “Let’s get her to the potty. Then get her something to eat and drink.”

Monica, ski mask over her face, simply nodded while Dean and David undid the manacles for her arms and legs from the bed. Hisle then lay still while David put a different set of manacles on her feet that allowed her to shuffle out of the room.

Once Hisle was out of the room and the door was closed, Smith turned back to Flanagan.

“Now see. We have no desire to harm you. After we finish what is next, we’ll get you to the potty if you need it and some food and water as well.”

Flanagan, while still scared, had calmed down.

“Do you know who my father is?” Carrie asked.

Smith smiled through the mouth hole in his ski mask.

“You mean the revered Charlie Flanagan, chief o’ police for the city of St. Paul? Oh, we’re quite familiar with who your father is.” Smith smiled through his mask. “And we are not the least bit concerned about it.” He paused and patted her on the thigh. “Now Carrie, if you play ball with us and your daddy follows directions…” He leaned back and clasped his hands across his stomach. “Well, everything will all work out.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, if you do as we ask, your chances of making it out of this are a lot better. If you don’t help us out, well… it certainly could go much worse.” Smith paused. “Now that’s not what I want, so let’s play ball, okay?”

“Do you really think my father will pay you?” Carrie asked in disbelief. “He’ll hunt you down with everything he’s got.”

“Oh, I expect he will,” Smith replied calmly, unconcerned. “But in the end, your father will pay us.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re his little girl. That’s all the motivation he’ll need.”

• • • • •

“It’s like Groundhog Day,” Mac quipped.

The scene was eerily similar to the one from the day before in River Falls. The burned-out van had been found behind a vacant building on Lake Street. The entire area was essentially deserted, the alley lined with abandoned houses and the storefronts empty, except for a small printing company a block to the west. Signs on the front of the vacant and now burned-out building announced a future home for street level retail, with condominiums overtop. It was all part of Minneapolis’s efforts to rehab the Lake Street area.

For the past twenty or thirty years the area had been one of crime and drug dealing, with seedy bars interspersed between hit-and-miss storefront businesses. In the 1950s and 1960s, it had been a thriving business area surrounded by large Victorian and Tudor homes. Minneapolis was in the process of revitalizing the Lake Street strip, rehabilitating historical buildings and sweeping away dilapidated ones. Soon, those efforts would overtake the vacant and crumbling building Mac and Lich were now standing behind.

As on the day before, the van had been parked and then incinerated after the kidnappers left the scene. However, in an area with an already high crime rate, the van was immediately recognized as a crime scene. The Minneapolis cops established a wide perimeter. The FBI and Minneapolis and St. Paul crime techs were working the scene, walking around carefully, photographing, marking, bagging, and collecting anything they could. Another helicopter was flying overhead.

Mac and Lich walked up to the scene and found a diminutive Minneapolis uniform cop that Mac knew named Norman.

“Hey Mac,” Norman said.

“Norms, what do you know?”

“Not much really,” the Minneapolis cop replied. He pointed toward Lake Street. “Old guy was walking along Lake Street and saw the smoke rising behind this building. He came around back and saw the burning van, walked a block or two to the gas station and called it in.”

“Anyone see anything?”

Norman shook his head.

“Not that we’ve found. Everything on this side of the street is abandoned, awaiting demolition. In fact, the wrecking ball hits this building after the Fourth of July holiday. And of course, some of the normal clientele of this neighborhood are a bit averse to talking to us police.”

“Drug trade?” Mac asked.

Norman nodded.

“So you’ve checked all these houses behind us?”

“Yes. But as you can see, they’re empty. If anyone was hanging inside them, they skedaddled before we got here.”

“Looks like a second set of tire tracks,” Lich said, pointing to the left of the van.

“Agreed,” Mac said. “Truck or van of some kind, based on the width of the tracks. We’ll get molds of the tire tracks, see what that tells us.”

“Let’s get one of the pros on it then,” Norman said as he waved over one of the crime scene techs.

“Probably a van,” Mac said, “if it’s our assholes.”

“We’ve got some footprints as well,” Lich noted, bending over carefully and pointing with his pen.

“Two that I see,” Norman added. “Similar size, big feet—I bet size twelve or thirteen.”

“That makes some sense,” Mac answered, now standing and looking around. “Witnesses have given us the general description of a big man.”

“Great,” Lich said, unimpressed. “We have van tracks leaving the scene. Two sets of footprints for bigger dudes. Only if we’re extremely lucky do we get any forensics off the van. And, we appear to have no witnesses who saw anything at all. We’ve got nothing.”

Mac simply nodded as his cell phone went off.

“It’s Peters,” he said to Lich as he looked at the display and then answered. “Hey Cap… Huh? … You want us to do what?”

Chapter Nine

“You’re a pugnacious shit, aren’t you?”

Mac exited from Interstate 94 at West Broadway, just north of downtown Minneapolis. The north side of Minneapolis west of the interstate was a rougher part of town. In the 1950s and 1960s, it had been a proud and prosperous working-class area. However, since that time, the area had slowly deteriorated. Pockets of poverty and drug-dealing slowly eroded the once-bustling businesses and homes. Now, what businesses still remained did so with metal bars over the window and bulletproof glass around the cash registers. It wasn’t uncommon to find bullet marks, drug paraphernalia, and graffiti around the exteriors. Gangs patrolled neighborhoods, drugs were dealt in the open, and the sound of gunfire was not uncommon, particularly at night. Much like the case of Lake Street, the city was trying to help the area. Unlike Lake Street, solutions for the north side had proven far more elusive.

One person who was prospering on the north side was the man Mac and Lich were on their way to see—Fat Charlie Boone. Boone was the north side’s most prominent and notorious businessman. Six months ago, Boone’s sister’s son was killed in a hit-and-run accident. The driver was a wealthy, white businessman, and Boone’s nephew was a young black man with some legal trouble in his history. Lyman Hisle represented the driver and, as he so often did, got him off on a legal technicality, largely due to the bungling of the cops working the accident scene and the county prosecutor working the case. The chief was front-and-center, accepting the blame, explaining how the accident scene was mishandled and the breathalyzer test was improperly administered. Boone loudly claimed that if the victim hadn’t been black, the outcome would have been different. It was a rare public display from someone who built a fortune operating in the dark shadows of Minneapolis’s north side.

“You buy this Boone business?” Lich asked.

Mac was doubtful.

“Seems kind of obvious, don’t you think?” He thought a little more. “I mean, I know about those rumors for the last few months, Boone wants payback on the department, the county attorney’s office, Hisle, all that. I’ve heard that noise, but it just all seems a little too convenient.”

“Yeah, but,” Lich answered, “he’s wealthy, he’s got resources, and he’s smart.”

A mile west along West Broadway, Mac turned into an aging SuperAmerica gas station. At the station were two plainclothes Minneapolis homicide cops, one bald and the other with a head full of gray Einstein-like hair and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. They were both leaning against an unmarked car and, despite the heat, sipping tall coffees. Pulling up alongside, Lich laughed as he powered down the window.

“Aren’t you two fossils lookin’ at daisies from the wrong side yet?”

“Diiiick Liiiiick,” the bald one called out.

“If it ain’t the Beeeaaaver Lick,” Einstein replied boisterously, loud enough for everyone in a three block radius to hear. Lich was known, loved, and ridiculed all over. Dick exchanged handshakes and profanities with them and then introduced Mac.

“Mac, these two relics are Bud Subject,” Lich pointed to the bald one, “and Ed Gerdtz,” the grey-haired one.

“Mac, I knew your old man. Hell of a cop, one hell of a cop,” Gerdtz replied in a deep, raspy voice, damaged from all the years of pounding coffin nails. They all shook hands, and Gerdtz never stopped laughing, talking, or smoking. You’d have thought they nominated a new pope with all the white smoke that came out Gerdtz’s head. It took five minutes to get back on task and into a car to drive to Boone’s.

Subject was behind the wheel while Gerdtz turned to them, blowing smoke through his mouth and nose as he spoke.

“Fat Charlie’s office, if you want to call it that, is over on the corner of Lowry and Penn. He’s got a hardware store and law office over there.”

“Law office?” Mac asked.

“Yeah,” Gerdtz answered, “One of Charlie’s sons—he has eight of them you know—runs his practice out of the basement over there. Get this though, his kid graduated from Stanford Law School.”

“Stanford?” Mac asked in disbelief.

“Hell yes! Did quite well, bright kid. Now he helps the old man run his businesses,” Gerdtz answered.

“Stanford law degree and he runs the old man’s drug business? I don’t get it.”

“It’s a lot more than a drug business these days,” Gerdtz replied, smiling. “Fatso’s gone upscale. He has that hardware store, law firm, a funeral home, three restaurants, four laundry mats, and now he’s branching into real estate.”

“Real estate? A slumlord?” Lich inquired.

“No, downtown real estate, the high-end shit,” Gerdtz answered ruefully, shaking his head. “We’ve heard he’s got money in the condo developments that have been exploding down by the river and might even be getting into some of the development going up around the new Twins ballpark. Charlie’s moving up in the world.”

“So, let me guess,” Mac said. “He hasn’t touched drugs, a gun, or the dirty side of things for years. Now he’s just the bank.”

“That about sums it up,” Subject answered, slowing for a stoplight. “Charlie’s gone legit, and there are way too many layers between him and the street.” The veteran cop sighed as he pulled up in front of the Lowry-Penn Hardware Store, a fairly nondescript building with a red brick exterior and large storefront windows displaying a power-washer, lawn mower, power generator, and table saw. Peering inside the windows, one could see rows and rows of shelves deep into the interior.

“Seems like a big hardware store for this area,” Lich said.

“Half the building used to be a law office,” Gerdtz answered. “I grew up around here, and an attorney named Riley ran a street practice in the left half of the building. He retired in the early ‘80s, and sold the building. It turned over a few times before Charlie bought the whole kit and caboodle, in ‘90 or ‘91 I think.”

“So you guys know him,” Mac said. “Taking the girls sound like his style?”

Gerdtz turned serious.

“I’ve got my thoughts on that, Mac, and so does Bud. We were talking about it a lot before you and Dick Lick got to the SA. But I want you to form you own opinion first.”

Subject waved them past the front door and around the south side of the building, past a sign that said “Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.” They walked around the back and down a narrow set of cracking steps. At the bottom, Gerdtz knocked on the door. A large, black bodyguard dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt tight over bulging muscles let them in and walked them through a kitchen and the law offices to a large room. There they found the man himself: Fat Charlie Boone.

Mac remembered seeing video footage of Charlie Boone walking into court six months ago, when the fat moniker fit and he was well over three hundred pounds. The moniker no longer fit. Fat Charlie was still a large man, well over six feet, but now, like many, he was just a bit overweight. He sat in a high-backed armchair and wore a gold golf shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a lavender sport coat along with several gold rings and a gaudy gold watch. He held a cigar between the fingers of his left hand and a drink in his right. A haze filled the room, a prime specimen of early “pimp” styling with two round green felt card tables, a large bar with “Fat Charlie’s” stenciled on it in burgundy, and a series of couches and chairs set around a big screen TV. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile, contrasting against the dark-paneled half walls and red shag on the upper half. Two other men, probably Charlie’s sons, watched the cops over their own drinks.

“Detectives Subject and Gerdtz,” Charlie said in a deep but even voice.

“Charlie,” Gerdtz replied evenly. Then, spreading his arms, he boomed out, “What the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve wasted away, fat man.”

“Had me that gastric bypass by whatchamacallit.” Charlie laughed out loud, standing up and opening his coat, showing the svelte new Fat Charlie and conveniently proving that he wasn’t armed. “What do ya think? A new me, eh?”

“New you,” Subject said. But his next comment took the air out of the room. “Of course, the business is the same.”

“Well, let’s talk bidness then,” Charlie replied flatly, sitting back down in his chair.

“These boys here are from St. Paul,” Gerdtz said.

“I recognize these men,” Charlie replied, a little smile on his face. “I’ve seen them on TV. The young one, I believe, is Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, and the other is detective Richard Lich.” He sounded well prepared for the meeting. “Grab a chair,” he offered, waving them toward similar high-backed chairs. He held up his glass. “Care for a nip?”

Mac waved him off, as did Lich.

“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Boone asked.

“You know why we’re here,” Mac said.

“About those girls, I suspect. Just saw the report about the chief’s daughter on the big screen over there.”

“I saw you six months ago. You had some pretty harsh things to say about Hisle, our department, and particularly the chief,” Mac said. “I quote: ‘Maybe people like Hisle and Flanagan ought to experience the loss of a child. Then they’ll know what my sister and I are feeling today.’” Mac sat back in his chair. “Now Hisle and the chief are both missing a child. Sounds a lot like payback. What better way to get it than going after the chief and Hisle?”

“You’re right, of course. But I had nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit,” Mac retorted, turning on the pit bull tone. “You and your people have never feared taking a body or making one disappear. I’ve heard about it for years. Maybe your hands aren’t dirty, you haven’t touched the body directly, haven’t pulled the trigger, but you sit in that throne over there, drink your drink, smoke your cigar, and give the orders on who lives or dies.”

Lich jumped in as if on cue, the good cop.

“Look, my partner here can be a little harsh.”

“Being an asshole is more like it,” Fat Charlie added.

“Fuck that,” Mac countered angrily, playing the bad cop. “What’s taking the chief’s and Hisle’s daughters to someone like you? It’s no different than going after someone trying to move in on your drug real estate here on the north side, like Pinky Miller ten years ago. One day he’s king shit over here, the next he’s gone, never to be heard from again, and you’ve got his ten blocks of real estate over by North High School.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” Charlie calmly answered. “But again, I have nothing to do with the disappearance of those girls. It’s not my style.”

“What’s not your style?” Mac said sarcastically. “Killing? Taking lives? Abductions? Your name’s been attached to all of that stuff over the years. It’s the way people like you operate.”

“You’re a pugnacious shit, aren’t you?” A big smile washed over Charlie’s face, his perfect white teeth contrasting with his dark black skin.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Lich said and everyone laughed and the tension eased.

“I like it, no bullshit. We should all operate that way,” Charlie said, and he meant it. “But to directly answer your question, Detective McRyan, I’ve got nothing against your chief or Mr. Hisle. I said those things, sure, and I was pissed—I was damn fucking pissed at that department of yours. But Hisle was just doing his job, and from what I know of Flanagan, I doubt he wanted the case to go south like it did.” Boone took a sip of his drink and gestured. “Now I’m pissed at the cops who blew the case and the prosecutor who screwed the pooch. And if I were to be going after people, that’s who I’d go after. Not the people responsible for cleaning up the mess.” Boone paused and then leaned over, elbows on knees, looking at Mac. “But Detective, I didn’t do this, because it’s simply not my style.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mac answered. “Maybe you’re feeding us a line of shit here, and you got the chief’s and Hisle’s daughters. Maybe that’s the price the chief and Hisle pay for screwing the pooch.”

Boone got a serious look on his face. He had enough of McRyan. “No. I have a rule, a rule which is not to be violated, ever.”

“Which is?” Mac asked.

“Never go after a citizen, never put a gun on a citizen, and never hurt a citizen,” Charlie responded. “I’ve never, ever gone after someone who wasn’t in the trade, who wasn’t in our line of business.”

“And you follow that rule?” Mac asked with a skeptical tone.

“It’s the golden rule,” Boone answered seriously, pointing at Mac with his cigar. “I ain’t gonna bullshit you, Detective. We’ve been in some nasty stuff over the years. But not once did any of that ever involve someone who wasn’t in the trade.”

“Cops are in the trade, aren’t they?” Mac asked. “I mean, aren’t we cops up in your shit all the time? And if cops are in the trade, wouldn’t their families be fair game?”

“For some people up here on the north side, maybe, but not me,” Boone answered, falling back into his chair. “Gerdtz and Subject, if they’re honest, will tell you that I’ve never, ever, picked a fight with the police. In this line of business, you don’t last long doing that shit. You keep your profile low. You buy for a dollar and sell for two is all you ever want to do.” Charlie took a sip of his drink and tacked in a different direction, “And one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Lich asked.

“I’ve got three daughters of my own, plus eight sons. Family is everything to me. I can’t imagine what those fathers are going through, but I sympathize with them.” He took a puff of his cigar and slowly blew smoke. “Taking those girls?” Charlie shook his head. “If I had a beef with someone, I’d go after them, not their wives or kids. What do they have to do with anything? Nothing. They’re just citizens. And I never go after a citizen.”

“So why then,” Lich asked, “is word out on the street that you’ve wanted payback on the St. Paul Police, the county attorney’s office, and Hisle? What’s all that noise about?”

“That’s my competition, I suspect.”

“Fellow drug dealers?”

“I think it might be someone worse.”

“Who’s worse?” Lich asked.

“Politicians,” Mac answered, smiling.

Fat Charlie guffawed loudly.

“You’re perceptive, son. They’re some city hall types who wouldn’t mind seeing me discredited. They don’t like the idea of my involvement in legitimate business, the real estate market, and the area around the ballpark. My money apparently has a different tint of green.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t sufficiently laundered,” Mac said acerbically.

Ten minutes later, they were driving back to the SuperAmerica gas station. “You guys knew this was a waste of time, didn’t you?” Mac asked Gerdtz and Subject.

“We both suspected that to be the case, although we heard the rumors, too,” Subject answered.

“So this golden rule shit is the real deal?”

“Pretty much,” Gerdtz said. “While he’s never been afraid to drop a body, to the best of our knowledge, he’s telling the truth about that golden rule business. He doesn’t involve citizens.”

“He sure talked out of school in front of you boys,” Lich said. “I mean, he didn’t exactly hide from his past.”

“No, he didn’t,” Gerdtz replied. “We’ve taken our run at him over the years, but now we’ll never get him. The county attorney’s office doesn’t want anything to do with him. They’ve been embarrassed too many times.”

“So what,” Mac asked quizzically, “there’s like a truce or something with him?”

“Kinda,” Gerdtz said. “You said it yourself, he’s the bank. There are just too many layers between him and the street. Hell, he’s making so much legitimate money now that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got out of the drug trade in two or three years. He’s gonna be what Michael Corleone always wanted to be.”

Subject echoed the thought.

“He’s even been helpful on occasion when other people operating in that part of town have violated Fat Charlie’s rule. People don’t know it, he asked us to keep it quiet, but you guys remember that stray bullet that killed the little girl four years ago?” Everyone nodded. “Fat Charlie clued us in on who to look at. Hell, Boone called me, me, the guy who’s been in his shit for years, to tell me.”

“What did he ask for in return?” Mac asked.

“Not one damn thing,” Subject replied. “He’s never even mentioned it since.”

Mac snorted. Fat Charlie Boone, one contradiction after another, a saint and a hood all at the same time. He exhaled.

“Well he did say he’d call us if he heard of anything.”

Chapter Ten

“Where’s Ellsworth?”

Smith and Monica left the safe house in a minivan. Ten blocks away, they pulled into an empty school parking lot and affixed an Airport Ride sign to the side window. Five minutes later they were at the Airport Park & Ride lot. Smith was now wearing stylish rimless glasses, dressed business casual in a navy blue sport coat, a blue-and-white striped, button-down collar shirt, tan cuffed slacks, and sharp, burgundy-tasseled loafers. He dropped out of the van, then reached back to hoist a travel bag over his left shoulder and a nylon laptop case over his right. He pulled out the keys, popped the trunk, and put both items inside, looking like one of the mass of business travelers doing the same thing. He gave the van, and Monica, a quick wave and then ducked into the Impala.

The kidnapper exited the lot and quickly mixed in with the Monday rush-hour traffic, driving east out of St. Paul along Interstate 94, listening to the 5:00 p.m. top-of-the-hour local newscast on the FM talk radio station. A reporter named Tanya Morgan was currently making a live report from the St. Paul Police Department.

“Although the FBI and St. Paul police won’t go on the record, confidential sources have indicated that the two kidnappings appear to be connected. The abductions were conducted in similar matters, and the descriptions of the perpetrators are also similar.”

The program next cut to a statement from the Local FBI Agent-in-Charge Ed Duffy.

“We are working closely with the St. Paul Police and other jurisdictions to bring these girls home and the kidnappers to justice.

Smith particularly liked the next question from a reporter.

“We’re hearing reports of family members of the police and the county attorney’s office being assigned police escorts. Is this true?”

It was a no-win for Duffy, and his answer spoke volumes.

“I have no comment at this time.”

Smith liked the response. The police were most assuredly escorting people around town for safety, which meant fewer people looking for him. A pleasant development indeed. But if Smith liked that question, he loved the last one.

“Are the kidnappings over, or do you expect there may be another attempt?”

It was a tough question to answer, but to Duffy’s credit, he didn’t duck it.

“We can’t be certain. Everyone needs to be careful until we apprehend the kidnappers. People, particularly women, need to walk in groups. We need citizens to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity. One thing we do know is that the kidnappers tend to lay in wait at places where they know their targets will be. So people should vary their routines. And, if anyone notices any suspicious activity, they should immediately call…”

The FBI man gave the phone numbers, and then the show cut back to the two hosts, who began discussing the kidnappings as if they were experts. While they did, Smith motored south on State Highway 61 and into Hastings, a sleepy town on the far southeastern edge of the Twin Cities metro area. It is nestled into a curve of the Mississippi River as it ran east to join the St. Croix on the border with Wisconsin.

In Hastings, he stopped for a quick drive-through bite to eat, a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. He enjoyed the warm humid evening. A light southerly breeze moved the tops of the tall oak and maple trees as he drove south into a green sea of southern Minnesota farm country. The cornfields would definitely be knee-high by the Fourth of July. The radio predicted a continuing heat wave, with highs in the nineties and matching humidity. A heavy thunderstorm was forecast for later in the evening, which would be fine with him as long as they got their work done in time.

As he devoured the burger and fries, Smith drove further south on 61 to the tiny town of Miesville. The town was only four or five blocks long and appeared to be deserted. In reality, all of the town’s citizens appeared to be at or heading to the baseball field to see the Miesville Mudhens, the town’s legendary Minnesota townball team. Smith passed the park on his left, a throwback to a bygone era, with a large wooden grandstand and an outfield fence made of signs for every business and in every color of the rainbow. At the last block, he turned right and then left behind two enormous silver silos and stopped. He jumped out and put on magnetized temporary license plates. Back in the car, he turned around, pulled back onto 61 and continued south. Just outside of town, the highway expanded to two lanes in each direction, running parallel to the Mississippi River. He reached the quiet town of Red Wing just after 6:30 p.m., and he fell in with the local traffic.

Smith drove through the town and past Red Wing’s historic St. James Hotel. Past the hotel, he took a left, crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River and into the Wisconsin countryside. In another forty-five minutes he meandered into the small town of Ellsworth, where he arrived at 7:30.

In Ellsworth, he drove down the main drag, getting a feel for the rhythm and pulse of the slow and easy small town. The storefronts were mostly closed, except for a few small restaurants and retail shops, with the odd pedestrian strolling along. Further down, he motored past a set of playfields where kids played baseball and adults relived their youth on the softball fields. He chuckled as he saw a forty-something adult slide into second base, get called out, and jump up and start berating an umpire as if he were playing in the seventh game of the World Series.

Four blocks past the athletic fields, he turned left on a quiet country road heading north out of town. He went three more blocks and found the pay phone in front of the abandoned gas station, across the street from a small, sparsely populated and neglected city park. Smith had found the spot a few weeks earlier on a scouting trip. He pulled up to the phone, which was set at the height of his car window. He then scanned the park across the street, saw what he wanted, and smiled. Taking his time, the kidnapper casually pulled on rubber gloves, fitting them tightly. The car idled as he dug into the duffel bag, pulling out the portable voice changer, the Dictaphone, and a roll of quarters, which he spent a minute opening. Checking his watch, he noted the time was 7:42 p.m.

• • • • •

After working Fat Charlie, Mac and Lich stopped in at police headquarters and picked up a packet of information on the connections between the chief and Hisle. As Mac drove the Explorer over to the chief’s home, Lich scanned the report, fifteen pages long, consisting of the possible suspects, details about the cases and their outcomes, and transcripts of the preliminary interviews.

As the car idled at a stoplight, Lich closed the file. Mac broke the silence. “Anyone on the list fit the mold?”

Lich sighed and shook his head.

“Not in an ideal sense.”

“Nobody worth a look at all?”

“Worth a look? Maybe a few. But this is off-the-top-of their-heads kind of stuff. Hisle’s had hundreds, maybe thousands of criminal clients over the years, as we saw with all those files this morning, so we’ve just started to dig in to all of that. And now we have the chief’s history to work through. So this is only the most partial of lists at this point.”

“One thing we probably do know, however,” Mac answered. “The answer lies somewhere in the files. Lyman’s and the chief’s.

“True enough. But between those two, we’re going to have a huge shit-pile of people to work through. Chief’s been a cop for thirty years and Lyman’s practiced law for damn near the same amount of time. Their paths have crossed many a time.”

“True that is. But somewhere in all of those cases is our connection.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Lich answered, but his voice took on a skeptical tone. “But I look at this list here,” he held up the three-ring binder, “and there are guys in here that may be worth a look but…”

“Not exactly blowin’ your drawers off?”

“Uh huh.”

“Is the list just known connections between Lyman and the chief?”

“At this point, yes, just the connections. Cases they both touched or remember touching.”

Mac pondered that approach as he pulled up to another stoplight.

“Anything come of the interviews with Hisle’s family and friends?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve heard. The FBI and our guys, Double Frank and your cousin Paddy did the interviews. Nobody noticed anything odd or weird. Shannon Hisle hadn’t mentioned anything to her family or roommate. Her roommate, who Hisle’s lived with for two years, reported no strange phone calls, men, vehicles, or anything odd. The roommate says Hisle is paranoid. She was mugged last year walking home from school and is particularly sensitive to people following or watching her. So, according to Paddy, and I quote, ‘Nobody’s seen shit, heard shit, wondered about shit, or noticed shit,’ end quote.”

“Well, that’s the same story with Carrie Flanagan.”

“Yeah?” Lich asked.

“Yeah. Riley said a couple of Duffy’s boys interviewed her roommate, coworkers, and family. Nobody was aware of any problems or noticed anyone odd hanging around. If Carrie was worried about someone, something, anything like what we’re looking for, she hadn’t confided in anyone about it.” Mac shook his head. “We’ve got nothing.”

“Hell, we’ve got less than that,” was Lich’s apt reply.

Mac slowed for another stoplight.

“All of this makes me raise my question again, do you think Hisle or Flanagan have anything to do with…” Lich started.

“No fucking way,” Mac replied. “No way, no how.”

“How about a family member who has a grudge? You know, families can have their own weird politics, grievances, hidden hatreds. Maybe one of the girls is in the way of some money, inheritance, whatever. Someone should at least look at it is all I’m saying.”

“Carrie’s the youngest child of the chief, and her brothers absolutely adore her. As for Shannon Hisle, I don’t know her well, but I know Hisle has good relationships with his kids. He was something of a single parent since his wife died years ago so he’s close with Shannon and the rest of them. I’ve never heard of any problems.” Mac was quiet for thirty seconds. “I know what you’re saying, Dick. Nobody notices anything. These guys take the girls at vulnerable spots and obviously were aware of their habits, schedule, and so forth. So you get to thinking that maybe someone from the family tips them off or gives them the place. But I just don’t buy the family angle. Maybe if it was just Flanagan or just Hisle, I’d be more inclined to think that way, but together? I don’t see it coming from the families, conspiring in this way. I suppose it’s possible, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re probably right, partner,” was Lich’s reply. “But somebody should be at least thinking about that angle.”

Mac sighed, “We just thought about it and I talked about it with Riley an hour ago.”

“You did?” Lich responded, turning in his car seat.

“Yup. You said you like my bullshit detector, and I do too—I trust my gut. But I trust Riles as well, and we walked through it for about ten minutes. We both came to the same conclusion.”

“Which is?”

“It’s not family. It’s personal. It’s someone or a group of people the chief and Lyman pissed off somewhere along the way.”

“So we just have to find the connection then,” Lich replied.

“Only one problem with that.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t think it will be that easy. The connection is going to be complicated, hard to make, and…”

“And what?”

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it in time. If it’s just Shannon and Carrie and nobody else, we’re going to be talking ransom soon and delivery not long after. We don’t have a lot of time. I’d guess twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most.”

Mac pulled up to the Flanagan house. The chief lived in the Highland Park neighborhood, an affluent section in the southwest corner of St. Paul. A generally tranquil upper-middle-class area filled with professionals of all kinds, it seemed unaccustomed to the mass of police cars and media trucks parked in front of one of its houses.

The chief’s home was a stately two-story revival with a red brick exterior, white trim, black shutters, and a white portico entrance. It was a classic beauty in a neighborhood of Victorian, Georgian, Colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses built at the turn of the twentieth century. The house was larger and finer that what you would expect for a career cop, even for a chief. However, Charlie Flanagan married well, his wife’s family having earned a significant fortune in logging in northern Minnesota. In addition to the Highland Park home, the chief had a sprawling cabin on Cross Lake on the Whitefish Chain, prime lake real estate two hours north of the Twin Cities.

As they walked in the front door, Mac immediately noted the massive number of cops, active and retired, ready to help at a moment’s notice. The mere number of people present spoke volumes about Charlie Flanagan. In many big cities, there’s separation between the chief and the force, but not in St. Paul. The chief started as a beat cop in the city, moved up to detective, chief of detectives, and, ultimately, chief, where he’d been for the last nine years. He was one of them. Charlie Flanagan never morphed into a police politician. He wasn’t the police chief; he was the chief of the police. He was a cop and always thought of himself that way. Charlie Flanagan always had the force’s back and supported his men without fail, even when it wasn’t the most politically prudent thing to do. The most recent example of the chief’s support was the recent cop shooting and resulting manhunt. The chief never once wavered in his support of his men, Mac and Rock in particular, despite the media and political pressure. However, the support of his men didn’t come without a price—it meant strained relations with the mayor, a politician tiring of trying to keep his chief of police in line.

Peters spotted Mac and Lich’s arrival and quickly pulled them aside into a small side room. The update finished with their trip to north Minneapolis.

“So Boone was a washout?”

“Waste of time,” Lich answered.

“Okay, I need to tell you boys something, and you’re not going to like it,” Peters said. “With the chief indisposed at the moment, the mayor’s put the FBI, and Burton in particular, in charge of this thing.”

“What the fuck?” Mac railed.

“Political hack,” Lich raged.

“I agree with you both,” Peters answered, holding his hands up. “I agree with you, believe me. The mayor’s issue is that he doesn’t want us getting out of control. He’s falling back on the cop shooting and the involvement of you, Rock, and Riles. You’re the chief’s boys and he figures you’ll tear the city up to find Carrie.”

“Goddamn right,” Mac growled.

“Well, that’s what the mayor’s worried about, Mac. He wants you corralled.”

“How so?”

“If you don’t follow Burton’s lead on this, you’ll be off the case. Frankly, if the mayor had his way, you boys would be off it completely already.”

“I’m half surprised we’re not,” Lich muttered.

“You’re not because the chief raised holy fuckin’ hell,” Peters answered. “And Burton told the mayor he wants you working it, that you guys are too good to waste on the sidelines. He told the mayor you’d work it anyway, so he’d just as soon have you on his side. So the chief has your back and Burton wants you on it. So play nice and we’re good here.”

“Nice of Burton to do that,” Lich said. “Maybe he’s not too bad a guy after all.”

“So far, so good with him. He’s killing all my FBI stereotypes,” Mac said in agreement and then changed directions. “How’s the chief doing?”

“Let’s go see him,” Peters answered, waving them to follow. He led them up the open staircase to the second floor and then the chief’s home office at the back corner of the house. Formerly a bedroom for one of the Flanagan kids, now grown, the room was converted into a well-appointed home office with a large mahogany desk and high-backed leather chairs. The chief stood behind the desk, hands in his pockets, slumped shoulders, staring out the window and Mac felt a lump in his throat and his chest tighten.

Charlie Flanagan was like a father to Mac, and Mac like a son to the chief. The chief was with Mac when Mac’s father was killed in a freak hunting accident. Mac was close to his mother and three sisters. But after his father’s death, Mac became part of the Flanagan family and the chief was his father figure. He spoke with the chief about things a young man sought guidance from a father about. It was the chief who was at Mac’s college and law-school graduations, leading the cheers at college hockey games, providing advice on getting married, buying homes or investing money. Mac was close to the chief’s sons and his daughter, his baby girl Carrie. She was twelve years younger than him, but he looked upon her like a little sister. Mac went to her high school events, attended her graduation, and checked out her boyfriends, making sure they were worthy of his adopted little sister. While Mac liked Lyman and had met Shannon a few times, with Carrie and the chief now involved, it had become all too personal. Mac exhaled, steadied himself, and put on his stone game face. He didn’t want the chief to see him as anything other than ready to go.

The office was full. Burton, Duffy, and the mayor quietly chatted in one group, while Riley, Rock, and a few others talked in another. All were waiting for the phone to ring, for the inevitable call to come. Hearing new people entering, the chief turned around. Mac sucked in a breath as the chief slowly approached and gave him a hug, pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

“You do whatever it takes, you understand? Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, sir,” was Mac’s quiet reply. There was nothing else to be said. The chief pulled back and looked Mac in the eye, and that was that. Mac felt a cool, analytical wave wash over his body. It was time to go to work, and there would be no stopping until Carrie came home.

When the chief walked back to his desk, the mayor eased over next to McRyan.

“I assume you know who’s running this investigation,” he said.

Mac stared straight ahead and nodded.

“Good. I don’t want any problems,” the mayor added and then walked away. Mac glanced to his right and caught Burton’s eye. The FBI man approached.

“How you doing?” Burton asked. “I know you and the chief are close.”

“I’m fine, ready to go.”

“Listen, don’t worry about your mayor. I want, no wait, make that, I need you guys working this. They’re coming after cops and the people most important to them,” Burton said and then added darkly. “These bastards are going down for that.”

Mac nodded his approval.

The phone rang.

The chief went to the phone and exhaled, letting it ring twice before answering.

“Flanagan.”

“We have your daughter,” a now-familiar disguised voice on the other end replied. Everyone was huddled around a speaker phone, the chief on the regular line. Burton motioned with his hands to try to string out the call.

The chief knew how this would play.

“How do I know you have her? I want to speak with her.”

There was a click, and then a nervous and slightly muffled voice played on a recording.

“Daddy. I… I… I’m okay. I haven’t… been hurt. Please do as these men say and I won’t be harmed. I love you.” The tape cut off. There was no question that it was Carrie Flanagan’s voice.

The mechanical-sounding voice came back.

“I trust that answers your question.”

“Do you have Shannon Hisle as well? Is she still alive?”

“She is. Hisle was the appetizer and your daughter is the main course.”

“You son of a bitch, you harm her and I’ll…” the chief growled into the phone, but the look on his face was calm, almost placid. He was doing what he could to keep the call going.

“Do as we say, and that won’t be a problem.”

“What is it that you want? You want money? You want me? You want Hisle? What is it you want, you mother fucker?”

“Money,” the voice answered flatly.

“How much? What’s it gonna take to get my little girl back? How much to buy you off, you goddamn son of a bitch?”

“We’ll be in touch.” The line went dead.

The chief slammed the receiver into the cradle and violently swept the phone off his desk into the wall, turning his back to everyone. Hisle, the only man in the room who truly knew what he was going through, immediately went to him and put an arm around his shoulder.

Mac turned to the agent working the laptop.

“It’s a landline from a payphone in Ellsworth. Ellsworth, Wisconsin.”

“Call the Ellsworth cops. Call them now!” Burton ordered. The FBI tech did as instructed. “Where’s Ellsworth?”

“It’s about forty-five minutes, maybe an hour southeast of here,” Mac answered, knowing generally where the town was. He walked over to the desk where Double Frank started unfolding a Minnesota-Wisconsin roadmap, looking for the exact location. Another FBI man was calling the Ellsworth police department. Problem was, they had no idea who they were looking for, what they were driving, anything.

As everyone tried to contact Ellsworth, Mac didn’t feel like waiting. He grabbed Lich by the arm.

“We’re going down to Ellsworth.”

• • • • •

Smith drove north out of Ellsworth and worked his way up to River Falls, where he pulled into an empty elementary school parking lot and removed the false license plates. A half hour later he returned to the Park & Ride, where Monica was waiting. Ten minutes later the two were back at the safe house.

“Are things ready to go?” Smith asked Dean.

“The girls are ready. They’ll be out for eighteen to twenty hours, so we have plenty of time.”

“Equipment and materials?”

Dean opened the back door of the van, and Smith inspected the contents.

“As you can see, we’re good to go,” Dean noted confidently.

“Good,” Smith replied. “Let’s bring them up and get going out to the farm then. I want to be sure to finish before the storms roll in.”

• • • • •

Unlike Clearwater, which was right off the highway, Ellsworth could only be reached by a circuitous route east on Interstate 94 into Wisconsin and then south on State Highway 63. Mac and Lich worked their way to the abandoned gas station, where a patrol car and sedan were parked with two cops casually sitting on the hood, one in uniform, one with a tie, both smoking. They’d kept it low-key, no lights or crime tape. There was no reason to wake everyone up and draw a crowd.

Mac pulled up and he and Lich jumped out. A forensics team pulled in behind them and started unloading, pulling on rubber gloves, and assembling their gear. The cop with the tie and a sweat-soaked shirt jumped off the hood.

“My name’s Kleist, chief here in Ellsworth,” he said. Kleist was a short, squat man with a nose far too large for his face. “Haven’t touched a thing,” he reported, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. “Heck, there hasn’t hardly been anyone passing by since we got here.”

“What did you find when you got here?” Lich asked.

“Not much,” Kleist replied, rubbing a finger hard along the side of his nose. “Phone was on the hook. But,” he waved them away from the phone toward a back exit onto the street, which traversed through a patch of bare ground and dirt, “if you look close enough, there appears to be some fresh tire tracks, I’d say car width, maybe a sedan of some type that those guys,” the chief pointed to the forensics team, “might be able to do something with.”

Mac and Lich peered down to the tracks. They were narrow, fresh and definitely from a car. Lich waved forensics over.

“Let’s get pictures, maybe even a mold,” he ordered. A forensics tech nodded and started snapping images.

“So they’re using vans and cars, eh?” Mac asked.

“Looks like it,” Lich answered. “Just another little wrinkle.”

Mac nodded.

“He didn’t just drive here and stumble onto this place either. He scouted it.” Mac motioned to the station. “This isn’t a bad spot really. The park looks almost abandoned, just a few homes around with little traffic, foot or car. Make a quick call, hang up, leave, and nobody sees a thing.”

They walked back over to Kleist, who’d returned to the hood of his sedan. “Chief, has anyone gone door-knocking?” Lich asked.

The chief thumbed at the other cop.

“He knocked on all the doors before you fellows got here. Only one person was home, and he didn’t see anything, said he was watching the Twins game. I’ve got another one of my men surveying the perimeter of the park and the nearby streets to see if a pedestrian saw anything.”

“I know the answer to this question,” Mac said. “I don’t suppose there’s any surveillance cameras, anything like that around here is there?”

Kleist smiled apologetically and shook his head.

“Nope. Don’t have the budget for it or the need really. Big night for us might be a fight at the bar, a little speeding or drunk driving, a domestic.”

“So if a guy makes a call here,” Mac waved around the area, “and then wanted to leave town, how would he do it?”

Kleist rubbed his nose hard again, and Mac noticed it was redder along the right side. The rubbing must be a frequent nervous tic.

“Oh, a guy would have a couple of ways to go, I suppose.” The cop pointed northeast, “He could go back up 63 and get onto 94 and head back the way you boys came.”

“Or?” Mac asked.

“If a feller wanted a more scenic trip, he’d probably go southeast, out along 63 until it finds 10 over yonder, which would take him west to Prescott.” He rubbed the nose again, “Or stay south on 63 until he got to Red Wing. In any event, he’d have plenty of…”

“Options,” Mac replied, shaking his head. “We know.”

The chief was called away by one of his men.

Lich didn’t miss a beat. “He said, ‘yonder.’”

“‘Feller,’ too,” Mac added. “I love small-town folks.” He shut up as Kleist headed back.

“I think I got something you boys might be interested in,” he said. An Ellsworth patrol car pulled up with an elderly man in the back seat, along with a golden retriever. The uniform cop got out and let the man and dog out. The dog came right up to Mac.

“Hey there, buddy,” Mac said, kneeling down to scratch the pooch behind the ears.

“Explain,” Kleist said to the uniform cop.

“Henry here,” the uniform said, pointing to the old man, dressed in a striped short-sleeved shirt, plaid shorts, and dark socks, “said he was sitting on a park bench across the street about an hour ago, and… well…” The uniform pointed to the old man. “Tell them, Henry.”

“I was sitting on the bench over there.” The old man pointed kitty-corner from the gas station to an old bench with “Ellsworth Lions Club” painted on it in fading letters. “I was taking a rest with Reggie here.” The old man rubbed the dog’s head. “Anyways, I saw this blue sedan pull into that old gas station and park by the pay phone.”

“When was this?”

Henry pulled out a tarnished gold pocket watch and flipped the top open.

“Oh 7:30, 7:40 or so. Sometime around then.” Mac and Lich exchanged a look.

“What kind of car, Henry?” Mac asked.

“Chevy I think, one of them new ones, what do they call them, Impalas? I’ve never owned one myself; I’m a Ford man…”

“See a license plate number?” Mac interrupted.

“I know the letters because they were odd. They spelled ‘cat,’ I think.”

“Cat? You mean the letters were C-A-T?”

“That’s right,” the old man replied, his glasses sliding down his nose as he nodded. “And it was a Minnesota plate, had the blue color and them pine trees.”

“I’m going to call it in,” Lich said, pulling out his cell phone. Mac continued.

“How about the driver, you get a look at him?”

“Not a good one,” the old man said.

“Black or white? Blond hair or dark hair?” McRyan pressed. “Anything like that?”

“White, I think,” the old man answered. “I think he had a baseball cap on, but other than that, I didn’t really notice anything.”

“And you were sitting on the park bench across the street?”

“That’s right, young man, right over there. We come through here just about every night at this time.”

“Let’s walk over there, okay? You can bring Reggie along.”

“Okey dokey,” Henry replied and with his slow gait he followed Mac across the street and away from the abandoned gas station. At the bench, Mac stopped.

“Henry, right?”

The old man nodded, “Henry Finkey.”

“My name’s McRyan, I’m a detective from St. Paul.”

“You’re a Minnesota boy, eh?” Henry replied, mischief in his voice. “I can’t stand them Vikings. You a Vikings fan?”

“I am, Henry, I am. They’re going to kick the Pack’s tail this year,” Mac replied, sitting down next to the old man and petting Reggie’s snout.

“We’ll see about that,” Henry answered. “So what’s this all about?”

“I can’t really tell you why this is important, or least not yet, sir,” Mac answered.

“Does this have something to do with those girls being kidnapped? I figure that must be it. No other reason for a St. Paul cop to be here in little ol’ Ellsworth.”

Mac remained neutral.

“Like I said, I can’t say. What I need though is for you to walk me through it again, what you saw. Take a minute if you need, close your eyes, whatever, but I need to know everything.”

Henry set himself on the park bench, leaned back, and thought for a minute.

“I was out taking my nightly walk with Reggie. We go for a good hour or two walk every night in the summer.”

“Okay.”

“We usually walk through the park each night, and I like to sit on this bench. This used to be a nice park when I was a kid. I like to just sit and remember good times here.”

“So you’re on your walk and you come to the park and sit down?” Mac asked, moving him along.

“That’s right, son. I let Reggie off his leash, and he was walking around, doing a little business on some trees, when I noticed the car pull in off the street and up to the phone.”

“Then what?”

“Well,” Henry stroked his chin and squinted. “Well nothing happened for a minute or two, maybe more. He just sat there idling, which I thought was little odd, I suppose. It caused me to look a little closer I guess. I noticed the car, the plate—you know C-A-T and Minnesota—and then I looked away and back to Reggie. He was getting a little far away, so I called to him. He didn’t come right away, so I had to yell after him a couple of times before he minded and came back to me.”

“Then what?”

“I put Reggie’s leash back on.”

“How long did all that take?”

“A minute or two I suppose.”

“And the car was still there?”

“Sure was, but now the guy in the car was using the phone. I could see the cord from the phone running into the car.”

“How long was he on the phone?”

“Not long. I didn’t time it or anything, but it wasn’t real long. Then he hung up and pulled on out and he was gone.”

“Henry, did you notice anything about the driver? Anything about him?”

Henry closed his eyes for thirty seconds but shook his head.

“I’m sorry but I just didn’t get a look or notice anything, son. I just didn’t.” The old man look disappointed.

Mac patted him on the knee.

“Good job, Henry. You’ve helped us out.”

Lich and Kleist came running across the street, Lich smiling.

“We got a hit!” he called.

“Stolen vehicle, right? Mac asked.

“No,” Lich replied, pulling Mac away from Henry. “No report of it being stolen. There’s one navy blue Impala with the tag letters of CAT.”

“And you’re telling me there’s a connection,” Mac said.

“Yes,” Lich said. “Dead on the money.”

Chapter Eleven

“Something’s going on here.”

A 2006 Chevy Impala with license tag CAT was a fleet vehicle belonging to Drew Wiskowski Construction in Cottage Grove. The connection was Drew Wiskowski, Sr.

Wiskowski had come to St. Paul thirty years ago from the south side of Chicago, and he brought with him the sort of no-hold-barred approach to business characteristic of that notorious neighborhood. Wiskowski made his fortune in construction, but it wasn’t always pretty. There were disputes with competitors, and Wiskowski wasn’t shy about using a little force, corruption, and intimidation to get ahead. He had more than one run-in with the authorities and building inspectors in his early days. However, once he made his pile and could afford his estate on the river down by Hastings, he went low-profile and let his money pile up while quietly building reputable homes and commercial buildings in Minnesota and the rest of the Upper Midwest.

Unfortunately, four years ago the long-dormant Wiskowski name came alive again. This time it was Drew Jr. who turned up in St. Paul running a home-improvement business. He was using the old man’s name, but Drew Sr. was not involved in the business; it was owned solely by his son. And the son appeared to be taking a page from the early years of his old man’s playbook.

A powerful thunderstorm with straight-line winds rolled through town, damaging roofs and siding and blowing out windows. The storm hit some of St. Paul’s Hmong neighborhoods particularly hard. Drew Jr. swooped in and marketed his home-repair business hard in those areas. The damaged houses needed new siding and shingles. Wiskowski lowballed all of the other contractors and consumed all of the business. Many of the Hmong folks didn’t speak or understand English well, so Wiskowski said he’d work with their insurance companies directly, handling everything if they’d just sign over the insurance check to his company. The result was predictable. Drew Jr. defrauded the homeowners and did substandard work on their homes, if any work was done at all.

Drew Jr. may have profited, but he underestimated the Hmong community. They went to the police, and the story made its way to the chief, who made it his personal mission to go after Drew Jr. Lyman was originally Drew Jr.’s lawyer, since he was on retainer with the old man. But Lyman knew right away it was a bad case—the kid was a swindler, and that he wanted no part of it. Lyman found a way out of the case, and Drew Jr.’s defense was eventually handled by a lesser lawyer. The younger Wiskowski ended up with six years in Stillwater state prison.

“That was four years ago,” Lich said as Mac sped across the Interstate 94 over the St. Croix River and into Minnesota.

“So he’s coming after the chief and Lyman. An eye for an eye then, their daughters for his son. It makes some sense in a warped mind sort of way. How did Junior buy the farm in prison?”

“Apparently,” Lich said, “the kid was an operator inside, and went a little too far. Two months ago a fellow inmate on a life sentence shoved a shiv up his rectum, and Drew Jr. bled out.”

“Ouch,” Mac said grimacing.

“Not my preferred way to go either. Anyway, the old man and his other son went batshit in an interview on the radio.”

“Ahh, I remember hearing about that,” Mac replied, swerving through traffic.

“Yeah. He blamed the chief and the police for his kid’s death, claiming his kid never did anything wrong. He specifically ripped Lyman a new one because he withdrew from the case, claiming his old friend turned his back on him when he was most in need. He ripped the department because his other son was busted for pot possession after Drew Jr. ended up in the can, and Wiskowski claims it was a frame. So he’s got plenty of bile built up for us. And there’s one other thing.”

“Which is what?”

“Drew Sr. has cancer—terminal,” Lich said. “He found out maybe a month ago, and he’s going fast.”

“So what’s he got to lose?” Mac fished. “Take a last shot at the men you think are responsible for the death of your son before you’re six feet under.”

“Or so the theory would go,” Lich said agreeable.

“It’s a good theory,” Mac answered. “Wiskowski is smart, wealthy enough to hire people willing to help him, he’s got the motivation, and he doesn’t care what happens to him.” He thought about it for another minute and then said gravely, “If he doesn’t care, that may not bode well for the girls.”

“Agreed,” Dick answered. “We gotta move fast on this.”

“Then I assume they’re bringing the old man in?”

“As we speak. There’s a convoy coming up 61 now from Cottage Grove. Riley, Rock, Burton, and Duffy all went down and are bringing Ol’ Drew back up right now. We just might beat them there.”

The distance lit up brightly with multiple lightning strikes as Mac pulled into the police department parking lot.

“With this storm and Wiskowski coming in, we’re going to get thunder, lightning, and fireworks all at the same time,” Lich said with amusement.

He couldn’t have been more right. As Mac and Lich jumped out of the Explorer, the convoy carrying Wiskowski arrived, four cars strong.

“No, no, no,” Mac groaned as the convoy stopped at the steps, right where the newsies were waiting. The media had clearly gotten wind of the Wiskowski connection and descended on the convoy like locusts. “They should have gone in the back.”

“This should be interesting,” Lich mused. “Let’s hold back and let them get in. Besides, you should let Riles and Rock have some media time. We’re all sick of seeing your handsome mug on TV anyway.”

“Fine by me. I hate the media.”

“Riiiiiight,” Lich said, rolling his eyes in disbelief.

“Whatever, asshole,” Mac answered angrily. He didn’t like the media exposure for any number of reasons. He knew he was a damn good cop, smartest in the department, but he was still in his early thirties and mindful that senior cops didn’t always like the young hotshot getting all the attention. But for now, he was out of the picture. The horde followed Wiskowski, and it wasn’t pretty.

Wiskowski was as sick as Dick had suggested. Drew Sr., with an oxygen tank and IV in his left arm, was slowly walked up the steps by a woman, dressed like a nurse, and a man in an expensive suit, probably his attorney. With the crush of media pushing in to take pictures and yell out questions, and the cops pushing back in kind, trying to keep them away, something bad was bound to happen, and it did. All the jostling caused the old man to be pushed sideways, and he fell to the steps, yelping in pain as the needle for the IV was yanked out of his arm.

“We better get in there and help,” Mac said running toward the crowd, Lich right behind. They got into the group in time to hear Wiskowski scream bloody murder.

“You get this on film. These bastards took my son and now he’s dead. They’ve tried to take my other son away. Now I’ve got cancer and it still isn’t enough for them. When will it be enough for those people? When!?” He hissed as Riles picked the old man up as gently as he could. “I can’t be allowed to die with any dignity,” he growled in a raspy voice. “I’m going to sue this city. The police in this town are out of control. The mayor, it’s his damn fault, letting Flanagan run roughshod over him all the time.” Wiskowski railed and then coughed uncontrollably, the cancer sapping his angry energy. But the fight was there, and he looked ready to stir the pot.

“Look what they’re doing to me! Before this is done I’m gonna own this damn city. I’m going to own Charlie Flanagan’s ass.”

With Wiskowski having gone down and now providing some good copy and footage, the media backed off just enough. This allowed Mac, Lich, and several uniforms and plainclothes who’d come from inside to help, to surround the group so the old man could be led into the building.

When the doors closed, the media focused on Mac.

“Detective McRyan, can you confirm that Drew Wiskowski Sr. is the prime suspect in the kidnappings,” a petite brunette yelled, sticking a Channel 8 microphone in his face.

“No comment,” Mac answered.

“We’ve heard that Wiskowski was identified through a phone call from somewhere in western Wisconsin, can you confirm?” a round male reporter from Channel 3, sweating profusely.

“No comment.”

“Has Wiskowski admitted to taking the girls as revenge for the death of his son?” a willowy blonde from Channel 6 asked, at least aware of the motive angle.

Mac stopped, hesitated, and then repeated, “No comment.” However, as he opened the door for Lich and others he looked back out and saw in the distance, leaning against a railing, Channel 12’s Heather Foxx, for once not one of the horde accosting them as they walked into the building.

However, if outside was the frying pan, inside the building was the fire—the political fire. Mayor Olson had just witnessed the spectacle, on live TV no less, and was none too pleased to have his name dragged through the muck. Hizzoner was pissed and let everyone hear it as he followed Riley and Rock down the hall.

“Jesus Christ,” the mayor yelled. “You couldn’t have done this just a little more low-key? You couldn’t have handled this in Cottage Grove? You couldn’t have perhaps figured out a way to avoid that fuckin’ mess outside? Hell, you had that son of a bitch looking sympathetic for Christ’s sake.”

Riles stopped in his tracks, turned, and stood stone solid, letting the mayor nearly run into him.

“Sorry, sir,” Riles said, his six-foot-three-inch frame towering over the diminutive mayor. “It perhaps could have been handled differently. And you know what? You can chew my ass for it for a week after we get the girls back. But if you don’t fucking mind, I have a job to do. Or are you going to run the interrogation?”

“I’m not sure you should, Detective,” the mayor answered. “Perhaps Wiskowski is right, you’re out of control. You’re all out of control.”

Burton stepped between Riley and the mayor before Riley, fists balled, face red with anger, did something as stupid as what he looked ready to do.

“Let’s everyone calm down,” Burton demanded. Mac and Lich pulled Riley away while the FBI man eased the mayor back from the gathering crowd.

“As for the media fiasco out front,” Burton said, shrugging his shoulders, “that’s as much my fault as anyone’s. I could have anticipated that. But Detective Riley is right, we’ll deal with that later. Right now, we got bigger fish to fry. This guy may well have the girls, and it’s these men you think are so out of control that broke this thing for us. Let them do their job for now. We can analyze crowd control later.” Burton turned toward Riles and the rest of the crowd and, with his back to the mayor, winked before he led everyone away.

Around a corner and out of earshot of the politician, the FBI man muttered in Mac’s ear.

“Your mayor is a fuckin’ idiot.”

• • • • •

12:30 a.m.

The interrogation was nothing more than a brawl, with both sides aggressive, uncompromising, gesturing, shouting, and foul-mouthed. Riley and Rock pulled their dual bull-in-the-china-shop routine, while Burton and Duffy jumped in to play the softer edges, trying without success to calm it down. Old man Wiskowski was having none of it. Gaunt, looking like the dying man he was, Drew Sr. was nevertheless animated and pugnacious, the tough Chicagoan coming out strong. While his attorney tried like mad to restrain him, Wiskowski was constantly up and out of his chair, cussing and shouting at the top of his lungs at Riley, or Rockford, or the one-way glass on either side of the room. He waved and pointed, risking another removal of the IV from his arm. It was an altogether ugly site, yet somehow morbidly entertaining.

“And you were so careful, stealing the vans, burnin’ then, and you planned it so well, Drew,” Riles thundered, leaning down to Wiskowski’s face, with both hands on the table. “But then you or your people got sloppy, using your own vehicle, the car.”

“Fuck you,” Wiskowski yelled back. It was his favored response.

Mac and Lich watched intently through the one-way window, fueling up with coffee. The chief and Lyman were watching from the observation room on the other side.

“He isn’t exactly denying involvement,” Mac mused, sipping the last of his coffee.

“He isn’t exactly admitting it either,” Lich answered, putting a stick of gum in his mouth. “The only thing I know for sure is that this interview is going nowhere.”

The chief apparently agreed. Barging into the interview room, he grabbed Wiskowski by the collar of his shirt and screamed, inches from his face.

“Where’s my daughter, you piece of shit? Where is she? Where is my daughter!” It was all Riley and Rock, both as big and strong as bulls, could do to pull the chief off of Wiskowski.

“How do you like it now?” Wiskowski fired back, the fight still raging as another spate of hacking shook him. “How does it feel, you Mick piece of shit? My son died because of you.”

“He got what he deserved. He got prison. What happened to him in there isn’t on me. That’s on you. He was nothing more than a carbon copy of you.” The chief spat as Riley and Rock held him back, letting a different interrogation play itself out.

“Well he’s dead now. And if there’s any justice in this world, you’ll soon know how it feels.”

“What’s that mean? You son of a bitch, you have her. Where is she? Where is my daughter?”

“Go fuck yourself, Flanagan,” Wiskowski replied as the boys escorted the livid chief from the room. But for the first time a smile appeared on his face.

Mac saw it. He’d never taken his eyes off the old man.

“I wonder what that little smile is all about?”

“What smile?” Lich asked. “I didn’t see a smile.”

“I did, right when Wiskowski said, ‘go fuck yourself.’ Everyone in the room was trying to push the chief out, so they wouldn’t have seen it. But I saw it.”

“You think that means he has the girls?”

“I’m starting to think maybe he does. That or he’s just enjoying pulling everyone’s chain,” Mac said. He opened the door and jumped into the hallway to tell Burton.

“It might be worth a shot,” he finished.

“It might at that,” Burton answered. “And we’re not getting anywhere. But let’s let things cool just a bit for a few minutes, then we’ll go back in.”

“That’s good. I need to grab something first anyway,” Mac said. He went to his cluttered desk and grabbed an oversized maroon coffee mug with a large, gold “M” on it—symbol of the University of Minnesota—from atop a Parade of Homes magazine. Mac had an affinity for looking at houses and real estate, even with the housing market in the tank. He picked it up and looked at the cover, which featured four high-end houses, one of them a Wiskowski-designed home. Mac put down the magazine and went back down to the interview room. He found Burton talking to Riley and Rock, explaining that McRyan was going to take a run at Wiskowski.

“Where’s the chief?” Mac said.

“Up in his office with Hisle and six uniforms to make sure neither of them moves.”

“What’s with the coffee cup?” Burton asked, point to Mac’s hand.

“Wiskowski has donated a lot of money to the football program at the U over the years. He has a soft spot for the program.”

“Gonna try to create some common ground, are we?”

“The direct approach hasn’t worked.”

“Going softer?”

“A little indirect perhaps. One other thing. If he’s got the girls, he has to be holding them somewhere, right?”

“Yeah, we’re looking at his home, businesses, and other placed right now.”

“Have your guys take a look at recent real estate purchases as well,” Mac said. “Something out of the ordinary, something that doesn’t fit with what the company normally does.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just something that doesn’t seem right for his business dealings. He builds luxury homes. Is there a purchase somewhere that doesn’t fit?”

Burton promptly sent one of his team members off on a computer search.

“Anyone else from Wiskowski’s world unaccounted for?” Riley asked.

“We can’t find his kid Steve yet,” Duffy answered. “We think he might be shacked up somewhere. He’s apparently a pussy hound.”

“Steven Smith Wiskowski. Lots of money and a fast life,” Lich added, flipping through a file on the kid. Steve had his own run-ins with the law in the past over drugs, minor pot possession mostly. “He’s not much of a winner either. Word is he went after the reporter who did the TV story on Drew Jr.’s death. Apparently he thought it was exploitive.”

“Kind of like Drew Jr. on those Hmong folks,” Rock replied. “A whole family of assholes, as far as I’m concerned.”

“What’s the story on the driver of the car we saw in Ellsworth?” Mac asked, getting back on track.

“Worker named Frank McDonald is the driver. He’s down the hall in an interview room,” Burton said. “McDonald claims he left a construction site in Menomonie at approximately 7:00 p.m. Wiskowski is building homes at a development there.” Menomonie was a Wisconsin town, forty-five minutes east of St. Paul off Interstate 94. “He says he closed up one of their models at 7:10 or so and drove back. Says he pulled into Wiskowski Construction over two hours later, at around 9:30 or so.”

“So what time was the call from Ellsworth?” Mac asked.

“7:42,” Burton answered.

“So he leaves the construction site and makes the call on the way home, right?” McRyan followed.

“Yup,” Lich replied, looking at the notes. “Plenty of time to get it done.”

“One other thing,” Burton added. “McDonald has a record.”

“Really,” Mac’s eyebrows shot up.

“He did time for extortion five years ago down in Chicago, so working with Wiskowski on a kidnapping is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“Or Wiskowski hired him into a good gig when nobody else would, and now his boss calls his marker due,” Mac added. “Either way, he looks good for the call.”

“He does,” Duffy answered. “My guys worked him over. He denies making the call, but he says the timeline is two and a half hours to get home.”

“So what’s he doing along the way?”

“Said he stopped in Ellsworth.”

“Really?” Lich said, surprised.

“And did what?” Mac asked.

“He’s got a little woman down there,” Duffy answered with a wry smile. “Apparently everyone in Wiskowski’s world is a hound. Anyway, she’s married, so he goes through town on the way home while the husband’s out playing softball and running around with the boys. The husband gets home by midnight on game night, so McDonald goes down, gets a little and gets outta Dodge before Daddy comes home.”

“And it’s a perfect little cover to make the call,” Burton added.

“Are we checking his story?”

“We are,” Duffy answered. “The Ellsworth cops checked it out. She admits to the affair and that he was there tonight. She says he arrived just before eight, stayed about an hour, finished the job, and left.”

“So he makes the call, goes to her house to cover the trip, and then comes home as if nothing happened,” Lich said.

“This is looking better by the minute,” Mac added as he opened the door into the interview room.

“So what now, I get the junior varsity,” Wiskowski said with a smirk as Mac walked into the room and sat down. The old man noticed the cup and looked Mac over again. “You’re McRyan, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Nice coffee cup. Hockey player at the U, right?”

“Back in the day.”

“You played for one of the national title winners.”

“I did.”

“I prefer football myself. I’ve donated a lot of money for the new football stadium,” Wiskowski said.

“And to your church, don’t forget. I know you’ve been very generous with your church in Cottage Grove,” Mac wanted to soften him up.

“I’ve given some money, yes.”

“More than some, Mr. Wiskowski. The new church exists because of your donation.”

Wiskowski nodded.

“I for one am pleased folks like you have stepped up to help fund the new stadium,” Mac continued quietly. “I look forward to going to an outdoor football game on campus.”

“I will not live to see it open.”

“But your generosity will live on.”

Wiskowski nodded but then spoke again.

“Of course, the way my name is being dragged through the mud today, the U might not be so inclined to have my name remain.”

“So why, given those good works, would you take Carrie and Shannon?” Mac was humanizing the girls, not mentioning their last names. “What possible good does that accomplish? All your hard work, all your generosity, all the work to build up your good name and then you do this?” Mac shook his head. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

• • • • •

2:54 a.m.

Mac spoke quietly, going on an hour now with Wiskowski, trying to wear the man down.

“Drew, we’ve talked a long time now. You have motive, you have the means, and we have your man making a phone call. We have those things locked down.” McDonald wasn’t admitting to making the call but Wiskowski didn’t know that.

“And I’ve told you that I had…” Wiskowski coughed uncontrollably, doubling over until the coughing fit stopped, and he leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “I’ve told you for hours now, I have nothing to do with nothing.”

“We’ll find the girls sooner or later,” Mac said, taking another sip of coffee, his cup having been refilled twice now. He’d kept Wiskowski talking for over an hour, walking through what happened to his son, the case, his anger at the chief and Hisle, and at the same time playing to his vanity about his legacy. “We’ll find the girls. The thing is, it would be better for you if you told us where they are now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Shannon Hisle is a Type I diabetic. She can get very sick if she doesn’t receive insulin. She could die if she doesn’t get her medicine.” Mac let it hang in the air for a moment. “Do you want that on you? Do you want to go to your grave with that on your conscience? You wanted revenge. Your son was killed in prison. You blame the chief and Lyman Hisle. So you strike back in a way you know that will hurt them. And you’ve succeeded. Trust me, I know both of those men, and they are hurting. You saw that yourself a few hours ago.” Mac paused, and then asked quietly, “But do the girls have to die?”

“I had nothing to do with this,” Wiskowski answered. “I can see why you would look at me, I really can. And I don’t know what Frank McDonald is doing, but he’s done with my company I can assure you. But I have nothing more…” Another coughing fit shook him, the sixth time in the last hour. “I didn’t do this.” He coughed and wiped his hand across his mouth. “I have nothing to do with this.” Wiskowski slumped back into his chair, his head tilting to one side.

As Wiskowski coughed again, an FBI agent stuck his head in and called Burton out.

Mac slumped back into this chair, checking his watch. It was nearly 4:00 a.m., and he felt nearly as tired as Wiskowski. The old man’s lawyer sensed it as well.

“My client has nothing more to say, detectives,” the lawyer said. “He’s answered your questions time and again. He has nothing to do with the kidnappings. He’s weak and tired. He needs to be allowed to go home and rest.”

“Sorry Counselor, but we obviously think otherwise,” Mac answered, although the old man’s persistence was causing him to start to wonder if he was involved. He wasn’t breaking, and he should have by now.

Burton stuck his head back into the room.

“I’ve got something you need to see,” he said, looking at Mac.

Mac and Lich moved back into the hall, joined by Riley, Rock, and Duffy.

“What’s up?” Mac asked, yawning.

“You said we should look at recent real estate purchases, right?” Burton asked.

“Yeah, so? Did your people find something?”

“Maybe. Most of the recent purchases are at least six months old, development parcels in the suburbs. There are multiple acres, clearly for residential housing, either high-end houses or townhouses. But there is one that’s odd. It’s for a single-family home down east of Northfield. It was bought by one of his smaller subsidiary groups, DSW Inc., which is run by Drew and Steve. And it was bought in the last month or so.”

“After he found out about the cancer,” Mac said.

“That’s right,” Burton said. “What could be the possible point?”

“Are there other houses around?” Lich asked.

“We did a satellite search of the property,” Duffy answered. “It’s off by itself. Well in from the county road. There are no other homes nearby.”

“Nice country house, perhaps?”

“Doesn’t appear to be. Rambler, fairly large, but just a nondescript rambler out in the country.”

“How big a piece of land?” Mac asked.

“It was a twenty-acre parcel, maybe a hobby farm, but it’s in the middle of nowhere,” Duffy replied. “It wouldn’t be developed for years, if ever.”

“What’s Northfield have to say about it?”

“I called out and had them do a drive-by,” Duffy answered. “They said a couple of vans are parked in front of the garage. Otherwise, very little going on.”

Burton looked to Mac.

“What do you think?”

“Let’s ask the old man.”

Mac and Burton went back into the interview room. Wiskowski’s lawyer looked up.

“I said, we are done.”

“I got just one other thing I want to ask about,” Mac said.

“What’s that?”

“What do you know about this,” Mac slid a sheet of paper in front of Wiskowski and his lawyer. It was the property listing for the Northfield house.

Wiskowski’s mouth opened and then his shoulders slumped, like he’d been caught.

“What’s out at that house?”

Wiskowski shook his head.

“Maybe that’s why McDonald is involved.”

“McDonald?” Mac asked, standing now, leaning down to the old man, his voice rising, “McDonald? What’s at that house, damn it?” He pounded the table, “What’s out there?”

Wiskowski looked at the picture.

“Ohh Steve.” Drew Sr. put his hands to his face. “I wondered why he bought that place. Why would he do this?” he pleaded to his lawyer, who just shook his head.

“Steve?” Mac asked. “Your son?” They hadn’t been able to find Wiskowski’s son as of yet. “What’s Steve have to do with this?”

Wiskowski pleaded with his lawyer.

“Why would he do this?”

Burton grabbed Mac by the arm.

“We’ve been looking at the wrong Wiskowski. Let’s go.”

• • • • •

4:32 a.m.

Mac and Lich were in the back of an FBI Suburban with Duffy and Burton in front. Two additional Suburbans followed. Just outside the east side of Northfield, the group met up with the Rice County sheriff and three deputies in a parking lot behind a church.

Burton leaped out and was greeted by the sheriff.

“You must be Agent Burton.”

“I am.”

“George Glenning, Rice County sheriff. The place you’re looking for is four miles or so up the road on the right side. House is set well back from the road in a light grove of trees.”

“You do a drive-by?”

“Did it myself, fifteen minutes ago. Looks pretty quiet. A few vans are parked in front of the garage, but no activity. Lights off on the main level, although I thought I could detect some light out of the window wells. Someone might be awake in the basement.”

“Pretty sleepy, huh?”

“That’s my read,” Glenning answered. “You have, what, twelve men? Plus my four. That should be plenty of power. How do you want to hit the place?”

“Let’s go up nice and easy, without the Suburbans,” Burton answered. “If the girls are in there, we don’t want to give these guys any warning.”

“So we pull up to the end of the driveway and walk in quietly, then.”

“Yeah,” Burton answered. “From what you’re telling me, we’ll have a little bit of cover as we approach the house.”

“A little. The trees are tall but not terribly thick—cleared out around the bottom. The grass is pretty high, but no brush or anything to hide behind. So you can get to a tree and have some cover, but we’ll be exposed when we go for the house.”

“Let’s do it then.”

The Suburbans made the four-mile drive to the house.

“Do you think the girls are really there?” Lich asked, looking at Mac.

“I don’t know,” Mac answered, checking the clip for his Sig. “But the way Old Man Wiskowski reacted when we showed him the picture of the house, it was as if he put the puzzle together himself. It makes sense. The house is isolated. Steve Wiskowski was torn up about his brother. His dad’s going downhill and has been talking about Drew Jr.’s death. How it’s Charlie Flanagan’s and Lyman Hisle’s fault. The old man is dying in front of him and can’t do anything about Flanagan and Hisle, so the kid does. We haven’t been able to find the kid. The old man claims he doesn’t know where he is.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “This could be it.”

“I’ve heard of crazier things,” Lich said, pulling on his vest.

“It at least makes some sense,” Mac answered and then added, “We’ll know soon enough.”

The Suburbans stopped at the driveway, and everyone jumped out. They carefully made their way up to the house, a single-story with white siding and brick halfway up the front. To the right, the driveway swung around to a detached three-stall garage with two vans parked in front. As the group approached the edge of the tree line, there was a noise to the right. A man in blue jeans and a dirty white T-shirt came out the side door to the detached garage, wiping his hands with a rag. The man saw them, dropped the rag, and took off running towards the woods behind the garage.

“We got a runner,” a sheriff’s deputy yelled and took off after the man.

“You know what that means,” Lich said.

“Something’s going on here,” Mac answered.

The sheriff looked left.

“Now,” he said. Two deputies ran up to the front door. Everyone else fell in ten feet behind. One deputy opened the screen door and the other used the big ram. The door blasted open.

“POLICE! FBI!” Burton and Duffy yelled as they burst in and went for the basement stairs. Mac and Lich were right behind and went left down the hallway.

“Back right, Mac!” Lich yelled.

“POLICE!” Mac yelled as he burst into the back right bedroom. A man sat up in bed and immediately put his hands up.

“Don’t shoot!”

“On the floor! On your knees!” Mac ordered. The man complied quickly. Mac pushed him down onto his stomach. “Hands!” The man again complied. Mac quickly cuffed him and then was up again, following Lich across the hall to check on Riles and Rock, who had their man subdued.

Mac and Lich then cleared the bathroom and closets in each bedroom.

“McRyan, Riley, get down here!” Burton called from the basement.

“Are they down there?” Mac yelled as he bounded down the steps two at a time. “Are they… here?” Mac’s jaw hit the floor as he came to the bottom of the steps. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” he groaned.

Rows and rows of mature marijuana plants lined up beneath the room’s ultraviolet lighting. Its street value was likely in the millions. Steve Wiskowski, kidnapper or not, was definitely a drug supplier.

Burton sighed, “Well at least the DEA will be happy.”

Chapter Twelve

“The Ransom.”

TUESDAY, JULY 3RD

Just before 7:00 a.m., Mac, Lich, Riles, Rock, and Burton slid into a large booth at the Cleveland Grille. Going to the Grille was like going into a time warp back to the late 1960s or early 1970s. It had old mustard and orange vinyl booths, a speckled tile floor, and very Brady striped wallpaper. It also served the best and most filling breakfast around. Everyone was exhausted and needed to fuel up. The Cleveland would do the trick.

Mac loved the place, the food, and the old atmosphere. Lich loved the place because his girl Dot worked his table. Lich and Dot hooked up at the same time as Mac and Sally last winter during the PTA case. Dot was a treat: a wonderfully warm, salt and pepper haired waitress in her late forties who wore a uniform two sizes too small to show off her ample topside. Lich, of course, loved it. He came in each morning, she doted on him, and he’d pat her on the ass. Mac loved her to death and often wondered whether, if the two got married, if he’d have to call her Dot Lick.

“The usual, Hon?” she asked Mac, setting her right hand on his shoulder.

“You bet.” The usual was the CG breakfast burrito; chock full of eggs, sausage, hash browns, peppers, cheese, and salsa. “Get everyone the same,” he directed. “Trust me,” he said, looking to Burton. “You’ll love it. It’ll fill you up, and you’ll thank me for it later.”

While they waited for their food, they began the postmortem on the raid. No evidence of the girls was found at the Northfield house and alibis were checking out. Wiskowski Sr. was still of interest, but it was dying by the minute. Everyone knew, in their hearts and heads, that he was a dead end.

“I thought it was Wiskowski,” Mac groaned, sipping at a large glass of ice water. “I can’t believe how wrong I was about him. It all fit, right down to the house out in the country.”

“It wasn’t just you. We were all wrong,” Burton said. “I thought it was Wiskowski, too. I’d have bet my pension on it.”

“Someone explain the car in Ellsworth to me then,” Riles asked rubbing his eyes. “Were we wrong on that too?”

“If Wiskowski is not involved in this, but one of his cars ends up involved, is it a setup then?” Lich asked.

“These guys have been so careful. And then to get caught with an actual license plate by some old man sitting on a park bench?” Burton said. “I was surprised they would have screwed up like that.”

Dot appeared with five CG Burritos. She added two extra pots of coffee. Hunger took over for a few minutes as everyone inhaled the first few bites of food.

As the initial assault on the burritos slowed, Mac snorted.

“I bet it was a setup. God, the more I think about that car in Ellsworth, the more it seems like it was.”

“What has you so sure now?”

“The driver of the car, whoever it was, sat there for a while, perhaps five minutes according to our witness in Ellsworth,” Mac answered, leaning back against the back of his booth and crossing his arms.

Burton nodded, picking at his plate.

“Why wait around when you want to make the call quick and be done?”

“Right. Why sit at the phone for five minutes, if not more, before making the call, unless…”

“Unless you want to be seen,” Riles finished, scratching the deep stubble on the right side of his face. “Cripes, these guys have thought of everything.”

“So whoever this guy is,” Riles continued, “he sits at the phone until our witness shows up. Once our guy is certain he’s been seen, he makes the call and then leaves.”

“We find the witness, get the plate, start down the Wiskowski path, and lose all this time,” Rock added.

“Well, if it was a setup, they got exactly what they wanted,” Lich said.

“Right, we’re spending all our time looking at Wiskowski and not in the right place,” Burton said, shaking his head. “Shit.”

“It certainly would fit these bastards,” Mac noted. “They wanted to push us in another direction, even if for just a short period of time. All the while, they continue doing what they’re doing and we fall farther behind.”

“It makes sense, when you think about how these guys have operated,” Burton added.

“Maybe we should have seen it sooner,” Mac said, stuffing a fork full of food into his mouth.

“You mean, besides the car angle?” Rock asked, adding some toast to his large helping of butter.

“Yeah. Maybe we should have seen it in the motive,” Mac said.

“How so?” Burton asked.

“The kidnappers have operated as if ransom is their motivation, with a personal element added in. For Wiskowski, maybe, that whole equation doesn’t work. He’s got more money than he could ever spend, so ransom doesn’t make sense, but he’s got motive up the wazoo personally. If he wanted revenge for his son, he could’ve just killed the chief and Lyman. Why go through all this bullshit and phone calls, switching vans, and the whole nine yards?” Mac let it hang in the air for a moment. “We didn’t see it because we’ve been working around the clock to find the girls. It was the first thing that looked good to us. A lot of the parts fit—just not all of them. But you know what really scares me?”

“What?” Burton asked.

“What’s really really scary,” Mac replied, “is that they scouted and planned it to the point of finding this McDonald guy and hanging him out to dry as part of this. They have been planning this for a long, long time to get that part right.”

“I can hardly wait to see what comes next,” Lich replied, resignation in his voice. “They’re way ahead of us.”

Dot showed up and asked if anyone needed anything else. Everyone begged off. Dot set the bill down and Burton grabbed it.

“You don’t have to do that,” Riles said.

“Naw. I got this. I usually don’t get asked out for breakfast by the local police. I appreciate the offer.”

“Well, don’t let me stand in your way,” Lich said with a smile.

“So what about other possibles?” Rock asked.

“We’re continuing to work through the files,” Burton answered. “We never stopped, but nothing else has popped.”

“And the time is passing quickly,” Riles noted.

“Indeed,” Burton answered. “And I have a feeling we’ll hear from the kidnappers again real soon. So at this point, I’m going to start something else.”

“Which is?”

“The ransom. That demand is going to come soon, I think, and we need to be ready. To Mac’s point on how prepared the kidnappers seem to be, there may not be time to find out who these guys are. We may need to wait for the money drop.”

“I don’t like just sitting back,” Mac said with some annoyance.

“We’re not sitting back,” Burton answered calmly. “Just working dual angles is all. We need to be prepared. I don’t have any intention of stopping the hunt for these guys.” The FBI man’s answer seemed to satisfy everyone.

“Back at it then,” Mac said.

“We need a break,” Burton said.

“If the girls don’t get a break…” Rock started.

“I hear ya, I hear ya,” Burton broke in. “But I’ve got my guys, and yours, working the files. Until they get something to work, you guys need a few winks, just a couple of hours. Be back downtown by eleven.”

“He’s right,” Riles said, yawning. A couple hours of sleep seemed like a good idea.

Everyone got up to go. Lich asked Mac to hang back. He wanted a few minutes with Dot. Mac stayed in his booth and sipped at the rest of his coffee. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up to see Heather Foxx staring down at him.

“Good morning, Detective,” Heather said. “Can I join you for a moment?”

“Heather, Heather, Heather, you know I can’t tell you anything,” Mac answered.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied with a dismissive wave, opening a muffin she bought at the counter. She mixed cream and sugar into a to-go coffee. She’d had some sleep and looked good in a white linen coat and blouse with a short black skirt. She looked damn good. And she behaved herself the night before.

“Let me ask you something,” Mac started.

“Shoot.”

“How come you weren’t up front with the rest of the hyenas last night when Wiskowski was brought in?” Mac asked.

“No comment,” Heather replied with a mischievous smile.

“That’s my line,” Mac replied, smiling back.

“Really, what are we going to find out shouting questions as you guys walk in?” Heather retorted, sitting up. “My producers love that stuff, but I hate it. I’d always just prefer to talk to people, get a one-on-one interview after I’ve earned some trust. But just running around like an idiot?” She shook her head. “That ain’t for me.”

Mac liked that answer. It was the answer of a professional, and Heather Foxx was a good reporter. Maybe she deserved a little break. The Wiskowski raid had yet to hit the media.

“So, where are you at on this Wiskowski thing?” Mac asked.

Heather looked at him quizzically at first, but then her right eyebrow rose just a bit at the hint of an opportunity. “You guys had him in for questioning overnight. I assume that you have something more than just his radio rant a few months ago—maybe something on a car or a truck—but beyond that I have no idea. However, my esteemed colleagues seem to have him convicted already.”

“Yeah, we heard that, too,” Mac answered. “Reporters should really get their facts straight before they hang a man, don’t you think?”

“I take it, it would be wrong to have hung him at this point then?” Heather asked, sensing she was about to get a scoop from the last guy she ever expected to get one from.

“Let’s just say that, if you haven’t been out in front on this, then you’re in a good position.” Mac gave her a little bit on the Northfield raid, just enough for her to check around, particularly with the Rice County sheriff.

“In other words, it may be fair to report, if someone were to do that sort of thing, that questions have arisen with regard to Mr. Wiskowski’s status as a suspect,” Heather said.

“He may not be completely out of the woods yet, but it would be fair to conclude that a few issues have come up that suggest Wiskowski is not involved with the kidnappings,” Mac said, smiling.

“Well, I hate to eat and run,” Heather said.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Mac answered. “I’m going to bed.”

• • • • •

Smith awoke to the tropical humidity of a Minnesota heat wave wafting through the window. He rolled out of bed and pushed the curtains to the side with the intent of viewing a clear sky, but instead found a grayish haze already hanging thick in the air. It was going to be a steamer.

Smith shook his head. People thought Minnesota was some frozen tundra, and that certainly could be the case in January. But in the summer months, Minnesota temperatures routinely hit the nineties, with periods of insufferable sultry air that could last for days on end. They were in such a stretch now, and there was no foreseeable break in the forecast. The afternoon trip to the river would be refreshing, but there was other business to attend to first.

He looked back to the empty right side of the bed. Monica was already up. Through the crack in the bedroom door he could hear her moving around in the kitchen. He also heard the sound of paper bags being unrolled. The unmistakable smell of a greasy drive-through breakfast drifted through the house. He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed, looked at his hands and shook his head. He was wearing rubber gloves, even in bed. He and the rest of the crew were doing everything they could to avoid leaving a trace, so in the safe house, everyone wore gloves. It was an odd way to live, but it was only necessary for a few days. He picked up his watch off the nightstand, slid it over his gloved left hand, and checked the time. It was 8:27 a.m.

Out of bed, he stepped across the hall to the safe house’s other bedroom and nudged the door open with his left foot. Dean and David lay side by side on olive green inflatable Coleman mattresses on the floor. Smith kicked them awake and then made for the kitchen, where he found Monica laying out a smorgasbord of McDonald’s breakfast options. The smell of grease, egg, sausage, and coffee lifted Smith out of his stupor. He walked up to Monica and kissed her on the lips. He sat down at the metal card table and opened a McGriddle. Taking the plastic top off a white Styrofoam cup, he carefully took a sip of the piping-hot-coffee. He ripped the tops off of two creamers and poured in the contents, along with a pack of sugar to sweeten the cup.

Monica sat down with a separate bag, pulled out a yogurt parfait, and began mixing the fruit and yogurt.

“What time do you plan on leaving?” she asked as she sprinkled in the granola.

“I want to get going by nine o’clock or so and get into position as soon as we can—get a feel for the area for a while before I move.”

Dean and David came shuffling down the hall, buttoning their shorts and sliding baseball caps onto their heads. The large men yawned as they surveyed the buffet. They each selected several wrapped items, sat down, and immediately commenced gorging. Smith told them he wanted to be on the road by 9:00. The brothers simply nodded as they stuffed their faces full of egg and sausage.

“While you’re gone, I’ll clean everything out of here again,” Monica said. “I’ll meet you in Hudson later.”

Forensics.

Smith, Dean, and David were all in the system, so they needed to be careful, thus everyone wore gloves in the house, but that wasn’t all. For each of the past five days, Monica had cleaned the place like it had never been cleaned before. After cleaning each time, she dumped the garbage, linens, and cleaning materials far from the safe house. The next day, she started with new sponges, mops, and buckets. The vacuum cleaner was used twice a day and, when not being used, was stored in one of the vans. They never made meals or drank water out of the faucet. The only thing they used in the house was the toilet, but only the one upstairs and they flushed three times and cleaned it with every use. Monica also cleaned it twice a day on her rounds. If the house was discovered, Smith didn’t want to chance that even a single print or hair would be left behind.

“What time do you want to make the call?” David asked Smith.

“I want to make it by 11:30,” Smith said. He looked at his watch, “That’ll give ‘em just over thirty hours to get everything together.”

“What time will you make it back to the river?” Monica asked. “I don’t want to be too early.”

“Two o’clock, maybe 2:30. We’ll go check on the campsite, set up the ladder, and make sure everything is still in place, especially after the storms last night.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. When the food was gone and the garbage completely cleared away,Smith grabbed the keys off the counter and Dean asked him, “They’re not on to us at all?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?” David pushed.

“Positive,” Smith replied. “We’re clean.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Prepared, complicated, motivated.”

Mac rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was 8:03 a.m. when he dropped Lich off. Mac agreed to pick him up in a couple of hours, and he powered up the window to keep the blazing heat out. Sometimes when storms blew through town, as they had the night before, a cool front would come in behind and bring some relief from the heat. This was not one of those times. Mac’s dashboard thermometer registered eighty-six degrees. It was going to be a miserable day.

Mac exhaled. There was a complicated plan in motion—a plan that was only partially executed, and they had no idea what was coming next. Furthermore, Mac worried that the kidnappers knew—had to know—that the police and FBI would be applying immense resources in search of the connection. The kidnappers either knew this and didn’t care, which Mac doubted was the case, or they believed that the connection would be made, if ever, only after they were long gone, somewhere on the other side of the world, living off the ransom with new identities, never to be found. If the connection was that hard to find, the odds of making it were not in their favor.

Burton was worried about the timeline as well, so he was focusing on the money drop, figuring that might be their best chance. Having the money so close that the kidnappers could taste it might cause a mistake that the FBI and police could pounce on. The FBI man had the experience and the success, but Mac wasn’t so confident about catching the kidnappers when it came time to pay the ransom. Burton was good, no doubt, but they were up against someone with all the advantages at this point. And this was not a by-the-numbers case. The kidnappers were keeping them off balance and would be ready for the ransom drop. It wouldn’t be simple.

What bothered him the most was what was motivating the kidnappers. There was no reason to pick both Carrie Flanagan and Shannon Hisle other than to get at their fathers. This was as much about revenge or retribution—whatever you wanted to call it—as it was money.

Mac turned left and made his way to Berkley Avenue and halfway down he pulled up in front of Sally’s house. He snorted and shook his head. He always thought of it as her house, and she kept telling him he needed to think of it as theirs. Well, it might be “their” house, but she got the one-car garage, so he parked in the street.

Out of the Explorer, he stretched his arms, moved his head from side to side and yawned, the last day finally catching up with him. As he walked slowly up the driveway he ran everything through his mind again. He sat down on the back stoop and pinched the bridge of his nose. Another thing was beginning to gnaw at him. He didn’t feel like he or everyone else was really doing anything, pushing the investigation and beating the bushes, throwing out theories, doing what Lich liked to call “that investigative shit.”

Tired as he was, he could feel the time ticking away. He didn’t know what the clock was, but he was certain that they were way behind and that the time remaining was short. It was like being down by two touchdowns with less than two minutes to go, and the other team has the ball. Mac went inside and into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and went back out to the stoop. Making a pull off the water, he closed his eyes and tried to think about what they had done thus far and what they needed to do. He took out his notebook and started jotting down notes about the case. In the center of a fresh sheet, he wrote down his three concerns, boiled down to three words: prepared, complicated, and motivated.

The door opened behind him and Sally, dressed for work, stepped out onto the stoop. She sat down, kissed him on the lips, and put her hand up the back of his shirt to scratch his back while he continued with his notes.

“Prepared, complicated, and motivated?” Sally asked.

“That’s what these guys are.”

He surrounded the three words with notes, thought, and names. He was tired, exhausted really, and needed sleep. But his mind was working a little now, churning, moving, and he wanted to get it down on paper, and then sleep on it for two hours. He would let it all roll around in his subconscious. Fifteen minutes later, his head hit the pillow with “prepared, complicated, and motivated” percolating in his mind.

Chapter Fourteen

“In reality, a million dollars isn’t that much.”

11:47 a.m.

Smith walked past the bank, through the alley, and across the street into the quiet city park. He was in Duluth, Minnesota, two hours north of the Twin Cities. Sitting at the far southwestern tip of Lake Superior, Duluth was an old port city with a large and deep harbor. At one time, Duluth was a booming shipping town, a pickup point for taconite, iron ore, and agricultural products to be shipped through the Great Lakes and onward to the Atlantic. However, with the decline of northern Minnesota’s mining industry, Duluth had suffered both economically and in population, which was now just over 87,000. Back in the 1950s it had been well over 100,000. Still, Duluth was a beautiful town, built into the rocky hillside overlooking the largest of the Great lakes. The steep cliffs and the roads traversing them vertically made him think of San Francisco, though without the Golden Gate and the trolley cars. As Smith looked back between the buildings, he could see the lake off in the distance, its dark cool blue water meeting the deep cloudless blue horizon, making the lake look like an ocean. The cool water of the lake also moderated the local temperature, making things more comfortable in Duluth than the rest of the state. While the temperature was going to hit the sticky upper nineties in the Twin Cities, Duluth was an easy seventy-four degrees as the noon hour approached.

Smith turned to the task at hand. He’d chosen the park weeks ago. Set in an older neighborhood on the southern end of town, it was pleasantly empty, as it had been when he first visited. Nonetheless, Smith wore a baseball cap pulled down tightly, wraparound sunglasses, and a nondescript outfit of jeans, a plain white T-shirt, orange reflector vest, and tan leather work gloves. He carried an orange toolbox containing a variety of tools including screwdrivers, wrenches, and a hammer. To anyone walking by, he would look like a run-of-the-mill city maintenance worker.

The pay phone sat on the wall outside a small, octagonal cinderblock building that served as a warming house for ice skaters in the winter. He checked the door of the building, which was locked. He looked through the metal-grated window to make sure it was empty inside. It was. Scanning the area around the park, he noted only an older woman walking her yip dog on the far side of the park at least a hundred yards away.

With the park clear, Smith opened his toolbox, took the top tray out and pulled out a roll of quarters and his voice-masking device, which he placed over the phone. He dialed the number for Flanagan. The chief of police picked up on the second ring.

“Flanagan.”

“Hello, Chief, and greetings to the many members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation listening in. Good day to you all. Chief, we want five million dollars total for your daughter and for Shannon Hisle. The cash is to be in non-sequential hundred-dollar bills. No dye packs or GPS tracking devices. Keep it simple and comply. You have until 6:00 p.m. tomorrow. We will call your office phone at that time with instructions for the drop.”

“What about our daughters? I’m not giving you anything until I speak with my daughter live on the phone.”

“Sorry, Chief, but that isn’t possible now. If you go to Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School and look under Seat10, Row 15, Section C, you’ll see why. We have a little gift for you that will, I think, motivate you and Mr. Hisle to meet our more than reasonable demands. Good day.”

Smith cradled the phone, took off the masking device, and kneeled down to reassemble his tool box, closing the top and fastening the latch. He walked briskly back across the street and through the alley. Dean saw Smith approaching and started the van. Once inside, Smith checked his watch. The walk back to the van took a little over a minute. Dean pulled out onto the street, turned left, and traveled four blocks north. As he waited at a stoplight, a Duluth police squad car roared through the intersection, rollers and siren going, heading in the direction of the park.

“Could be something else,” Dean said, noting the pensive look on Smith’s face.

Smith simply nodded as he contemplated their next move, noting the swiftness of the police response, if that was in fact what it was.

“I want to make sure. Let’s take a more leisurely drive back,” he said as the van merged onto Interstate 35 south a few minutes later.

Dean nodded and took the bridge east on Highway 2 over St. Louis Bay, crossing over to the city of Superior on the Wisconsin side. The group drove back south toward the Twin Cities on Wisconsin’s quiet State Highway 35 instead of Minnesota’s popular Interstate 35.

• • • • •

“McRyan,” Mac said, answering his cell phone with a yawn.

“Where are you at?” Burton asked.

“Just south of downtown on West Seventh.”

“Meet me at Griffin Stadium.”

“Griffin Stadium? At St. Paul Central High?” Mac asked quizzically. “What the heck for?”

“Kidnappers left a gift for us. And we have the ransom demand.”

Two minutes later, Mac was weaving in traffic again, the siren moving traffic.

“Five million dollars?” Mac said skeptically, turning a hard right onto Lexington Parkway and heading north. “That’s light.”

“What do you mean light?” Lich asked, confused.

“Split three ways, maybe four, that’s not that much money,” Mac said. “Four ways, my Cretin High School math tells me that’s $1.25 million per.” He shook his head. “Odd.”

“Maybe to you,” Lich said, “but to me, I could make $1.25 million go pretty far. Especially tax-free.”

“Yeah, after alimony, you’d have a buck twenty-five left,” Mac snickered.

“Smart-ass.”

“All kidding aside, think about it. You kidnap the daughters of the chief of police and a high-priced lawyer, and all you ask for is five million for the two?” Mac questioned. “I don’t buy it. All that risk for that little reward, relatively speaking. I mean, in reality, Dick, a million dollars isn’t that much. A nice house with some equity, some money in a retirement fund or two, a little inheritance, and you’re there. I mean, five million split between three or four people just isn’t that much.”

“If you say so,” Lich replied. “You’re the one with the money, so you should know.” Mac did have money. He had invested in a coffee business with two high school friends a number of years ago. There were now twenty-seven Grand Brew Coffee Shops with more on the drawing board. While a minority investor, Mac’s ten percent investment left him sitting pretty. It was one secret Lich had managed to keep. Mac didn’t want everyone on the force to know that he was going to be—in fact already was—wealthy.

Lich changed topics.

“God, the air conditioner feels good,” he said, wiping the sweat beads from his bald head. Sweat had already filtered through his fresh red Hawaiian shirt. He looked like Norm Peterson on a Cheers episode. “And not a cloud in the sky. We’re gonna bake today.”

“Grab the white beach cap in the back seat,” Mac replied. “It’ll help keep your head cooler.” Not to mention that the last thing Lich needed was a sunburned head.

“God, it feels like this is all I’ve done for the last twenty-four hours,” Lich said, reaching in back. “Run around.”

“That’s what the kidnappers want,” Mac said, decelerating hard as he approached a left turn onto Marshall Avenue, with St. Paul Central High School on his left. Mac turned in front of the school, drove past the front door and smoothly turned right into a parking lot behind the football field. Two squad cars were there already, as well as a Tahoe from Forensics. The uniform cops had crime scene tape up, creating a perimeter. A guard waved the Explorer through a break in the tape.

As Mac hopped out of the Explorer and looked back, Riley, Burton, and the others pulled in. He noticed a few media types already loitering against the tape, including Heather Foxx, who was still looking good in that white sleeveless blouse. Her tastefully short, black skirt hugged her hips and revealed her tan legs. Heather looked happy. The Wiskowski tip put her well into first place in the morning media game.

“Mac?” He turned to see his second cousin Tip, a patrol cop, pointing to the football bleachers. “Up in the stands.”

Mac, Lich, and the rest hustled through the tunnel in the middle of the grandstand and then up the bleachers to the spot just in front of the press box, where a tech was taking photos, dusting for prints, and evaluating the package. Wrapped in clear plastic, it hung underneath a wood bleacher like a bat in a cave. Mac walked down the row just below where everyone was hovering. He crouched down, took off his sunglasses, and looked underneath. “What do you see?” Burton asked.

“Laptop,” Mac answered, noting the red and blue inputs on the back. The laptop was held to the seat by duct tape, which looked to be covering Velcro straps.

“Any prints?” Burton asked the crime tech.

“Nada. It’s clean,” was the curt reply from the tech.

“Not even on the tape or the plastic?” Lich asked. The tech just shook his head. The kidnappers weren’t leaving them anything to work with.

“Are we canvassing?” Riles asked, wiping sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“I’ve got bodies coming, yours and ours,” Burton replied. “We’ll blanket the neighborhood, see what turns up.”

Mac snorted and shook his head.

“Got to do it, I know, but it’s a big fuckin’ waste of time,” he said.

“Never know, someone could have seen something,” Burton said.

“You really think so? These guys haven’t left us anything up to this point,” Mac replied in disgust.

Burton exhaled and shook his head.

“No, but like you said, gotta do it.”

“What about the laptop?” Lich asked. “Want to look here or downtown?”

“Downtown,” Burton replied. “I want my people taking a look at it. I’m guessing we have video.”

Chapter Fifteen

“How are they going to breathe?”

Channel 12 broke into its early afternoon soap opera for a special report. The tanned, toothy, and well-coiffed anchor Paul Phillips walked the lead in.

“We’re cutting into our regular programming to bring you breaking news about the kidnappings of Carrie Flanagan, daughter of St. Paul Police Chief Charlie Flanagan, and Shannon Hisle, daughter of prominent St. Paul attorney Lyman Hisle. Right now we’re going to Channel 12’s Heather Foxx in St. Paul, who’s been tracking this story for us. Heather.”

“Paul, we’re at the St. Paul Police Department headquarters, where the FBI and police have just arrived with a laptop computer found under the stands in Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School,” Heather said perfectly to the camera. She loved doing this on the fly, the rush of excitement, pulling it off without a hitch. Reports like this got you a network or cable gig, she thought, when you were quick on your feet, looking good, totally under control, regardless of the adrenaline pumping through your veins. “And, in another Channel 12 exclusive, we’ve learned that the police have received a ransom demand for the two girls.”

“Do we know what the ransom demand is, Heather?” Phillips piped in.

“At this point, no, Paul,” Heather answered. “We’ve been unable to learn the amount.”

“Did the FBI and police learn of the ransom demand from the laptop, Heather?”

“No, Paul. The ransom demand was received by phone. At that time the authorities were apparently directed to the laptop at Central High.”

“Do we know what is on the laptop?”

“No, we don’t. It is my understanding that the police were bringing it back here to analyze it.”

“Heather,” Phillips asked, tacking in a different direction, “what about the police and FBI takedown in Northfield that you reported earlier? Any further developments?”

“The police have released Drew Wiskowski, although his son Steve is now in custody. However, it appears that neither of them are involved in the kidnappings of Shannon Hisle and Carrie Flanagan,” Foxx answered.

“Well,” the anchor smiled, showing unnaturally white teeth, “it has indeed been a busy day for the FBI and police.”

“Indeed it has, Paul,” Heather replied seriously. “They continue to ask for the public’s help, particularly with regard to the vans and the descriptions we have of the kidnappers.” The pretty reporter provided the now-familiar general description of large men, likely dark hair, operating in delivery or panel vans common throughout town. Foxx finished by providing the phone numbers to contact the police and FBI and then signed off.

“Reporting from the St. Paul Police Department, this is Heather Foxx, Channel 12 News.” She held the pose for a moment and then her cameraman waved her off.

“Nice report,” he said.

“Thanks, but cripes it’s hot,” she replied, wiping a film of perspiration off her forehead.

A Channel 6 van pulled up, and reporter Scott Crossman climbed out of the van in a navy blue, button-down collar shirt and blue tie. His dress shirt was sticking to his body, and sweat rings showed around his pits and collar. He wasn’t going on camera any time soon.

“Christ, Heather, who’s your fucking source for this stuff?” Crossman was pissed, but there was admiration in his voice.

• • • • •

The detectives and agents filed into the conference room and set the laptop on the conference table. The chief and Lyman wanted in, but Burton, with the help of Peters and Riley convinced them to wait outside while the group took the first look. The mayor, for reasons Mac couldn’t quite figure out, joined them. An FBI tech with rubber gloves and a lab coat flipped the top open to the laptop. He spent the next few minutes checking the laptop keys for prints. Not surprisingly, there were none. While the techs worked, the rest watched Heather Foxx’s report.

“She has a good source,” Burton said.

“She usually does. She bats her eyes or loosens a button or two on that blouse of hers, and some puppy-eyed cop spills the beans,” was Mac’s wry reply.

“Speakin’ from experience, Detective?” the mayor asked, his tone just a little accusatory.

“If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Mac replied, not looking up from the laptop. He heard the mayor snort behind him.

“You will live dangerously,” Lich warned in a quiet, albeit amused voice as he leaned over Mac’s shoulder.

“So what do we really have here?” the FBI tech said as he powered up the computer. The laptop was a Compaq and looked new.

“Can we track where the laptop came from?” Riley asked, looking at Mac.

“I should think so,” Mac replied, and then looked at the FBI tech, a little edge in his voice. “Can you?”

“Sure, we just need to take this serial number,” the agent answered, pointing underneath the computer, “and get with Compaq.” He jotted down the serial number and gave it to another agent. “It’ll take a little time to track it down,” he said to the group at large.

“Pray they bought it with a credit card,” Riley replied.

“I doubt we’ll be that lucky.” Mac replied.

“Might get something,” Riley said pointedly. “We gotta have hope,” he added through clenched teeth, staring a hole through Mac.

Mac read the sign: watch the negativity and stay cool. The chief was in the hallway, and he didn’t need to see his boys with their heads down. Sooner or later, the kidnappers would make a mistake and then the boys would capitalize, but only if they kept their minds open to the possibility. Mac exhaled, nodded lightly, and spoke more calmly.

“We might, we might. If we can figure out when the laptop was bought and where,” he added, “maybe we can get something. They wouldn’t pay with a credit card, or at least one in their real names or names we could trace. But…”

“But what?” Riles asked.

“If they bought it at a Best Buy, Target, Costco, Wal-Mart, someplace like that,” Mac added, “we could figure out which register it was bought at and what time. Maybe we could get surveillance camera footage from the checkout.”

“Think we can catch one of the men on the surveillance video?” Duffy asked.

“Or the woman,” Lich added. “Let’s not forget about her.”

“Depends. They might have had someone purchase it for them. But let’s check and see. Do you guys have access to that facial-recognition software?” Mac asked.

“If need be,” a member of Burton’s crew answered.

“Get on that,” Burton said. “Let’s track that computer down.”

“So what’s on the computer?” Lich asked, pushing to get back on task.

“Let’s take a look,” the FBI tech replied. He powered up the laptop, waiting for the screen to come to life. When it did, there was a video icon on the screen. The tech double clicked on the icon, and a video program opened up.

The video began soundlessly with a view out the windshield of a vehicle, either a truck or a van, driving down a rough dirt road with knee-high grass and weeds between the tire tracks. There was taller grass, bushes, and scraggly trees in the background. The picture vibrated as the vehicle jostled into potholes or rocks.

The time in upper right corner showed 9:09 p.m., the date July 2, the night before. It was dusk.

After a minute of elapsed time, the dirt road wound its way toward a straight line of tall trees. The road then turned left to run parallel with the thick tree line. The area was vacant with no activity.

At 9:15 by the video clock, the vehicle abruptly turned right onto an overgrown path, its long grass matted down by what must have been only a couple of previous trips. The vehicle pulled up to a tree with orange tape tied around its massive trunk.

The video went dark, and someone groaned in dismay.

The picture came back to life ten seconds later, the time now reading 9:23.

Lying motionless on the floor of the van was Carrie Flanagan on the left and Shannon Hisle on the right. Shovels and PVC piping surrounded them. Black ties bound the girls’ wrists and ankles. Both were blindfolded and gagged. They did not appear harmed or beaten, simply sweaty and disheveled. Hisle, still dressed in her café golf shirt and khaki shorts, looked pale. Flanagan still wore her jean shorts and a smudged white tank top.

A too-familiar voice finally broke the deathly quiet of the conference room.

“The girls are alive,” it said. The camera zoomed in on Flanagan and then Hisle for long enough to show that the girls’ chests were moving. “They have been drugged. They will probably awaken around the time you are watching this video.”

Mac looked at his watch: 1:22 p.m.

“Now let’s go see where they will wake up,” the voice continued, and the camera panned to the right to a black-clad man wearing gloves and a ski mask. He pulled a piece of PVC piping out from the right side of the van. The camera followed him as he turned his back on the camera and walked away, off to the right of the screen.

The video went dark.

It came alive again, the time now 9:47 p.m.

“This is where the girls will be when they wake up.” The girls were lying motionless in a sturdy reinforced plywood box, side-by-side, their arms and feet no longer bound.

“What’s that box, maybe two feet high, four across, and six feet long?” Mac asked quietly.

“Looks about right,” Burton answered softly.

The camera zoomed, showing what looked like a Dictaphone and a flashlight lying between the girls.

“You’ll note the absence of food and water,” the voice said, as if reading everyone’s mind.

“Ah shit,” Rock uttered quietly.

“Mother fuckers,” Mac muttered, knowing where this was going.

The camera pulled back to show the box lying in a large hole, four to five feet deep. Portable lights provided just enough illumination to film, but not enough to identify the location. The video showed the arms of two men laying a piece of reinforced plywood over the box, then using electric screwdrivers to set it in place. There was no hole in the top for ventilation.

“How are they going to breathe?” Rock asked.

“The PVC piping,” Mac answered as he pointed to the lower right side of the screen. “If you look, there are holes on the right side of the box.”

The video went dark.

It came back to life, five minutes later, now 10:01 p.m.

As Mac had suggested, one of the men was securing the PVC piping to the right side of the wood box. The camera pulled straight back to show that the pipes were four to five feet long, and would probably stick just above ground once the dirt was shoveled back into the hole. The voice came back, briefly.

“The girls have two pipes for air to breathe.”

The video once again went dark.

Ten seconds later, it came back to life, 10:27 p.m.

The last of the dirt was being shoveled into the hole. The pipe stood inches above the ground. The camera pulled back to show that the area was a small clearing in the midst of thick woods. Logic dictated it couldn’t be far from the edge of the tree line, but there was no way to tell. The voice came back one last time.

“Mr. Hisle, I bet you’re wondering about your daughter’s diabetes. That type 1 is nasty stuff. Your daughter will just have to hang on. So if you and the chief want the girls back alive, you follow our next set of instructions to the letter.”

The video went dead.

The room was silent for a minute.

“Mother fuckers,” Rock railed, pounding the table, rattling the laptop, coffee cups, and water bottles. He wasn’t alone—several officers found something to hit, or at least some space to pace, to try to regain their composure. But Mac, Riles, and Burton stood still, deep in thought. Burton had his arms crossed, stroking his chin with his right hand. Mac grabbed a notepad and scribbled his thoughts down, working the gum in his mouth hard. Riles took a look over Mac’s shoulder and nodded.

“We gotta… gotta… find these guys,” Lich ground out, running his hand over his bald head. “We don’t have much time.”

“We need to go over this video with a fine tooth comb, find anything and everything,” Mac said. “I know a guy. We need to get this to…”

“We’ve got that covered,” Burton interrupted. “This is the FBI’s bailiwick. Technology is our deal.”

“Yeah, but wait a minute…” Mac persisted. “I know a guy…”

Burton steam rolled him and took control of the room.

“Duffy,” he said, pointing to the laptop, “let’s get our video people on this, every second of that video. I want them going over it, picking it apart, find something that we can use.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Duffy answered.

“Wait,” Mac pleaded, but Riley grabbed his elbow.

“Keep your powder dry for now and let Burton do this thing,” Riles whispered into his ear, “this is the FBI’s show. Let them play it out.” Riley gave him a look that recommended patience.

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Mac retorted under his breath.

“See what Burton does,” Riley replied, equally quiet. “Let’s see if he’s as good as they say he is.”

“And thinks he is,” Mac replied, with just a touch of skepticism. Riley returned a knowing smirk. “I like the guy,” Mac added in a whisper, “but I only see him reacting to events. We need to push this thing.”

“We need to stay at the table. The mayor’s here for a reason. He’s just waiting for us to fall out of line.”

“What about that pipe for air from the…” Lich asked the room, struggling for what to call it.

“Grave. It’s a fucking grave,” Mac said, finishing the thought out loud, drawing looks from the room. “And that’s how they want us, the chief, Lyman, all of us to think of it. If we don’t find these guys, that’s where those girls will die.”

“They’re not going to die,” Burton replied with fervor. “We’re going to find them.”

“How?” Rock asked.

“First,” Burton answered, “we’re going over that videotape. If there is something there, we’ll find it. Something in the van, an identifying characteristic or mark on one of the kidnappers, I’ll bet that there’s something there. The road and land they’re on, we need to see if there’s any identifying landmarks or features on it. We just have to break it down and look.”

Mac joined in.

“We need to, at a minimum, get this out to local sheriffs and chiefs within an hour of the cities. The girls are buried somewhere rural, but they can’t be that far from town. They need to be somewhat close, so maybe, just maybe, some county mountie will recognize something.”

“Why don’t you think they’re farther away?” Riles asked.

“They want isolation for sure, they need to have it to bury the girls and not draw any attention with those lights. That takes time and privacy. But they can’t be working two or three hours away. That’s not convenient enough. They’d want to stay close,” Mac shook his head. “They’re not up in Brainerd and then driving two, three hours down here to plant laptop computers under football bleachers. They’re centered somewhere around here and then driving from the Twin Cities, or somewhere nearby, up to Clearwater or down to Ellsworth. They’re not that far away.”

“McRyan, the last phone call was from Duluth,” Duffy noted. “They made it from a city park. They could be prowling around up there. That creates an awfully wide net.”

“Fine then. Let’s send the thing out to the whole state as well as western Wisconsin,” Mac said. “But I doubt they have the girls up in Duluth or any place that far from the Twin Cities. They’re in closer somewhere.”

“Then why go to Duluth?” Duffy pressed.

“Because now they’re not on as tight of a timeline. They’re not calling us until 6:00 p.m. tomorrow night. So they have time to go a little farther away, gain that extra layer of safety. And at the same time, they get the chance to make us think they’re that far away. They want us expending resources casting that wide of a net, spreading ourselves that thin. But I just don’t think they’re that far away. They’re closer than that. They have to be.”

“Still an awfully big area… essentially the fifteen-county area,” Lich said, looking at the map pinned to the bulletin board. “And we don’t know this for sure.”

“No, we don’t,” Mac replied. “But it feels right, makes sense, and gives us something to work with, a lot of eyes to give us a look. Who knows? Maybe some sheriff’s deputy, forest ranger, or cop gets a look at that video and says, ‘hey, six years ago I responded to an emergency call down that road.’”

“I don’t know,” Duffy said, with apprehension in his voice. “What if this thing leaks? I mean, this is pretty unsettling video. It’ll create a media firestorm if it gets out. I’d rather control this.” Mac got the feeling that FBI control of the investigation was of more concern to him than the girls or the kidnappers.

“Agreed,” the mayor added.

“Are you two fucking kidding me?” Mac growled. “Media firestorm’s worth it if someone finds that spot.”

“I don’t want to create a panic, Detective,” the mayor asserted. “We put this video out there, there’s a chance we’ll create hysteria. Hell, we’ve got calls coming in by the dozens from people worried that every van that drives by carries a kidnapper.”

“So what? You don’t want help from citizens?”

“No, I do,” the mayor answered. “But I got calls today where we’ve got three different panel vans stopped along Grand Avenue by you guys because somebody called in a tip with two or three big men in a van.”

Mac looked incredulous. “Heaven forbid we disrupt traffic on Grand Avenue trying to find these guys. My gosh,” he mocked, “a voter might call City Hall to complain and you might have to do some work.”

An agitated Duffy interceded. “All the mayor is saying, Detective, is that people are on edge and panicky. If this gets out, that only adds to it. We don’t want a panic. Hell, I’ve heard people on the radio talking about the need to carry a gun to defend themselves.”

“Great, just great. That’s all we need,” the mayor complained, “someone to up and shoot some family guy driving along in a van because it matches the descriptions all over the news.”

Mac wouldn’t have it.

“Jesus Christ, whose side are you two on?”

“Hey,” Duffy yelled.

“I resent the implication…” the mayor started.

Mac thundered on.

“I could give a flying fuck about your, frankly, ridiculous concerns,” Mac said pointing at Duffy and then to the mayor, “or how inconvenient its release could be politically.” The biggest crime story in the country was taking place in St. Paul, and Mac suspected the mayor didn’t like the glare.

“Now just a minute…” the mayor started.

“All I care about—all anyone in this room should care about—is finding those girls,” Mac shouted, slamming his fist on the conference table. “Everything else, everything, politics, who’s running this investigation, whose backside might be exposed, all of that shit is secondary. For Christ sake, I’m only talking about releasing the video to law enforcement, not to the general public. Although, the more I think about it, the more I think we ought to do that as well. By getting this out, we increase our odds of finding the girls. The risk is worth the reward.”

“You’d like to release it to the whole public?” the mayor asked, stunned.

Mac, seeming equally stunned, replied, “Hell yes. At least the first part, where they’re driving on the road, path, through the field, sure, you bet. Have the media run it every half hour. Who knows what we’ll find. There’s nothing problematic in that. The rest of it, we hold back and only have law enforcement review it.”

“Christ, we’ll have calls coming in by the truck load and a huge panic. Especially if the whole video gets out,” the mayor pressed. “And I bet it will.”

“Since when does the mayor’s office tell us how to investigate?” Mac asked, up and out of his chair, pointing while Rock reached for his arm to pull him back. “It’s fucking fundamental to do this. We need to get as many eyes on this as possible, not as few. This is not something to cover up. It’s the difference between police work and politics.”

“That’s enough,” the mayor bellowed. “If you can’t keep your cool, Detective, you can go grab a barstool at that pub of yours.”

“Got all the answers, don’t ya,” Duffy added derisively.

Mac kicked a chair out of the way and moved toward Duffy, his fists balled, but Lich and Rock jumped in front of him and pushed him back to his chair.

“You’re no good to the chief if you’re not in this room,” Lich said quietly through clenched teeth. “So dial it the hell back.”

Riles jumped in, casual.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mayor,” the veteran detective said, shaking his head. “We’re talking about the chief’s daughter. There isn’t a cop out there who would compromise this and release the whole video. McRyan’s right, we should get the whole thing to other law enforcement agencies and the front end out to the public.”

The mayor looked at Duffy, who then looked over to Burton, who’d remained passive through the whole blow up, taking it all in.

“What do you think?” Duffy asked Burton.

“Like I said,” Riles added one last time, staring straight at Burton, “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

Burton stood quietly for a moment, scratching his chin with his right index finger. After a moment, he nodded and spoke.

“I think McRyan is right. We should get the video out. It can only help. And we get it out to both the public and law enforcement. Mac, one part that maybe I disagree with is, does law enforcement need to see the part where the girls are going into the ground? What can other cops tell us about that?”

Mac shrugged, “Probably not much.”

“I think that’s right,” Burton answered. “We get the first part out to the public and police and see if anyone recognizes the road, area, or any landmarks.”

“Thanks,” Riley said. Mac nodded his approval from his chair, and tension drained from the rest of the boys.

“I’ll get it started,” Peters said, and then he turned to another. “Paddy, get a copy and then let’s get this e-mailed to all the police and sheriff’s departments. I’ll start making some calls.”

“Done,” Paddy said.

“What else?” Riles asked.

“I gotta work on Plan B,” Burton answered.

“Which is what?”

“Talk to Flanagan and Hisle. We have to let them know what’s going on and prepare the ransom,” Burton answered. “If we don’t find these guys, we’re going to have to make a money drop.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Hello, girls.”

The first sensation was thirst. Her mouth felt dry as she slowly moved her tongue over her lips, then smacked her lips together and exhaled lightly. She felt groggy and lethargic as she moved her left arm out from under her head and felt the skin of her right bicep scrape along the wood and dirt. Taking in a deep breath, she smelled dirt and wood, new wood, like the plywood she’d smelled two weeks ago up at her folks’ cabin when they were building a gazebo. Was she still asleep and dreaming? The smell wasn’t right. Why would she smell that? Where the heck was she?

She opened her eyes to pitch blackness. She blinked her eyes and strained to focus, but no light seeped in through window shades or under a door.

Carrie Flanagan lifted her head up and banged the right side hard, just above her ear, against something above her.

“Ow!” she exclaimed as she brought her head back down. The feeling of pain was quickly overtaken by panic. She flipped off her left side and onto her back, and her right hand felt another body.

“Jesus!” she yelped as she jumped back, hitting her head and back against the hard wood.

The other body didn’t move.

“Hello,” Carrie whispered but there was no movement. She reached over with her right arm, looking for the other body, when her hand hit something round and metallic. She grabbed it. It was a flashlight. Carrie turned it on.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Carrie ran her hands along the top of the box and the left side.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Shannon Hisle slowly awoke. Carrie reached for her arm.

“Shannon, wake up! Wake up!”

When Shannon’s eyes fully opened, her screams matched those of Carrie’s a few seconds earlier.

“Carrie! Carrie! Oh my God, where are we! What have they done to us? What have they done to us?”

Both girls frantically felt around the box with their hands and feet, pushed at the top, and kicked at the end of the wood box.

After a few minutes of frantic pushing, kicking, and screaming, the girls settled some. Both women were breathing hard, sweating, still wildly looking around, disbelieving where they were.

Where they were was a wood box. It was maybe two feet high, four feet across, and six feet long.

And it was solid. They weren’t going anywhere.

They were buried alive.

The girls lay on their sides facing one another.

“What have they done to us? What are we going to do?” Shannon asked weakly, sniffling, tears streaming down her face.

“I don’t know,” Carrie answered, using the back of her left hand to wipe away her own tears.

It was time to take stock.

Carrie used the flashlight to search the box.

“What are you looking for?” Shannon asked.

“Air, how are we getting air?” Carrie replied. She found what looked to be the answer. “It’s behind me, two holes with vents over them.” She turned her back on Shannon and flashed the light on the nearest vent. “We’re getting air, so I guess that’s good news.”

Shannon put her mouth to the opening.

“Help, can anyone hear me?”

Carrie put her ear to the grate to see if she could hear any response. She repeatedly yelled and then listened for a couple of minutes. There was no response.

She scanned the top of the box and upon inspection understood at least one reason why they couldn’t push the top off.

“Look at that.”

“What?”

“The screws. Or at least those little silver tips sticking through the wood. The top of this thing is screwed on. No wonder we couldn’t budge it.”

She used the flashlight and scanned the box again. Down by Shannon’s feet, in the corner, there was a small black object. Carrie reached with her left leg, caught the object with her toe and dragged it back so that she could reach it with her hands.

It was a Dictaphone.

Carrie slid the button up. There was a whirring, then a crackling sound, followed by the voice she heard when lying on the bed.

“Hello, girls. First, if you haven’t done so already, you will want to turn on the flashlight. But economize its use; you may be in the box for a while.”

Carrie reached to the flashlight to shut it off.

“Leave the light on for now,” Shannon said. “I like being able to see.”

“Okay,” Carrie answered and then started the Dictaphone again.

“A little information about your new home,” the voice said. “It is five feet underground. You are in a reinforced plywood box from which you have no hope of escaping, so it would be unwise for you to waste your time and energy doing so. Also, you are in an isolated spot, so yelling is pointless.”

Carrie stopped the tape.

“I guess you can save your breath,” Shannon said. “They’ve probably got us buried in the middle of nowhere.”

Carrie nodded and started the Dictaphone again.

“So how long have you been down there, you’re wondering? We gave you a sedative. It knocked you out for what I expect would be eighteen hours, give or take. By the time you’re hearing this tape it will be mid-afternoon on July third.”

Carrie showed Shannon her watch, confirming that it was 2:10.

“How long will you be in your current abode, you ask? If all goes according to plan, you will be out of that box by tomorrow evening, maybe even in time to see some fireworks. I do apologize for your current accommodations. While I’m sure they are most uncomfortable and frightening for you, they were nevertheless necessary to provide proper motivation for your fathers. This is also why there is no food or water inside. If your fathers follow our instructions to the letter, you’ll be back with them soon enough. If not?” the voice paused.

“Let’s just say that there will be no getting out.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Any problems getting down?”

Dean pulled the van into the parking lot of the diner across the street from the Bayside Marina in Hudson. Smith climbed out and looked back.

“We should be up there in about forty-five minutes,” he said.

“See you there,” David replied.

Smith slid the door closed and walked away a changed man. Gone were the work clothes of two hours ago. Now, the kidnapper was a skipper in boating wear with flip-flops, a Brewers baseball cap, flowery Speedo swim trunks, a white cotton golf shirt open at the collar, and black mirrored wraparound sunglasses. He hoisted a black nylon carry-on bag over his shoulder as he walked across the street and through rows of luxury cars and high-end SUVs in the marina parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, he came to the massive, ten-foot-wide, graying wood pier jutting out into the dark waters of the St. Croix River.

The Bayside Marina had four rows of boat slips. His destination was the last row of slips to the north, a guest slip on the outside at the far end of the dock. In the guest slip floated their white thirty-two-foot offshore express cruiser. They’d stolen the boat from a marina along the river in Davenport, Iowa, six weeks earlier. After they applied a new customized paint job of blue and red stripes, they launched the boat in Lake City and spent a great day boating up the river and to the slip in Hudson.

Monica was onboard already. She came up from the cabin dressed in white jean shorts over her one-piece black Speedo swimsuit, accessorized with wide black sunglasses and a white Nike tennis cap. Without saying a word, she tossed the boat keys to Smith.

Smith put the key in the ignition and smiled as the boat roared to life. Monica cast off the ropes, first for the bow and then the stern. Once she was back on board, Smith slowly backed out of the slip and, when the bow was clear, turned right and headed for the river.

He loved the water. Smith had grown up on the water in Garrison, Minnesota, a small town located two hours due north of the Twin Cities. It sat on the west side of Lake Mille Lacs, one of the largest of the state’s ten thousand lakes. His dad ran a charter fishing service on the lake. From age sixteen through his college summers, Smith had driven his dad’s boats and became an accomplished skipper. Though he’d spent fifteen years in prison, the skill that came back to him quickest was operating a boat. He’d felt the excitement of a young child when they launched the boat in Lake Pepin down at Lake City. He couldn’t wait to get on the water and drive the boat, feel the rocking of the waves, the sun beating on and weathering his face, the cool splashes of water spraying him as they took on the large waves of Lake Pepin, working their way up the mighty Mississippi and then turning north at the mouth of the St. Croix River in Hastings. When Smith was in prison, lying on his bed with his eyes closed and mind cleared, he remembered boating, rolling over the waves of Lake Mille Lacs or through the chop of the St. Croix on a weekend, just what he was doing the day before the arrest.

Smith slowly navigated the minefield of speedboats and houseboats in the small bay separating Hudson and the marina from the St. Croix River proper. Once through the bay, he turned to the right and passed under a rusting steel train bridge and suddenly he was out into the wide section of the St. Croix that ran from Hudson to Stillwater, five miles north on the Minnesota side. In open water, with space to maneuver, Smith pushed the throttle down and opened up the boat, slicing through the waves like a snowplow through fresh snow. Monica approached with a bottle of water for him. He took a sip and smiled.

“You love this, don’t you?” Monica said.

“There’s nothing better,” he replied, taking another drink. “After we’re done with this, you and I are going to get a boat like this and spend a lot of time on it.”

Monica smiled and leaned up to kiss him on the lips. “I can’t wait.”

Five minutes north of Hudson, Smith steered to the west side of the river and then sped past a massive window plant in Bayport. Such a waste of beautiful river shoreline, Smith thought. The industrial plant’s two-hundred-foot-high smokestack and chain-link fencing mixed oddly with the gorgeous foliage and exposed rock of the shoreline and river bluff. However, while the use of the land was a waste, it would prove beneficial for him.

A short and narrow channel ran just to the north of the plant. While the window plant may have used the channel at one time, it was now largely abandoned. It would be of use tomorrow.

He had already looked at the channel from land, walked the abandoned dock they would briefly use tomorrow, and even observed the odd fishing boat on the channel. Looking over charts at the local library, he learned that the channel was ten to fifteen feet deep if you stayed in the middle as it wound its way to the old dock. But until now, he hadn’t seen it from the water. From the river, the opening was plenty wide, he thought upon inspection. He could see how he would have to maneuver the boat out of the channel. And, while he couldn’t see the dock from the river, he knew it was there.

Satisfied with his short recon mission, he turned away from the channel and slowly accelerated back out into the open waters of the river. In another five minutes he was approaching Stillwater.

As Smith passed the town, with its parks, restaurants, and marinas, he approached Stillwater’s defining feature, the lift bridge. Built in 1931, the bridge spanned one thousand feet across the St. Croix River, carrying a two-lane highway connecting Minnesota to Wisconsin on fixed arched steel trusses over concrete slabs. On the half hour, a middle section with towers and cables lifted to allow larger boats to pass through.

Smith took a sip from his water bottle as the boat passed underneath the bridge and moved further north, Stillwater falling away behind them. The river gradually narrowed and shallowed, requiring a slower pace and more attentive navigation. Smith eased back on the throttle, falling in a hundred yards behind a flat-bottomed houseboat, probably better known as a party barge. Several people lounged on the upper deck, sunning themselves and drinking cocktails. He followed the houseboat until it made a gentle right toward one of the long, narrow, sandy islands that occasionally split the river. This island, the second they’d come upon, was filling with boats and tents, people preparing for the revelry of tomorrow’s holiday.

Past the second island, the boat traffic diminished significantly. As the river curved to the left around a high rock escarpment jutting out into the river, the railroad bridge came into view. Sitting two hundred feet above the river, cutting an impressive figure against the deep blue sky, the bridge spanned the expanse of the river from Wisconsin to Minnesota. The bridge served as a marker for Smith’s destination. As they approached the bridge, the river cut through a deep canyon. At the base of the steep walls on either side of the river lay isolated sand bars and beaches, one of which was Smith’s destination.

Slowly, Smith steered the boat to the Wisconsin side, toward a small patch of beach in a narrow channel set well back from the main body of the river. For years, this had been his favorite spot on the river. The last time he boated before the arrest, before prison, was an overnight camping trip in this very spot with his wife and daughter—their last family outing together.

Carefully, Smith navigated to the end of the small channel, not wanting to beach the deep V-hulled boat on the zigzagging sandbars hidden just beneath the dark water’s surface. Two hundred yards out from the shore, he swung the boat far out to the left and then, after another hundred feet or so, slowly veered back right. Fifty yards away, he looked to his depth finder, waiting for and then finding the deeper water, an odd drop-off to fifteen feet, which allowed him to turn left and go straight toward the shoreline. The whole maneuver took five minutes. He beached the boat fifteen yards short, the front two-thirds of the boat resting on the soft sand but the rear third in deeper water that would allow him to back off the sandbar with a single reverse thrust of the motors.

Dean and David emerged from the woods and walked out into the water. Monica jumped onto the bow and tossed two ropes with stakes on the ends to her brothers.

“Any problems getting down here?” Smith asked David.

“Nope, took a few minutes, just to make sure it was solid, but once we did that,” David smiled, “it was a piece of cake.”

“Well show me,” Smith ordered. “After that, I want to head back to St. Paul.”

Chapter Eighteen

“That’s worth a look then.”

The video hit the men hard, with Hisle’s bottom lip trembling when he saw Shannon lying in the box just before the cover was put on. The chief’s eyes closed and his head dropped when the video showed the box buried, with only their air pipes showing.

After watching the video, both men had hard questions for Burton. He had few answers.

“We have to get the ransom ready.”

“Does that mean the investigation is over?” the chief asked. “That we’re going to sit around and wait for the next call?”

“No. We’re not stopping.” Burton explained releasing parts of the video to law enforcement and the public. “We may get a break with the video’s release, and we’re still working through files and might catch a break there as well. We’re not stopping. But…”

“It is what it is,” the chief said.

Burton nodded.

“Chief, we need to be ready.”

Before the chief left with Burton, he pulled his boys aside. He was gaunt and ghost-white, as if his summer tan had faded in less than one day’s time. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and salt and pepper stubble aged his face. His body seemed frail, looking like a listing coat rack for his clothes. But the intensity was there in his eyes, and his deep gravelly voice was commanding as always.

“I’ve heard the story from the FBI, but not from my people. Tell me, no bullshit.”

Mac didn’t bullshit him. “The FBI isn’t lying. We’re nowhere.”

Riley added details, but the result was the same. The chief shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose as he looked down to the floor. “I can’t lose my baby girl,” their leader said quietly. He looked each of his boys in the eye. “You need to find her. I don’t care what it takes or what you have to do. You find her.” He pushed his hand through his disheveled white hair and slowly walked out of the room.

“Ideas?” Riles said into the silence.

Lich said what they were all thinking: “We need a break.”

“And,” Rock growled, “the bastards haven’t given us one yet.”

“Look,” Mac said emphatically, “we, meaning us, need to make something happen instead of waiting around. Burton’s working the ransom angle now. That gives us some room to work our own gig outside of what the FBI’s running.”

“The mayor won’t like that,” Lich said in a warning tone.

“Burton’s been pretty decent. I don’t like sticking a knife in his back,” Rock added.

“Fuck the mayor,” Mac railed. “I’m done waiting for that spineless gasbag. As for Burton, I have no desire to cut him out. If something turns up, we can go to Burton and bring him in.”

“Agreed,” Riles said. “But Mac, you can’t be talking to the mayor that way, no matter how big a political half-wit he is. You’ll be working third shift in the jail before you know it.”

Mac didn’t particularly care at the moment, but knew Riles was right. “I hear ya,” he said, sighing, and then added, “but like I said, with the G-men working the ransom and the mayor licking Burton’s boots, maybe we start making some moves of our own.”

“What moves? How? Where? With what?” Lich said, tearing the top off a pack of Big Red gum. “You have to have a place to start.”

“Then let’s start with the video,” Mac answered. “I’ll go through that with Dick.” He nodded at Riley. “You and Rock check on the laptop, where was it bought. Someone was supposed to be looking into it, but with all the commotion, who knows? Those are the things we can look at now. After that, the four of us should get out of here for a bit. If we’re going to start operating, I don’t want to discuss it around here.” Everyone nodded in agreement, and Riley and Rockford left to run the numbers on the laptop left by the kidnappers.

Mac went back into the conference room and sat down with a department-issued laptop and watched the video again. Lich stood to one side and Paddy was on the other. Mac played the video back and forth, freezing and rewinding in the hopes of picking something, anything, out. He paid particular attention to the view out the front of the vehicle, searching for any buildings, a chimney, snowmobile signs, anything that might give them a lead on the girls’ location.

St. Paul cops and FBI agents joined them, quietly watching, praying, willing a clue out of the video. All they wanted was a little shred to give them a lead, something to track, a way to find the girls. After a half hour of running it to the end several times, Mac sat back in his chair, sighed, and asked, “Anyone recognize anything? See anything? Have any ideas?” Silence or barely audible no’s were all he heard. All he’d accomplished was to burn the video into the hard drive of his brain.

As everyone started to drift away, Mac pulled out his cell phone, walked to a corner of the room and, with his back to everyone, dialed Jupiter. Jupiter Jones was a friend from his university days. Named after the main character from the children’s Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators series, Jupiter was a computer and video genius. He had already made one fortune and was working on another with a computer video business. He occasionally worked freelance with the department, as he had with Mac’s big case last winter, and also with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. He answered on the first ring.

“Jones.”

“It’s Mac. I need your help, and I need it now.”

“The kidnappings?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anything for you and the chief, you know that.”

“We have a video I need you to look at. I’m going to have my nephew, a uniform cop named Shawn McRyan, drop it off. I need you to break this thing down and see if you can wring anything out of it that we can use to identify these guys. Even the tiniest thing would help.” Mac explained what he was looking for and how fast he needed it. “We got shit and we’re on a tight clock.”

“How tight?”

“Less than thirty hours tight.”

Jupe whistled on the other end. “I’ll be at my house in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Jupe.” Mac flipped his cell phone closed. He grabbed a spare DVD and copied the video to it. He took it out and waved Shawn over, writing down an address. “This goes to Jupiter Jones and nobody else—and I mean nobody else. Understand?”

“It’s done,” Shawn answered. He grabbed his partner and left the conference room.

Mac stood up and stretched, realizing that he’d been paying such close attention to the video that he hadn’t noticed just how many men were milling around the room, doing nothing. With the call from the kidnappers about the ransom and video, it was as if the investigation had come to a standstill. Detectives and bureau agents continued to work through Hisle’s and the chief’s files down the hall, but nothing was coming of it. A few people were being kept under surveillance, but based on what he’d heard about them, they were nothing more than dead ends and easy overtime. Burton was working on the ransom, but nobody was in charge of the room. Everyone was just sitting around, waiting for the next call from the kidnappers. Riley and Rock walked back in.

“We’ve tracked the computer down to a Best Buy in Milwaukee,” Riles said. “It was purchased a month ago, with cash.”

“What a surprise,” Lich answered with disgust.

“But maybe we get something off the surveillance camera,” Mac rejoined hopefully. “We just need a piece, a good picture, something to work off. All we need is a solid ID and we’d be off and running.”

“We’ll see,” Riles said. “The FBI field office sent someone over there to see if there is any surveillance video, anything we might be able to use. If there’s anything they’ll send it right up.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Mac said quietly. “There are way too many people hanging around, plus the mayor and Duffy, and I don’t trust either of them right about now. How about a booth at Lucy’s?”

• • • • •

Smith smiled and thought of his brief few hours on the river. It felt great. In another week he would be on a boat somewhere, enjoying the sun, cracking open a beer, perhaps a Red Stripe, with Monica lounging on a chair next to him. The fifteen years of prison would seem so far away at that point. Money, a boat, some water, revenge against Flanagan, it couldn’t get any better. After a minute, he put those pleasant thoughts away. There was much work left to be done, and he needed to keep his head in the game.

Dean, riding in the passenger seat, switched the radio station over to the talk station. It was wall-to-wall kidnapping coverage. The mantra continued—the authorities didn’t have any leads.

“The FBI and police have to feel like the clock is ticking down on this thing now,” Dean said, taking a sip from a Coke. He pulled his baseball cap down low over his sunglasses-covered eyes and pulled his gloves on tight.

“Which is what we want,” Smith replied, doing the same. The lead kidnapper turned left onto the safe house’s street. He pulled past the driveway, stopped, and then began to back the van into the driveway while Dean hit the opener.

• • • • •

Pat Hall shifted in his bed, the large cast on his broken left femur making it difficult for him to get comfortable. An electrician, he had broken the leg five days ago on a job site, falling off a ladder while running wire. Now he was out on workers’ comp and forced to spend the day watching really bad TV. No wonder people worked during the day, rather than being subjected to sappy soap operas, Dr. this and Dr. that, nine versions of People’s Court with Judge Judy, Rudy, or Hootie. Even the sports on during the day were brutal things like paintball and Jet Ski racing. While both would be fun to do, they were about as much fun to watch as undergoing a root canal without Novocain.

On top of all that, the air-conditioning in his house was out. He was totally immobilized, watching awful TV, in insufferable July heat. He had sweated through his white muscle T-shirt, and beads of sweat were interspersed with the thin strands of seaweed that were all that remained on his once-full head of brown hair. A hard-working fan in the corner merely circulated the heat and humidity. Thankfully, he was on the main level of his house, and his bedroom was on the north side, under a canopy of elm trees, which kept his room just a smidge cooler. A little breeze to ruffle the curtains of the window would be nice, but there hadn’t been one all day.

The one saving grace was the lovely Heather Foxx. Hall made sure the TV was never far from Channel 12. A remote was a beautiful thing. His TV was telling him now that a Channel 12 Newsbreak was on the way.

• • • • •

“This is Paul Phillips with a Channel 12 Newsbreak. With the latest on the St. Paul kidnappings, we go to Heather Foxx at the St. Paul Department of Public Safety. Heather, what’s the latest?”

“Paul, as we learned earlier, the FBI and police have received a ransom demand, although we don’t yet have the amount.”

“What about the laptop recovered earlier?”

“It contained a video. The police have released a portion of that video, Paul, which we’ll play now.” Foxx waited for the video to start. “What you’re seeing is a portion of the footage the kidnappers left on the laptop. As you can see, it shows a vehicle driving through an isolated rural area. The police are asking all citizens to review the footage and contact the authorities at the number on the screen if they recognize anything about the area the kidnappers are driving through.”

When the video finished, Phillips jumped back in.

“We will be playing this video every half hour. Additionally, we will also have it available shortly on the Channel 12 website.”

“The police are continuing to man the tip line, Paul,” Heather reported. “In addition to reviewing this video footage, the authorities are urging people to be on the lookout for at least three men, using vans, and again, not minivans but larger vans; panel or cargo-style vans.”

• • • • •

Hall adjusted again and as he did he looked out his window to the left as the van backed into the rental house across the street. The house had been vacant for the past six months with a For Rent sign in the front yard. The sign disappeared a few weeks ago, maybe longer, Hall thought. He just noticed it missing one day when he came home from work. He’d seen very little activity at the house, other than vans of different colors coming and going for the last couple of days. It was, the more he thought about it, kind of odd behavior.

Never one to cause trouble, Hall was not the type to call in on his neighbors. But the behavior was just off enough that it was worth a phone call. If nothing else, it would provide a potentially entertaining diversion from the heat and boredom.

• • • • •

Lucy’s was a sandwich joint located in the Payne and Arcade area on St. Paul’s working-class east side. A true hole-in-the-wall, the restaurant was a welcome change from the sterile chain sandwich places going in all over town. At Lucy’s, if you were smart, you ordered the Juicy Lucy, which was a hot hoagie sandwich piled high with a mountain of pastrami, completely smothered in melted American cheese, and served on a fresh-baked bun. The sandwich came with homemade pickles and kettle chips so greasy the sheikhs from OPEC were seeking drilling rights. The whole concoction was served on an oversized red-and-white checkered tray.

Lucy was short for Lucius, a robust black man who’d eaten a few too many of his own sandwiches. Big Lucius worked the register and made the occasional sandwich if his son working the back got too busy. Lucius bullshitted Mac, who twirled a toothpick from side to side in his mouth, awaiting his sandwich order.

Mac looked at his watch while Lucius chewed the fat. It was 4:15 p.m. The day was ticking away far too fast.

“You and the boys in a hurry there, Mac?” Lucius asked. Lich, Riley, and Rock were in a booth in the back of the sandwich shop, out of public view.

“Not so much that, Lucius. It’s just this case, the time is tickin’ away.”

“Well, let me check on that food for you boys,” Lucius said and then turned to yell at his son in the back. “Where the hell are those Juicy Lucys, boy?”

As Mac waited for his order, he felt a light tap on his back. He turned to find Heather Foxx smiling at him.

“Heather Foxx, we meet again.”

“Thanks for the tip this morning,” she whispered. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Why did you give it to me?” Heather asked, curious. “Typically, you’re loath to help us out.”

“I helped you because you didn’t swarm us last night like the rest of your media friends,” Mac said.

“That’s good to know,” the reporter replied. “In any event, maybe I can return the favor at some point.” She pushed a strand of her brown hair back behind her left ear.

Mac snorted, his inherent distrust of reporters showing through. “It’s not too often you guys do us any favors.”

• • • • •

Paddy McRyan took his bottle of water out of the vending machine. Generally, he was morally opposed to paying money for water, but with the heat, a soda just didn’t sound or even feel like it would taste remotely refreshing. Besides, once he polished off the contents, he’d just refill it out of the water fountain. As he took a sip, he saw Bonnie Schmidt, a uniform cop working the tip line, sprinting toward him. “What’s up?” he asked.

“We’re getting tons of stuff on the tip line, most of which is garbage, but this sounded interesting,” Schmidt said, handing him a note. Paddy took a look at it and walked into the conference room to Burton.

“This might be worth a look.”

“What do we have?” Burton asked, as Duffy, Peters, and the mayor approached. The rest of Burton’s team and cops in the room pulled in behind them.

“A guy in a neighborhood off of West Seventh, down by the old brewery, claims that for the last couple of days there have been vans, our kind of vans, coming and going from a house across the street.”

“So?” Burton asked, mixing a cup of coffee.

“Well, the house is a rental and nobody was at the house for months until a couple of days ago. Now vans are coming and going. Again, our kind of vans.”

“Let’s go take a look then,” Burton replied, looking at his watch: 4:25 p.m. “Where’s McRyan and the rest of those guys?”

“They went to get a bite to eat at Juicy Lucy’s,” Paddy answered.

“That’s over on the east side, right? Payne and Arcade?”

Paddy nodded. Burton pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“Mac? Burton. I need you to check something out.”

• • • • •

“Get out! House blown!” the text message read.

Smith flipped the cell phone closed, looked at his watch—4:28 p.m.—and then to Dean. “We’ve gotta bail,” he said.

“What’s going on?” Dean said, seeing Smith’s ashen face.

“I don’t know for sure, but we’re blown,” Smith said, running for the back door. “The police have the safe house. They’re on their way.”

“H… h… how?” Dean Stammered. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Smith answered, in the garage now, at the far van. “I don’t even know what the police have. All I know is, I got the text message and the house is blown.” He jumped into a van. “Stay on your cell. I’m going left and you go right. I’m going to go south on 35E, you go north and take it from there.”

The garage door opened and Smith pulled out and turned hard left, tires squealing. Dean followed and turned right.

Chapter Nineteen

“Gloves.”

Mac parked behind the detached garage in the alley behind a well-kept blue rambler with white trim. The owner of the home, and the man who called in, was Patrick Hall. Others would be joining the party shortly, but for now Burton was holding them back several blocks, letting Mac and the rest in first to get the lay of the land. Riley and Mac called from the Explorer, and Hall picked up on the second ring. The homeowner was in bed with a broken leg, but directed them to a spare key underneath the bottom of his “piece-of-shit” air conditioner.

Riles found the key in a little black magnetized key box. The detectives let themselves in the back door and entered the kitchen. They noticed the heat immediately.

“Now I know why he called the AC a piece of shit,” Riley noted.

Mac called out to announce their presence, and they heard an “in here” from the front of the house. There they found Hall, lying in bed, a cast encasing the entire length of his left leg. To say the man looked uncomfortable was an understatement.

“Man, you have got to get your air-conditioning fixed,” Mac said, noting both Hall’s sweaty appearance and the impact of the heat on his own body after just a few minutes in the house.

“I hear ya,” the man answered. “I really need a new one, but with me laid up and all, we’re trying to watch what we spend.”

“Try Craig’s List. You could get a window unit for cheap at least.”

Riles got down to business. “So what’s the deal with this house across the street?”

“Like I said to the gal on that tip line, these guys have been around, okay, I’d say the last four or five days, I guess. My wife said they started showing up the day I got hurt. I broke this leg of mine five days ago and got back home three days ago. I haven’t been out of the bed much since.”

“So you’ve been watching these guys across the street then?” Mac asked, casually pulling the curtain back to sneak a peek out the window.

“I wouldn’t say watching,” Hall said, shaking his head. “I’d say I’ve noticed them coming and going in vans is all.”

“How often?” Riles asked, walking over to the other side of the window. The house was across the street and to the right, a single-story home similar to Hall’s in a neighborhood of similar homes. It was gray, with faded burgundy trim and shutters and a high wood privacy fence around the backyard.

“Hard to say really,” Hall answered, “other than often enough that I noticed them coming and going is all.”

Mac turned to Hall and away from the window, “You said you’ve noticed them. What have you noticed?”

“Such as?” Hall asked.

“Men? Women? Height? Weight? What did they look like?”

“I never really got a good look at anyone,” Hall replied.

“How come?” Mac asked, confused.

“I figured you guys were going to ask that,” the man replied, wiping his forehead with a towel and taking a drink of water. “These guys were coming with vans, backing them into the garage and closing the door. Or, they open the door and leave. Nobody ever walked around outside that I can recall. At least not that I ever saw.”

“You never saw them at all?”

“Not really.”

“Detective McRyan asked whether they were men or women?” Riles asked.

“Men, I’d say.”

“Did you ever notice what they were wearing?” Mac inquired.

“Baseball caps for the most part. Dark shirts usually. Sunglasses and…”

Hall paused and Mac looked back at him. “And what?”

The man closed his eyes for a minute. “There was something else now that I think of it. I saw, or I remember seeing, once or twice, and I just thought it was odd since it’s been so hot.” Hall sat still, his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes. After a few seconds, a smile spread across his face, “Gloves. They wore gloves.”

“Gloves?” Riles asked.

“Yeah, when they drove the vans, they had gloves on. You know, black leather gloves, like you might wear in the winter.”

Mac and Riles exchanged a quick look. He was maybe onto something. The kidnappers had yet to leave a print behind, and black leather gloves this time of year were unusual. Plus, two other witnesses to the abductions mentioned gloves in their descriptions. Some people liked to wear gloves when they drove, but not many.

“Was it one guy wearing gloves or more than one?” Mac asked.

“Not totally sure. I mean, I couldn’t tell one from the other. I do know that I noticed gloves more than once.”

“So these guys wore dark shirts, hats, and gloves. Anything else?” Mac pressed.

“Not really. At least nothing I recall right now.”

“Just vans?” Riles asked, tacking a different direction.

“Yeah, for the most part. I might have seen a car once, parked in the driveway overnight, but other than that, pretty much just vans.”

Mac looked back from the window. “What kind of vans?”

“Those panel kinds of vans.”

“Get any license plates?”

“No,” Hall answered, shaking his head.

“How about just what states the plates were from?”

Hall shook his head again.

“Always the same vans?” Mac asked, pushing.

Hall thought about that one for a moment. “You know, now that you mention it, I don’t think so. There were different ones, colors, makes, models. Not a bunch, but it wasn’t always the same two either. There was some variety to them.”

Mac sat down in a chair in the corner of the room and started jotting down some notes. Riles continued.

“You mentioned a car. What kind of car?”

“White. I think it was a Taurus,” Hall thought a little more. “Yeah, a Ford Taurus.”

“Get a license number?”

“No,” Hall answered. “I didn’t really think anything of it except for those Heather Foxx reports on Channel 12. She was talking about vans being used in those kidnappings, and I noticed these guys coming and going.”

“How about now?” Mac asked. “Are they there now?”

“I don’t think so,” Hall replied, shaking his head. “They’ve been gone a bit.”

“How long?” Riley asked.

“Oh, maybe half hour, a little more. They left around the time I called in. My wife told me they left anyway. I didn’t see it when they did. My wife said she saw them leave when she came into the bathroom and helped me off the potty.”

Mac looked Mr. Hall over. He was a working man, an electrician, in his mid to upper fifties. The house was neat and orderly, nothing suggested the guy was a kook or anything. The yard around the home was neat, with flower beds and well-trimmed hedges. There were pictures of family around and what appeared to be a grandchild or two. All in all, Hall seemed on the level.

“You need anything?” Mac asked Hall.

“I could use a fresh glass of water,” he replied. “It’s a little hard for me to get to the kitchen at the moment.

“I imagine it is,” Mac said smiling. “We’ll be right back.” Mac led Riles toward the kitchen.

“So what do you think?” Riles asked as Mac opened the freezer and grabbed ice cubes.

“I think this guy is on the level. Could be our guys,” Mac said.

“Maybe,” Riles added. “Vans, different ones, and wearing…”

“Gloves,” Mac finished for him, turning on the tap water. “Witnesses mentioned that yesterday. These guys have been careful all along. We never found any prints off those vans, partly because they blew them up, but also, I bet, because they were wearing gloves. And according to Hall, these guys are wearing gloves. It’s starting to add up.”

“You don’t suppose the girls are over there, do you? Buried in the backyard?” Riles asked.

“No. I mean we can go check there in a minute, but unless that video was a huge ruse, no, they’re somewhere else.”

“If these are our guys, then why use this house?”

Mac walked into the living room and peeked through the curtains. “Safe house, maybe. An hour ago we were talking about how they were centrally located, running up to Clearwater one night, Ellsworth the next, then to Duluth. They’d need a central spot to operate from. Maybe this is it.” Mac let the curtains fall closed and walked the fresh glass of water to the bedroom for Hall. Once Hall was taken care of, Mac came back to Riley. “Let’s walk across the street.”

Mac and Riles exited Hall’s house out the back door. Riles quickly walked back to the Explorer, instructing Lich and Rock to slowly pull around the house and to the street, just in case they needed backup.

Mac put his sunglasses on and untucked his shirt so that it covered his Sig. Riles, given his girth, already wore his out. The two detectives walked down the alley at a leisurely pace, turned left, and walked to the street corner. Checking traffic, the two men quickly jogged across the street and then walked north along the sidewalk to the house. They walked up to the front door and knocked. There was no response. Riley tried the doorbell, but again, no response. He pulled the storm door open and peered inside one of the three thin vertical windows in the burgundy front door.

“See anything?” Mac asked.

“Not really. Odd, though.”

“What’s that?”

“No furniture. The place looks empty. The only thing I can see is part of a card table and some folding chairs.”

Mac stepped back and looked at the front picture window. The drapes were pulled shut. The same was true of the rest of the house as he walked around, climbing over the privacy fence to get into the backyard. All the windows were covered with shades or drapes. Mac climbed back over the fence along the south side, where Riles was waiting.

“You notice how the basement windows are painted black?” Pat asked.

“Yeah,” Mac replied. “Nobody is supposed to be able to see inside.”

“So are these our guys?” Riles said. “Or are we so desperate for a break that we’re seeing what we want to see?”

“Only one way to find out,” Mac replied. “We have to go inside.”

Riles flipped open his phone and dialed. “Burton? Riley. We need a search warrant.”

Chapter Twenty

“Hit me with it.”

Smith checked the rearview mirror non-stop since he had left the safe house. The further the Twin Cities faded away behind him, and the more rolling green fields of soybeans and corn he passed, the more at ease he felt. Nobody had followed, he was sure of that now, having doubled back twice and finding no one behind. The police scanner in the passenger seat remained quiet. Perhaps the text message had given them enough time to get some distance from the house before the police connected the dots.

He knew that, sooner or later, something would go amiss. It was why they’d taken all the precautions, multiple vehicles, using a safe house, burying the girls out of town, prepping the boat and campsite. They were flexible, untethered to any one place or path. If need be, they could adjust on the fly, as they were doing now.

The police would search the house, but he wasn’t sweating it too badly. As long as Monica did her job earlier—and he trusted she did—there would be little for the police to find and certainly no way to trace them.

Smith exited the interstate and traveled east on a county road toward the college town of Northfield, home of St. Olaf College and prestigious Carleton College. Smith fell in with the early evening traffic of the town. The gas gauge on the van was low, so he pulled into a service station.

Smith prepaid for the gas with cash and then went back to the pump. He took inventory of his situation as he filled the tank. The first order of business was to check on Dean. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

Dean answered on the third ring. He was well north of Minneapolis, pulling into the small town of East Bethel. Best Dean could tell, he didn’t have anybody on his tail. He had changed roads frequently, doubled back twice as directed, and had yet to find a common vehicle or vehicles following him. He felt he was clean.

Smith pulled the gas nozzle out and placed it back in the pump.

“Besides, what are the police going to be looking for?” Dean said. “Plain white vans? There are hundreds of these in the Cities and thousand all around. We’re fine.”

“Just the same,” Smith replied, “find a place to dump the van. I’d prefer someplace it won’t be found, like a lake or something.”

Next, Smith dialed Monica. She already was on the move, driving toward East Bethel to rendezvous with her brother.

Smith contemplated his options and emptied his pockets. He had the keys for the Chevy at the Park & Ride. The police were looking for plain white vans. Who knows, the police might start pulling them over at random. While it was a little bit of a risk, he decided to drive back into the city and dump the van for the Impala at the Park & Ride. Then he would drive up to the northern suburbs for the evening’s meeting.

• • • • •

Carrie’s watch told her it was 6:05, which she assumed was p.m. In the dim light of their flashlight, the two girls had assessed their situation. A search of the box revealed nothing other than the flashlight and the Dictaphone. They tried together to again push the roof on their box, hoping against hope that their captors lied about burying it. The top didn’t budge.

For lack of a better option, they listened to the tape again and again, listening for anything that could help them: a slip of the tongue, information to help them get out. It was a pipe dream. There was nothing.

“We’re stuck, plain and simple,” Carrie said, now lying flat on her back with her eyes closed, trying to breathe slowly.

“I’m not feeling well,” Shannon replied with a little sniffle.

“Me neither.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Shannon answered. “I’m diabetic. I haven’t had insulin for a while.”

“How long?” Carrie asked.

“I haven’t had any since Saturday night after dinner. I usually take it when I eat. I was out super late on Saturday night with some friends. I overslept on Sunday so when I got up, I grabbed some quick breakfast but I forgot to take my insulin. I usually bring my insulin with me, but I was running late Sunday and I accidentally left it at home. Then after work I was going to run home quick and take some. But before I could do that…”

“You were taken,” Carrie finished for her.

“Yes. And I didn’t have any with me in my purse, so I didn’t get to take any while we were at that house.”

“So what happens to you if you don’t get the insulin?” Carrie asked.

Shannon sniffled again. “Depends how long I go without. My doctor said I have a sensitive system. There are a few times in the past where I went a couple of days without insulin and I got really sick. I tend to get disoriented and once I passed out. If I go long enough, I could lapse into a coma.”

“Has that ever happened before? The lapsing into a coma part?”

“Almost. One time, a few years ago, I got frustrated with the whole Type I deal. My boyfriend broke up with me, and I thought the reason he did was because I always had to take insulin. All my friends were leading a normal life, and my boyfriend was leading a normal life, and here I was stopping to take insulin three to four times per day.”

“Was that really the reason he broke up with you?”

“Later on I asked him and he said no. He met someone else,” Shannon answered. “But at the time, I thought that had something to do with it, so I said ‘screw it’ I wasn’t going to take the insulin anymore.”

“So what happened?”

“I went a couple of days without it. I became disoriented and didn’t really realize what was going on. Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch with nobody around. My roommates came home and they couldn’t wake me. They rushed me to the emergency room. I ended up in the intensive care unit. Thankfully, the doctors were able to revive me, but it was a close call. I could have easily died if they hadn’t found me. I’ve gone a couple of days now. I’m worried what’s going to happen to me. I could die in here before they find us.”

“Shannon, that’s not going to happen,” Carrie replied, summoning all the confidence she could muster into her voice. She grabbed Shannon’s hand.

“I wish I had your confidence,” Hisle replied, her eyes welling with tears.

Carrie squeezed Shannon’s hand. “Don’t you worry, honey. I know who’s looking for us.”

“Who?”

“Our fathers for one. Those are two men who can make things happen.”

“They’ve got to be going crazy about now,” Shannon answered. “How can they possibly find us?”

“I don’t expect my dad or yours would,” Carrie answered. “But my dad’s boys on the other hand…”

“His boys?”

“Yeah. Mac McRyan, Pat Riley, Big Bobby Rockford, and Lich. I know them. They are relentless. They will do anything to find us, and they will not stop until they do. They will not let anyone stand in their way. We’ve just gotta have a little faith, sister. They’ll find us.”

• • • • •

Plainclothes cops had already spread out down the street, knocking on doors and asking questions, as well as distracting neighbors. Mac and Lich climbed over the fence into the backyard again, this time moving to the back door to the garage. Down on a knee, Mac went to work picking the lock on the ancient doorknob. He fiddled with it a minute, and then he heard a little click and felt the lock pop open. Mac opened the door, and he and Lich quickly moved inside the garage and closed the door.

“Let’s clear the house quick,” Mac said, his Sig in his right hand.

Lich nodded as he pulled his Smith. Neither of them expected to find anyone, but this needed to be done. Mac pushed into the house, and he and Lich quickly moved throughout the first floor and then quickly down to the basement. There was nobody inside.

Mac grabbed the radio on his belt as he walked back up the stairs from the basement. “The house is clear. Come on in.”

Lich yelled from the front of the house, and Mac hit the garage door opener. As it opened, the white police surveillance van backed into the driveway. The back door of the van opened and four forensics techs, two each from the department and the FBI, exited the van. With everyone out, the van pulled out and rolled down the block as the garage door closed. Mac slipped on rubber gloves while everyone else got their equipment together.

With everyone ready, Mac opened the door and let them into the one-story house. The group stood in the eating area, which was separated from the dark wood cupboards and mustard yellow Formica of the 1970s kitchen by a waist-high counter. The card table that Riley saw was the only furniture in their immediate view. Mac pointed to an FBI and St. Paul tech, “I’ll work up here with you two.”

“And I’ll take you other two downstairs,” Lich added.

Now that the house was clear, Mac took his time walking and looking around. His first stop was the living room to his left, which was devoid of furniture, its beige shag carpet the only contrast against the stark white walls. The only thing worthy of notice was the fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet. Leaving the living room, Mac walked down a hallway to the two bedrooms and full bath. The larger of the two bedrooms contained only a queen-size mattress and box spring, but no bed frame or headboard. There were no sheets on the bed. The closet was empty, not even a solitary hanger on the rod. Again, there were fresh vacuum tracks throughout the room.

Across the hall, the other bedroom was tiny, maybe ten by ten, also empty and freshly vacuumed.

“Empty?” a tech asked, walking up behind Mac.

“Yeah, nothing. Freshly vacuumed is about all that I see of note.”

“Being careful?”

“If they were using this house, yes. They have been careful every step of the way,” Mac replied with a sigh. “But it’s a long way from vacuum tracks to saying they were here. It could be that a cleaning company has been in and out for all we know. That might explain the vacuum tracks.”

“I’ll process the room and maybe we’ll find out,” the tech said.

Mac stepped out of the bedroom and checked on the other tech working the bathroom, which was a narrow deal with a tub and shower on the left and the vanity and toilet on the right. “You got anything?”

“No,” was the terse reply. “I think someone was in here recently, if only because the smell of disinfectant is so strong. This room has been cleaned to within an inch of its life, and today I’d say.” The tech pointed to the vanity. “There’s just the slightest film around the drain of the sink. I’d guess it was cleaner. I took a sample.”

“How about the shower? Maybe the drain?” Mac asked, stepping past the tech and pulling back an orange shower curtain. It clashed badly with the pink tile of the shower and vanity top. “All we need is one hair, and we’d have something to go on.”

The tech shook her head. “I hear you, Detective, but the shower is spotless. There’s nothing in the drain. I checked already. I half wonder if it was even used.”

Mac stepped out of the bathroom and moved back into the kitchen, checking the cabinets and under the sink. All he found was peeling shelf and drawer paper. No silverware, plates, pans, or glasses. The kitchen was empty of any utensils or other common accoutrements.

Next he moved to the two-stall garage. It was vacant except for a green, wheeled garbage can. He flipped the top open. It was completely empty, nary a scrap of paper inside. Looking around he noted nothing in the garage. No shovels, rakes, brooms, tools, garbage bags, anything one would typically find in a man-cave. The cement floor was nearly spotless, other than a light coating of dust and some light tire marks, truck width apart, a van perhaps. There were no cleaning supplies, no mops, buckets, rags, or vacuum cleaner, and no dirty towels or refuse. The place seemed almost sterile.

Back in the kitchen, Mac stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. This could be the place, but if it was, the kidnappers had again left nothing behind. It could just as easily be that the house was being cleaned or readied for tenants, not occupied, although Hall seemed pretty certain that people had moved in. They were trying to track down the home’s owner. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on it all.

“Mac! Come down here,” Lich bellowed from the basement.

Mac bounded down two steps at a time. At the bottom he turned right, down the dark wood-paneled and linoleum-floored hallway that wrapped around the steps to a back bedroom on the left. Inside the bedroom he found Lich and the two techs standing between two twin beds. The beds had silver-barred head and footboards, along with mattresses and box springs, but no sheets or blankets. The beds sat on a gray cement floor. As with the rooms upstairs, it smelled faintly of disinfectant.

Lich waved Mac over to the bed on the left and pointed to the end posts. “See the scrapes here?” Lich said, pointing at the right post of the headboard and then to the left side. “Then, on the other side, the same thing. Then down on the footboard, the side posts, same thing.”

“Yet,” Mac said, waving to the head and footboards, “the rest of the rails are pristine, unscratched.”

“Right,” Lich said, and then turned to the other bed. “And we have exactly the same thing over here. You know what I think?” Dick asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Hit me with it,” Mac said.

Lich moved to the end of the bed on the right. “Girls are on the beds, arms cuffed to the posts for the headboard and either cuffed or manacled to the footboard,” he said, pointing with his pen at the headboard and then back down to the footboard.

“And the scratches are from the cuffs moving up and down on the posts, the girls struggling to get free,” Mac added.

“Right,” Lich said, nodding.

“The girls were here, man,” Mac said, with conviction now. “I can feel it. Upstairs, the house has been cleaned top to bottom. The techs are processing it, but they’re finding nothing. These guys are so careful, they even remove the cleaning supplies and the trash. All of that stuff is gone.” Mac spoke with a modicum of admiration. “They’re ready even when we get a break.”

“My gut tells me your gut is right,” Lich said in agreement.

“I’m right,” Mac said, walking out of the bedroom, down the hall and back to the family room at the bottom of the steps. “They used this,” Mac said, waving his arms around, “as a safe house. They take Shannon on Sunday, drive out to River Falls, dump the one van, transfer into the other, drive back here and chain her to the bed in the basement. Then they can take an hour, run up to Clearwater to place the call, then come back nice and easy-like. Whole thing takes maybe three to four hours.”

“They stay here overnight,” Lich said, picking up on the thread. “So they’re close to St. Thomas and are in position to take Carrie the next day.”

“And then,” Mac said, pacing now, his left hand grabbing the back of his neck while he gestured with his right hand, “they bring Carrie back here after they dump the van over in south Minneapolis.”

“Precisely,” Lich said.

Mac laughed.

“What?”

“You said, ‘precisely.’”

“Fuck you,” Lich went back to the task at hand. “Monday night one of the kidnappers drives over to Ellsworth to make the call and then drives back.”

“Then they take the girls and put them underground, but it’s someplace that isn’t that far from here,” Mac said. “So while we’re running around down in Ellsworth and dragging Drew Wiskowski in for questioning, they’re putting together that video.”

“Which they put under the stands at the football field sometime overnight,” Lich added. “After which they come back here.”

“Exactly,” Mac said. “The house gives them a good central staging area, so they can be close to town and operate, yet they’re not too far from wherever the girls are buried.”

“I shouldn’t smile,” Lich said, smiling. “But we’re on it, man. This is something. We just have to lay in wait.”

“If they come back,” Mac said, doubt creeping onto his face. “This place has been cleaned, is clean,” he said as he climbed the basement steps. “What if they’re not planning on coming back? The ransom call comes tomorrow at six. What if we’ve missed them?”

“Only one way to find out,” Lich said following.

“I know. We’ve got to sit on it,” Mac answered.

Chapter Twenty-One

“What do you mean ‘ripped out’?”

7:45 p.m.

The small monkey wrench thrown into the day’s plans was having an unintended but pleasant effect. After exchanging vehicles with Dean in Cambridge, a small town nearly an hour north of the Twin Cities, Smith and Monica had started driving back into town when she spoke.

“There’s a little motel.”

“Looks like they have a vacancy,” Smith added, turning right off of Highway 65 and into the dirt parking lot of the 65-Hi Suites. They had several hours to kill before a midnight meeting. There were ten rooms at the motel and five cars in the parking lot: just enough that they wouldn’t be memorable to the motel clerk, and just few enough that there was minimal risk they would be remembered by a guest.

His first two weeks out of prison, Smith stayed in Chicago and went on a binge, hooking up with a different woman every night. Some nights it was a woman he picked up in some bar. A divorcée, a woman looking for a fling, he wasn’t real particular. If he couldn’t find a woman at a bar, a hooker in a cheap hotel room would do. The quality didn’t really matter. He was working off fifteen years of pent-up sexual frustration, so any woman did it for him.

After Chicago, he moved to the Twin Cities and joined up with Dean, David, and their sister Monica to start the planning. He was immediately attracted to her. Monica was in her mid-forties, but the years were being very kind to her. Twice divorced, Monica was a petite woman with creamy skin, short, jet-black hair in a stylish cut, deep green eyes, a tiny, slightly upturned nose, and full ruby lips. And she was smart as a whip. A CPA, she worked the books for a number of years for area jewelers. That was where, three years ago, she crossed paths with Lyman Hisle. He didn’t know her, but she knew him.

Monica was in a jewelry store on Ford Parkway, balancing the books, when Hisle walked into the store, dressed in a two-thousand-dollar French suit and two-hundred-dollar Italian shoes. He spent ten thousand dollars in fifteen minutes without blinking an eye, money that Hisle had made off of people like her father.

Anger raged within her as Lyman Hisle whipped out his American Express card and spent the money as if it were nothing, as if he were buying groceries or a DVD. From that point forward, she never let the rage go. As far as she was concerned, Lyman Hisle had killed her father. He didn’t pull the trigger, her father did that. But Hisle drove him to do it. For ten years she suppressed the anger, shoving it to the back of her mind. She’d been able to cope with the damage Hisle’s work did to her father, the drinking, the pills, the loss of all the money, and finally the suicide. But seeing Hisle, seeing him spend all that money so cavalierly, brought it all back.

She was looking for the same kind of payback Smith was looking for. As the planning for the kidnappings began, she and Smith spent many hours together, scouting sites and observing targets. Their passion for revenge ignited the same within them, as though the two feelings fed off of one another. Within a month they were sleeping together. In another month, Smith and Monica knew they would escape together when everything was over. He was in love with her, and she said the feeling was mutual. Monica was married twice and divorced twice. Both times she had married unworthy men, weak men, men she couldn’t trust. Her brothers told her that Smith was none of those things. He was strong. He’d been a man in prison. He was a man they could trust, a man who wanted what they wanted and possessed what they didn’t: the ability and the connection to pull it off.

Now it was 8:27 p.m., and they were lying in a musty motel room with an air conditioner working overtime to cool the room. They lay naked on the bed, her head just under his chin, the sheets and blankets on the floor and the sweat from the sex cooling on their bodies. Smith reached over and grabbed the remote for the TV. He turned to Channel 6, which was running a special bottom-of-the-hour report about the kidnappings. For the first time, Smith saw the videotape played by the media.

“I didn’t think they would release that to the public,” Monica said.

“I’m not sure I did either.”

“Are you worried about that?”

“Not particularly. The video snippets are short. The land is mostly private. I’m sure they’re hoping that somebody will recognize the road or some marking in the background. I don’t see that happening.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have put so much into the video.”

“You might be right,” Smith answered mildly. “I wanted to build the anxiety for Flanagan and Hisle before we showed the girls going under. I wanted them to see the process, let the pressure and suspense build. I wanted them fully motivated to pay. In the end, perhaps less would have been more.”

They listened to the rest of the report.

“Nothing about the house,” Monica said. “Perhaps the coast is clear.”

“Maybe,” Smith answered, lightly scratching her upper back. “The media has been on most breaks in the case, but they’re not on this one. Either the police have done a good job of keeping this one quiet, or they don’t think we were at the house.”

“What do you think is the case?” she asked, running her fingers through his chest hair.

“You cleaned the house well?”

“Yes. It’s clean.”

“They might think we were there. But they’re not finding anything, which means they’re no closer to finding us. And besides, we’re not going back,” he said, cupping her breast in his hand and stopping her questions with a kiss.

• • • • •

Jupiter Jones grabbed a Red Bull out of his Sub-Zero refrigerator and a bag of chips out of the walk-in pantry. He loaded up his coffee maker for a night’s worth of fuel. Frequent jolts of energy would be needed for what looked to be an all-nighter. The video of the kidnappers burying the girls alive had his utmost attention. If the video didn’t hit you, you weren’t human. He couldn’t imagine the impact on the chief or Lyman Hisle.

He tied his Hefner robe shut over his shorts, slid his feet into his flip-flops, and went back to his home computer lab. The FBI techs—who were good; very good—had gone over the video all afternoon and found nothing that seemed helpful beyond identifying the van as a Chevy Astro, 2001 edition, based on elements of the dashboard design. Jupiter didn’t believe there was nothing else there. There was always, always, something to be found, something that could help. To do that required patience, a keen eye for detail and, most importantly, top-of-the-line equipment—all of which he had. His equipment was better than anything law enforcement owned. Mac had called Jupiter in on more than one occasion as a secret weapon. Mac often said that Jupiter should be in one of those “Break in Case of Emergency” cases. Jupiter thought Mac was right.

Having watched the video a number of times, Jupiter had a feel for it now, knowing what it showed and how it flowed. Nothing jumped out at him initially, but then again, if something like that were there, the FBI or the police would have found it. No, what he was looking for wouldn’t be obvious, if not flat-out hidden. But it was there somewhere. You just had to know how to find it, or get lucky enough, and then extract it.

He needed to break the video down frame-by-frame. Jupe took a sip from his Red Bull, grabbed a handful of chips and started at the beginning: the van driving through the field.

• • • • •

Mac wiped sweat off his forehead as he sat on a dining room chair, looking out the front window of the Hall house and across the street at the rambler. The crime scene techs found nothing inside the house: no prints, no hairs, no odd fibers, no nothing. The house was clean. Or, as Mac bitterly stated, “It’s a safe house for these bastards because it’s clean.”

It took three hours, but Burton and the FBI found the owner, Gavin Harvey, who was out on his boat on Lake Minnetonka. Arriving dressed in a bright orange swimsuit and an unbuttoned blue and white Hawaiian shirt, not to mention half in the bag, Harvey turned over a manila folder with a thin set of rental documents for the house.

The renter was Ramona Jones. No picture identification was in the file. Simply a one-page, two-month agreement and a notation of $2,000 cash paid up-front. It was nothing unusual, according to Harvey. This was one of his lesser rental properties, and he was contemplating selling because he couldn’t regularly rent it. When Jones came along with $2,000 cash and a two-month rental request, it was “a no brainer,” Harvey said. “Otherwise the joint sits empty.”

Harvey’s description of the woman wasn’t helpful either. “Small, petite, she was attractive, had long blonde hair, nearly down to her ass. I took a little run at her, if you know what I mean,” Harvey said, smiling crookedly and winking at Mac. “But she blew me off.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Lich cracked.

“Where was she from?” Mac asked, suppressing a chuckle.

“I don’t know, beyond what’s on the rental sheet,” Harvey said, the booze on his breath causing Mac to wince and take a step back. Good thing this guy has a lackey driving him.

The rental sheet revealed a nonexistent address in Duluth. Harvey said that he had spoken to Jones once over the phone, met her once in person to have her sign the lease, collected the money, and gave her the keys. Harvey hadn’t stopped by since.

The FBI was running down women named Ramona Jones fitting the general description provided by Harvey, but nobody was holding their breath. Like everything else in this case, it would probably be a dead end.

Neighbors were questioned, but nothing useful was coming of it. People saw the vans, but they couldn’t give consistent answers as to colors, makes, models, or plates. Men were seen, but nobody seemed to know how many or what they looked like beyond being big. Nobody spoke to the men or ever saw their faces. They were seen pulling in and out of the garage, black-clad torsos with hats and sunglasses on. Otherwise, they were never seen and never did anything to draw attention.

Burton, Duffy, and Peters were also convinced that the kidnappers were using the house. Now, if only they would come back. Mac ran the facts continuously through his head as he watched the house and the neighborhood. The neighborhood was eerily quiet. The heat was keeping people inside. A normal July 3rd night would have people out walking their dogs, taking a run, enjoying the small window of summer weather in Minnesota. Instead it was quiet.

Stifling a yawn, Mac turned away from the window to see the massive Rock sitting in an undersized armchair, reading, of all things, Better Homes and Gardens. Rock wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who cared about curtains or tulips or anything of the like. He was bored. So was Lich, who was failing miserably in his attempt to complete a crossword puzzle in the Star Tribune. The kicker was Riles, a man who absolutely hated pop culture, reading a People magazine. Pat far preferred watching the Discovery and History channels or reading a Newsweek or Time.

Mac had to laugh. Riley, all six feet three inches of him, wearing a faded blue Minnesota Twins cap, a dark blue golf shirt, and khakis, sat on the right side of a small couch. On the other side sat the short, squat Lich, wearing white tennis shoes, lightly soiled off-white pants, a red Hawaiian shirt with white collar, and a white beach hat he had fished out of Mac’s backseat earlier. It was the Skipper and Gilligan.

Mac slyly caught Riles’s attention before he said to Lich, “Hey little buddy,” in his best Skipper voice. Riles, right on cue, hit Dick on the head with his blue hat. Rock howled in laughter.

“Fuck you all,” Lich growled, rubbing his head. For no reason at all everyone started talking about their favorite Gilligan’s Island episode. Rock argued for five minutes, mostly tongue-in-cheek, that the show was racist. “I didn’t see no brothas on that show. Why not? That Sherwood Schwartz dude was racist.”

“Oh, right,” Mac answered, rolling his eyes. “There were lots of African Americans who were going on charter boat rides in Hawaii back in the mid-sixties.”

“Fuck that,” Rock answered. “They just didn’t want a gook lookin’ black dude like Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, or Richard Roundtree scoring with Ginger or Mary Ann.”

“You know what I don’t get? Why weren’t the skipper, professor, or Gilligan drillin’ Ginger or Mary Ann to begin with,” Lich said, his mind always wandering in a certain direction. “I mean, you know Thurston was putting the Howell the III to Lovey.”

“Oh God,” Mac howled, doubling over with laughter, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Okay, which one, Ginger or Mary Ann?” Rock asked smiling.

“Mary Ann!” Mac and Riles replied in unison.

“Agreed,” Rock said. “What about you, Dick Lick?” Rock asked.

“Ginger. Definitely Ginger. She could suck a golf ball through a straw,” Lich said, smiling, sticking his tongue out in his best impression of Morris from Slap Shot.

Mac got up out of his chair, still clutching his stomach, and went to check on Hall. Mrs. Hall, whom they had yet to meet, was out shopping although she was due back any minute. In the meantime, Mac and the others would check on Mr. Hall from time to time. When Mac walked in he was lying in his bed, watching the Twins game.

“Can I get you anything?” Mac asked. Hall was sweating through yet another shirt.

“A refill on my water,” Hall answered. “I have to take some medication.”

Mac arrived in the kitchen just as Mrs. Hall came through the back door with two bags of groceries.

“You must be Mrs. Hall,” Mac said as he introduced himself and pulled out his shield. Mac explained what he and the others were doing.

“How is Pat doing?” she asked.

“He needed some water for his medication.”

“I can get that,” she said.

“That’s fine,” Mac answered. “You put your stuff away. I can run it in for him.”

Riles walked in, putting his cell phone back in his pocket. “That was Peters. We’ve got relief coming in a bit. We get until 0600 to get some rest. They’ll call us if anything comes up.”

Mac nodded, grabbing some ice cubes out of the freezer. “I’m starting to think these guys have bolted.”

“They might have, but what else do we have at this point?”

Riles was right. What else did they have? Or why weren’t they looking for something else? Mac wondered. All they’d done in the last two days was react to whatever the kidnappers were doing. To Mac, it still seemed like they weren’t pushing the investigation. Rather it was being pushed at them. Three words surfaced again in his mind: complicated, prepared, and motivated.

Mac walked back to Hall’s room with Riley in tow. As he placed the glass on the nightstand he heard a vehicle slowing outside. Mac turned to the window to see a minivan pulling into a neighbor’s house, but not to the house they were watching.

“Nothing, eh?” Mr. Hall asked, taking a sip.

“Nada,” Mac answered. “How are the Twins doing?”

“They’re up four. Mauer is three-for-three,” Hall said, then added with a little pride, “That St. Paul kid is hitting over three-forty again.”

“He’s got a shot at another batting title,” Riles said, straightening his Twins cap on his head.

Mrs. Hall walked into the room to check on her husband. Riles and Mac stood watching the game for a moment and both clapped as Mauer flared a single to left field, now four-for-four in the game.

“He’s unbelievable,” Riles said of Mauer.

“That he is,” Mac replied as he went back to the window and pulled back the curtains.

“They haven’t come back, have they?” Mr. Hall asked disappointedly.

“No,” Mac answered, looking out the window.

“You think they’re the guys?”

Mac looked back and nodded slightly.

“Too bad I didn’t pay a little more attention when they ripped out of here earlier,” Mrs. Hall said. “Maybe I could have seen something that would have helped.”

“Ripped out?” Mac asked, turning back to Mrs. Hall.

“What do you mean ripped out?” Riles added.

“I might have missed them when they left,” Mrs. Hall answered, “except that they squealed the tires pulling out. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if the air conditioner was working. But with the windows open, I heard the tires and saw them go.”

Mac pulled out his notepad, checking his notes from earlier. “Mr. Hall, you said they left just after you called it in, right?”

“That’s right.”

“How long after you called?”

“Five minutes at the most, I’d say,” Mrs. Hall answered for her husband. “Pat was on the potty when it happened.”

“They ripped out of here?” Mac asked. “Like they were in a hurry?”

“It sure seemed like it.”

“They ever do that before?” Riles asked. “Or was that a first?”

“Not that I recall,” Mrs. Hall answered. She thought about it some more. “They were usually pretty quiet.” Hall thought a few seconds more and then shook her head. “No, that was the first time I recall them leaving so fast. What about you, Pat? Did you ever see them leave like that?”

“Not that I recall.”

“And again, this was after you called,” Mac pressed. “You’re sure it was after?”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Hall answered.

Mac and Riles shared a look. They left the Halls and went back to the kitchen.

“Do you think…” Riles started.

“…that they were tipped off,” Mac finished as he led Riles back to the living room. “I think it’s entirely possible.”

In the living room, Lich and Rock were peering out the front window.

“I think we might have missed something,” Mac said in a hushed but excited tone.

They all looked at him. “Like what?” Rock asked.

Mac related what Mrs. Hall had just told them. “We got the call from Burton, what? At about four thirty?” Mac asked, looking at his notebook.

Riles nodded. “Yeah.”

“At about the same time we’re getting that call, these guys, according to Mrs. Hall, bolt as well. They ripped out of here.”

“They ever do that before?” Rock asked.

“No,” Mac and Riles answered in unison.

Lich’s face paled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. “Fuck, Mac,” he said heavily.

Pat ran his hand hard through his thick mane of black hair. “They ripped out of here, boys. Mrs. Hall said that she almost missed them because they ripped out of here.”

“At roughly the same time we’re getting the call, which is five to ten minutes after the call from Mr. Hall originally came in,” Mac answered, pointing at Rock with his notepad. “Isn’t that awfully convenient? That they left the house like that at about the same time as I got the call? And we’ve been sitting here how long, and nobody’s been back?”

“Could be a coincidence,” Rock answered. “They could be back any minute for all we know.”

Riles looked at Mac, who said, “I doubt it. We can keep sitting on this house. But they’re not coming back.”

“Oh shit,” Lich said, rubbing his face with both hands.

“Mother fuckers,” Rock muttered. “They’ve got someone inside.”

“We’ve got the rest of the night off,” Mac said. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

“Who can we trust?” Lich asked.

“Peters,” Riles answered.

“Double Frank, I’d say,” Rock added.

“And any McRyan,” Mac said. “And Sally—we could use her help. But beyond that?” He shook his head. “We gotta keep this close.”

“We got lots of people hanging around,” Riles said. “Within the department and then all those FBI people. God,” he sighed, running his hand over his face. “It could be anyone.”

“Not to mention Hisle’s law firm,” Lich added. “Lyman’s a good guy, but who knows?”

“I’d start with the department,” Mac said matter-of-factly. That stunned everyone. Mac had more institutional love than anyone else.

“Why not the fuckin’ FBI?” barked Rock.

“Easy, Rock,” Mac answered, holding up his hands. “It could be them, too. But, if you’re with the bureau, how could you know for sure you’d be on the case?”

“Whereas people in the department…” Lich started.

“Could be certain, or at least more certain, that they would be involved,” Rock finished. “I see Mac’s point.”

“We need to move carefully, boys. Very carefully,” Riles said. “Ideas?”

“Let’s go to the Pub,” Mac answered. “Just us and Peters. We’ll get Sally over there, too. We gotta start making some moves of our own.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You’re a drop dead gorgeous woman, with a fantastic body, a great mind, and impeccable timing.”

10:45 p.m.

Mac pulled in behind the bar and noted that it was a slow night for the other family business: McRyan’s Pub, a true St. Paul institution. The pub sat on West Seventh Street, just on the outskirts of downtown and one block from the Xcel Energy Center, home of the NHL’s Minnesota Wild. It was the favored watering hole of hockey fans and the St. Paul Police alike, not to mention the single largest employer of ex-cops in the city.

As the window over the front door indicated, the pub was established in 1907. Opened by Mac’s great-grandpa Patrick, the pub had a colorful history of serving drinks before, during, and after Prohibition. During Prohibition, they had been served in the now-infamous Patrick’s Room. Located in the basement, Patrick’s Room lay behind a hidden door disguised as a built-in wooden buffet, the type you would find in any older St. Paul Home. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet pushed the door into a large party room. During Prohibition, the police, politicians, citizens, and even notorious criminals like John Dillinger sat together, knocking back illegal drinks and having a good time.

Today, the inside of Patrick’s Room was adorned with black and white photos of that bygone era, while a plaque outside described the room’s infamous history. These days, the hidden room was used for private parties, meetings, and the occasional cop poker game.

Mac walked in the back door and stepped left into the main level of the pub. A classic old-fashioned bar—massive stretch of mahogany with a brass rail—ate up half of the length and breadth of the room. Behind the bar were the typical bottles and taps and a long mirror with “McRyan’s Pub” stenciled across it, along with the Minnesota Wild Logo, a badge, and a shamrock. On most nights, this part of the bar was full of cops having a bump after a shift, happy to have made it through another tour, swapping war stories and telling lies. Tonight there were a few hanging around, but things were eerily quiet, voices in a hushed murmur. Nobody was in a happy, celebratory, or terribly talkative mood.

Mac made conversation for a few minutes with the bartender, a retired patrol cop, until Uncle Shamus walked in. Shamus, a retired St. Paul detective, was the pub’s current proprietor.

“Michael,” Shamus said, coming over to give his nephew a big bear hug. “Boyo, let’s get you something to drink and go down to Patrick’s. I’ve got food on the way, whatever you and the boys need.”

“Thanks, Shamus,” Mac replied, looking longingly at the beer taps. He was dying to have one—a Grain Belt Premium or a Schells, his current favorites. Instead he had the bartender mix him a tall Arnie Palmer, which, while not a beer, would be cold and refreshing nonetheless.

Shamus led Mac down the stairs and past a small game room, which was currently occupied by two regulars playing pool. Turning right, Shamus opened the middle drawer of the buffet and popped the latch to Patrick’s Room. Inside, Mac found a table set up with chips and salsa and a gray tub that was full of Diet Cokes, Sprites, and bottled waters.

“I’ll have some warm food brought in,” Shamus said, grabbing a phone to call the kitchen. “When will everyone else be coming?”

“Within the hour,” Mac replied as he opened two dark wood-paneled doors, revealing a whiteboard. “I could eat right now, though.”

“BLTs?” Shamus asked, familiar with his nephew’s favorites. Mac nodded. Shamus dialed up to the kitchen and placed the order. “They’re on their way,” he said as he hung up. “So tell me, boyo. Where you at?”

Mac gave Shamus the rundown on the last two days, leaving out his suspicions about someone working the case from the inside.

“You ain’t got shit, do ya, boyo?” Shamus asked.

Mac shook his head with disgust.

Shamus patted him on the back. “Well, it ain’t over yet,” he said. “You never know what’s gonna break a case, my boy. But let me tell ya, I’ve had the old hands in here by the dozens today. You need any help, you let me know. We’ll call in the brigade.” Shamus headed upstairs to check on the food.

One of the reasons Mac wanted to come to Patrick’s Room was the chance to be away from Burton, Duffy, the mayor, and everyone else and think and talk things out. Patrick’s Room was used for bar training and business meetings. Consequently, Shamus had outfitted it with all one needed for such things, including an overhead projector, drop-down movie screen, whiteboard, along with tables and chairs.

A psychologist friend said Mac was a visual learner, which meant he needed to see it, feel it, touch it, and write it down. While Mac was inclined to think it was a bunch of quack psychoanalysis, he had to admit that there was a bit of truth in it. He needed to see things laid out to understand the patterns and connections, to comprehend the whole picture. He loved puzzles, laying out the pieces and trying to make them all fit. It was time to mind-map—to lay out the pieces of this case and see what larger picture they formed. He took out his notebook and grabbed a black marker and started jotting down notes on the whiteboard. Along the top of the board he wrote:

Complicated—Prepared—Motivated.

For the next half hour he jotted down what the investigation had thus far.

Kidnappers: Probably three men? Big, over 6 feet. Hats, sunglasses, gloves. Vans, no consistent makes or models and always stolen. The one running the show has thought of everything. Seems to know what we’ll do.

Woman: Black hair, forties, smallish, purchased laptop, was the eyes inside at Cel’s and at St. Thomas University. Rented the safe house? Landlord said she was attractive, but with blonde hair. Wig? Same woman? Were there two women?

Vans: Last five days, panel-type, different makes. Gloves on drivers’ hands.

Hisle and Flanagan cases: No connections (at least yet) on criminal cases between Flanagan and Hisle.

Mac thought about that lack of a good connection. Wiskowski was a setup. The rest they’d looked into were weak at best. That still bothered him, which brought him back to something he’d said earlier.

Investigative Focus: Pick a good candidate even if not obviously connected to both men.

He scratched his head at the last note. That sounded good in theory, but it would take time to work through all of the names again and they had less than twenty hours. He left that for the time being and moved on to today’s clues: the laptop and safe house.

Laptop: Purchased by woman? Was it the same woman as at Cel’s? Store video was inconclusive. No match from facial recognition software. Woman had dark hair, wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. Computer purchased with cash, no credit card trail.

Safe house: House now abandoned? Clean. No evidence other than paint scratches on bed in basement. No forensic evidence feels right.

The door opened and his cousin Kelly walked in with a BLT and another Arnie Palmer. She gave Mac a little hug and a few words of encouragement before heading back out. Mac took a bite out of the sandwich and moved back to the whiteboard.

Ransom: $5 million. It should be more. What’s that mean? Is it important? The chief and Hisle could easily come up with more.

Video: Jupiter working it. FBI found nothing. Video shows isolated area-abandoned farm? Land the kidnappers own or owned?

Mac called Jupe, who had nothing to report yet. He said he would call as soon as something popped up. Figuring Jupe needed a second set of eyes, Mac called his cousin Shawn out of bed to go over and help. After the call, he went back to the whiteboard to deal with their newest concern.

Inside Job: Phone call and kidnappers “rip out” within five minutes. Did someone tip them off? Timing suggests it, but who? Inside department? FBI? Hisle’s law firm? Most likely in the department.

Mac pinched the bridge of his nose. They needed to figure out who knew about the call. Paddy and Double Frank were there at the time. In fact, Paddy told the room about it. He jotted down a note to call Paddy and Double Frank and have them make a list.

Then he turned his attention to the girls. He drew a map of the state of Minnesota and Wisconsin, marking River Falls, Clearwater, Lake Street in Minneapolis, Ellsworth, Duluth, and the safe house in St. Paul. He thought that the girls were within an hour of the Twin Cities at most. If that were the case, Duluth didn’t fit; it was at least two hours away. Was Duluth used to throw them off? Make them search a wider area? That was possible.

Where are the girls? Phone calls from Clearwater, Ellsworth, and Duluth. Buried underground. Must be rural, private, wooded area that public doesn’t use. Within an hour of the Cities.

Phone calls: Clearwater, Ellsworth, Duluth. Voice disguised. Speaker was blasé, clipped, except one thing “Hisle was the appetizer and your daughter is the main course.” Is one of the girls more important than the other? Is the chief or Hisle more important?

Mac looked over as the door opened and Sally strolled in. She was carrying a duffel bag. Mac realized that he was beyond scruffy, his hair messed and his clothes dirty, sweaty, and smelly. His girlfriend looked like a million bucks, khaki shorts revealing her shapely, tanned legs, a white, V-neck sleeveless shirt tight to her wonderful breasts, and fiery red hair up in a bouncy ponytail. She greeted him with a big hug and a long, warm kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, looking into his eyes.

“Likewise,” he answered, giving Sally another kiss and holding her for a few minutes. He instantly felt better. “What’s in the bag?”

Sally opened it and handed him a change of clothes, a truly welcome sight. As he went behind the wet bar to clean up, Sally took a look at the whiteboard.

“Inside job?” Sally asked, astonished. Mac explained as he turned on the tap water and waited for it to warm. “Damn, you’re probably right,” she said, shaking her head as Mac splashed water over his face. “What will you do to the person if you find them?”

“Baby, you don’t want to know,” Mac answered as he toweled off his face. “So tell me about your day for a minute, get my mind off mine.”

“Mine was uneventful, but for a friend of mine, holy frickin’ cow,” Sally said, a big smile crossing her face. “Do you remember Homer Snodgrass from law school?”

“He was a gunner,” Mac answered. “He asked way too many questions in class and always thought he had all the answers. Hell, all he was ever doing was quoting from the Emanuels study guides.”

“That might be true.”

“Homer Snodgrass,” Mac chuckled. “I could never understand how parents with the last name of Snodgrass would name their kid Homer.”

“Someone named Lich gave their son the name of Richard.”

“Good point,” Mac answered, zipping up his pants.

“Anyway, Homer’s making millions as a class-action lawyer these days.”

“Figures.”

“Now his day was eventful.”

“Why’s that?”

“Do you remember hearing about that portable heater class action a couple of weeks ago?”

“Vaguely. Wasn’t it something about a flaw in the design causing fires, something like that? Jury awarded something like $20 million?”

“Exactly,” Sally said. “That was Homer. Anyway, it was a bet-the-company case. The company lost, and the owner paid—or tried to pay—Homer a visit over in Minneapolis.”

“That couldn’t be good,” Mac said, pulling a fresh white-and-blue striped Adidas golf shirt over his head.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sally replied. “This guy shows up in a trench coat, which on a day like today with the heat, should have been a sign of trouble in and of itself. In any event, he barged past the front desk at the firm. He’s stalking the halls, looking for Homer, and when he sees him,” her eyes lit up, “he starts chasing Homer with an axe—not a hatchet, but a big red fireman’s axe. Can you believe it, with an axe?”

“No way,” Mac said, laughing out loud, a disbelieving smile on his face. “What the hell happened then?”

“Oh shit,” she replied smiling, enjoying the chance to tell the story. “I guess Homer starts running, although where do you go on the forty-fourth floor of the American Financial Tower? But he starts running, goes down a flight of steps, trying to get away from this guy, who’s running after him like a crazed lunatic, waving this axe, yelling ‘I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna kill you.’ People ducking for cover everywhere—it was a zoo.”

“So did the police get there?”

“No, it was the security guards. American Financial has pretty serious security in the building, since they occupy most of the floors. They finally caught up and subdued the guy.”

Just then, Riles, Rock, Lich, and Peters burst in, all of them freshly washed and changed. Lich asked what was so funny. Sally told the Homer Snodgrass story again as Mac turned his attention back to the whiteboard, twisting the black dry erase marker through his fingers like a baton.

“The rental cops from downstairs earned their keep today,” Sally finished.

“Went nuts over his company, huh?” Riles said, grabbing a sandwich off the table.

“Yeah. He’s in a rubber room now, I’d suspect,” Sally said, popping open the top of a Diet Coke and pouring the contents into a red plastic cup filled with ice. “Homer says these people in class-action suits get pretty pissed off at him. This isn’t the first time he’s had death threats, for cripes’ sake.” Mac stared at the notation on the board:

Hisle and Flanagan cases: No connections (at least yet) on criminal cases between Flanagan and Hisle.

He dramatically underlined “criminal” and suddenly the pieces fell together into a new picture. “It’s the civil cases. I bet it’s the damned civil cases,” Mac exclaimed loudly.

“What?” Sally asked.

“You know what, Kennedy? You’re a drop-dead gorgeous woman with a fantastic body, a great mind, and impeccable timing,” Mac said, giving her a big wet kiss on the lips.

Sally looked at him, stunned.

“What the hell’s got into you?” Peters asked as the others stared.

“A guy went after a lawyer with an axe because he lost his company in a class-action suit, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“She also said this guy has received death threats—more than once.”

“Again, so?”

“Lyman Hisle is one of the most successful class-action and discrimination lawyers around. We all think of the criminal stuff because that’s where we deal with him. But he’s made millions upon millions on those class-action and discrimination cases and we haven’t been looking at those cases.”

“Why not?” Rock asked.

“Because Burton and the chief thought the criminal cases were the most likely connection when we had just the Hisle kidnapping. Then, when they took Carrie Flanagan, everyone naturally assumed that it had to be the criminal cases again, because it involved a criminal lawyer and a cop. But what if Lyman’s civil world crossed with the chief somehow? Somebody who lost a ton of money to Lyman, and where there’s a connection to the chief.”

“Or with multiple kidnappers? Maybe one hand is washing the other,” Lich added. “Someone pissed at Lyman joins up with someone pissed at the chief, or vice versa.”

“How would that happen?” Peters asked.

“Who knows?” Mac said. “But maybe it has. We haven’t found the connection on the criminal cases. So we have to take a look at it from the civil side.”

“How many cases or people we talking here?” Riles asked, aware of the ticking clock.

“Hundreds, maybe thousands, given how prolific Lyman is,” Sally said. “It could be a defendant in a case he won, could be a plaintiff in a case he lost.”

“Probably a defendant,” Mac said. “And it fits with these guys.” He smiled, looking at his three words. “They’ve been prepared. It’s complicated, and this is why. Because it’s a connection between a case the chief worked and some civil matter of Lyman’s.” He paused, and then added with a little admiration in his voice, “Man, that’s a nice little twist on their part when you think about it.”

“Which fits with two of your words up there,” Riles said. “Now all we need is the ‘motivated.’ We need to figure out what’s motivating these guys.”

“I wonder if they tipped their hand on that,” Mac said.

“How so?” Lich asked.

Mac underlined the quote. “It’s what the kidnapper said when he called the chief. He said: ‘Hisle was the appetizer and your daughter was the main course.’”

“And you think?” Peters asked.

“That the guy running the show is after the chief. The man running the show is someone the chief busted, or a family member of someone he busted, something along those lines.”

“And Hisle?” Sally asked.

“The price this guy is paying for the help.”

“But does that really get us any closer?” Lich said.

“Not yet,” Mac conceded. “But if we figure out the who, then we’ll probably be able to determine what is motivating them. So we still have to run the chief’s entire list against Lyman’s civil cases, but it gives us another piece, another way of looking at this. But I’m betting the brains of this little operation are the chief’s side of the ledger. The help is from Lyman. But we’ve gotta dig into all of that and we’ve got to do it now.”

“I’ll call Burton,” Peters said.

“NO!” everyone cried in unison.

“Why the hell not?”

“Someone’s workin’ the inside on this,” Mac answered quietly and without emotion.

Peters stared at him as the rest of the room fell silent, a disbelieving look overtaking his face. “You better tell me what you got,” their captain said quietly.

Mac and Riley told him about the timeline, the call from Hall and the vans’ sudden departure. It was thin, they all knew that, but it seemed right. Peters sighed.

“So we can’t trust anyone?”

“Beyond the people in this room and a few others, Paddy or Double Frank at least, no,” Riles said.

“We need to do this ourselves,” Mac added.

“That won’t make the mayor happy,” Rock warned.

“Screw the mayor,” Mac said. “Besides, he is one of the people we can’t trust.”

“And Burton?” Rock asked.

“He’s a good man, from what we’ve seen. If we start getting somewhere we can bring him in. But for now, we need to keep this close.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Peters asked.

“We need to set up shop over at Lyman’s offices and away from everyone else. We need to be able to hook into that database we’ve been building at the Department of Public Safety, and we’re going to need someone technical to make that all happen.”

“Hisle have anyone like that?” Lich asked.

“I doubt it,” Sally answered. “Law office the size of Lyman’s will have someone who runs their document management systems, but I doubt it’s someone who has higher-end computer skills. And it sounds like you need something slightly illegal here.”

“How about your buddy Jupiter?” Peters asked.

“I’ve already got him doing something else,” Mac answered. He explained what Jupiter was looking for in the video.

“How about someone from the department?” Rock said.

“There’s one person who is pretty good,” Mac said. “That IT guy, Scheifelbein. I think we can trust him. But we’re going to need him to tap into that database and cover our tracks on that end, so he needs to stay put. We need to get someone from the outside.”

“Then who the fuck do we get?” Rock asked harshly. “You don’t just pick up someone like that off the street.” He looked at his watch, “At eleven twenty-four at night, I might add.”

Mac smiled. He loved it when his mind got going. He could be a devious mother fucker when he did. “How about a convict?”

Riles snorted, shook his head, and smiled. “Hagen? You want to get Hagen, don’t you?”

Mac simply nodded.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Where the hell are you going?”

11:35 p.m.

The money was pretty much set to go and Burton breathed a sigh of relief that the safe house had come up dry. By this time tomorrow it would all be over.

He looked outside for the media, some of whom were still hanging around. Those who were left hovered near the main entrance to the Department of Public Safety building. Burton slipped out the side and found his rental, a silver Ford Taurus, one of the world’s most popular fleet cars. He threw his leather briefcase and black suit coat into the backseat, dropped his lukewarm Diet Pepsi into the cup holder, and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He slowly drove around the edge of the parking lot, avoiding attention, especially from the media. At the parking lot exit, he pulled out and steered his way over to Interstate 35E. With downtown St. Paul and his room at the Crowne Plaza to his immediate left, he instead turned right and took the entrance ramp north on the interstate. Traffic was light at this hour, and he easily settled into the flow, staying in the right lane and hovering around the sixty miles-per-hour speed limit as he traveled north out of St. Paul.

He loosened his tie and tuned the radio to the talk station. Word was out about the ransom, and speculation ran rampant. Oddly, there was nothing about the safe house on the news. Of course, the crime scene people struck out, finding nothing. The lease information for the house was a dead end. Now he had St. Paul’s best cops, the chief’s Boys no less, sitting on a house their targets never intended to return to.

Perfect.

Burton wasn’t doing hits for the money. His payoff on this wasn’t much. He would get $200,000 from Smith in six months, just after his planned retirement from the bureau. No, he was paying a debt.

Seventeen years ago, when Smith was pinched by Charlie Flanagan, Burton was his partner, making sure the local FBI office in Minneapolis wasn’t paying attention while Smith underreported his drug seizures. They split the money off of Smith’s drug sales fifty-fifty. While Smith retired his gambling debts, Burton put the money away, thousands of miles away, down in the Caymans and over in Zurich, letting it quietly mature over time. That money, smartly invested and reinvested, was now over two million dollars, a nice little nest egg nobody knew about, not even his ex-wife. The $200,000 from Smith would simply be walking-around cash.

The St. Paul police and the bureau suspected Smith had a partner when they took him down, but Smith never put Burton’s name in play. He took all the weight. When Smith was being sodomized in jail, when the bureau visited him, talking about how they could make his life easier if he just told them who he worked with, he didn’t give in, didn’t fold, and didn’t turn in his partner. Burton knew all this, tracking his partner’s incarceration, always worried he might break. He never did.

Meanwhile, Burton moved to kidnapping and found his true calling within the bureau. When he brought home the daughter of one of New York’s wealthiest businessmen, taking down the kidnappers in a spectacular chase through the subway tunnels, his name and reputation were cemented. He published a book. Traveled the country speaking about his cases, and now performed training for the bureau. Retiring at the end of the year, he could expect to greatly enhance his wealth on the speaking circuit. Several prestigious colleges had inquired of his interest in teaching. His life was set.

Then, four months ago Smith showed up on his doorstep. Burton owed him and there was no argument. His life was what it was because Smith never turned him in. Smith took all the heat, and Burton ended up with all the glory.

Burton spent days and nights thinking of ways out of helping Smith. He offered up part of his nest egg. Smith wasn’t interested. Burton offered to put him in touch with people who would put him to work, let him earn a respectable living, start a new life, a comfortable life, a decent life. Smith wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted one thing: he wanted Charlie Flanagan, and he didn’t just want to hurt him, he wanted to gut him. And Burton owed him. And if Burton refused, Smith would kill him.

If he could just get through the next day, help Smith get what he wanted and get his crew theirs; he’d be free and clear. Smith would be gone. Burton could retire a happy and wealthy man. If Charlie Flanagan, Lyman Hisle, and their daughters had to pay the ultimate price for that—well, it was him or them. If that was the way it had to be, he’d just have to live with it.

The upcoming road sign told him three miles to his exit in Forest Lake.

• • • • •

Heather Foxx passed the Forest Lake exit.

A half hour ago she had been slumped in the back seat of her rental car, slipping on her Nikes, exhausted from a long day in ninety-five-degree heat, and hoping to get a few hours of sleep, when the Taurus approached, driving cautiously around the perimeter of the parking lot. Looking up through the strands of hair falling across her eyes, Foxx saw that the driver was John Burton, the mysterious FBI man running the investigation, but unwilling to speak with the media. Rumor was he had a room down at the Crowne Plaza. With all of the other vultures hanging around, there was no way to approach him, let alone get any time with him. But, looking to her left, she saw that the rest of the media types were oblivious to his escape. Heather thought this might be her chance. She started her car and followed.

If she could catch him at the hotel, maybe she could talk with him one-on-one—get a hint at what tomorrow might hold. But instead of driving into downtown, Burton took the entrance ramp on I-35E north out of downtown.

“Where the hell are you going?” Heather said out loud, pulling in a good two hundred yards behind him. She was suddenly thankful that her little sports car was in the shop and she’d been forced to use a nondescript rental. Perhaps Burton had double-crossed everyone and was staying at one of the nice business hotels that were strategically located along the I-694 strip, a Residence Inn or Country Inn Suites perhaps. But he continued on I-35E past I-694 and now well out of downtown and passing the last of the White Bear Lake Exits, cruising into the countryside north of the Twin Cities.

“This is damn peculiar,” she muttered as Burton kept driving on, now twenty miles out of downtown and continuing north as Interstate 35W and 35E merged to form Interstate 35 to Duluth. Heather contemplated giving up, but Burton hit his right turn blinker and took the Forest Lake exit. At the top of the exit ramp, the FBI man turned right and drove a mile east into downtown Forest Lake, pulling into the parking lot of the Ranger Bar. A bright white marquee on the front indicated that the Ranger—a play on the nickname of the local high school—was open until 2:00 a.m. From the looks of the cars in the parking lot, it was apparent that the party was going plenty strong inside. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and a lot of people in the Forest Lake area were getting a head start.

Burton had turned into the lot on the north side of the bar. Foxx drove past the front and pulled into the lot on the south side and then cruised around to the back of the bar and out onto the street running along the backside so that she could look at the back of Burton’s car. She parked along the curb and slumped down to watch. The FBI man stayed in his car, contorting his body around—she saw his arms waving over his head as his shirt came off. Five minutes later, he was out of the sedan, dressed in jean shorts, a dark T-shirt, baseball cap, wire-rimmed glasses, and flip-flops.

Foxx took one look in the rearview mirror and realized she would be noticed without some alterations. Popping the trunk, she grabbed her duffel bag and quickly jumped back into the car and inventoried the contents. She’d gone to her fitness club early the day before, so there was an extra clean tank top, a hair binder, and a white Adidas tennis cap. She changed shirts and put on the baseball cap, sliding her ponytail out the back, but it wasn’t quite enough. There was also a sky blue Reebok nylon sweat top in the bag. It was a little gamy as she zipped it up, but that was okay—it might keep people, meaning men, away. The last thing she did was take out her disposable contact lenses and toss them out the window, sliding on her dark-rimmed glasses instead. She was as unrecognizable as she could make herself. Grabbing her purse, she walked into the bar.

Forest Lake sat on the far northeastern edge of the Twin Cities, so it was considered a suburb, but it had a country feel. The Ranger created a melting pot for the clash of those suburban and rural cultures. One look at the massive throng revealed a great mixture of the denim-and-belt-buckle, NASCAR-hat crowd and the Tommy-Bahama types.

As Heather entered from the back, she found a large bar beneath dark-paneled walls covered with framed sports jerseys and newspaper clippings, souvenirs of the Twins ‘87 and ‘91 World Series victories and recent Minnesota Gopher hockey national championships. In the dim lighting, she noted pool tables and dartboards in a segregated area to her immediate right. Straight ahead, a short hallway led to the main bar area where booths and tables surrounded a long, four-sided mahogany bar. In the far right corner, karaoke was going strong with an American Idol wannabe belting out Eddie Money’s “Shakin”—badly.

Heather picked her way around two sides of the main bar before spotting Burton, who was sitting in a booth, talking to another man. She grabbed an open bar stool, three from the corner nearest to Burton, and sat down.

The bartender appeared instantly, a good-looking, six-foot, black-haired early twenty-something in a tight black Ranger T-shirt, which showed his chiseled upper body. “What can I get ya’, darlin’?” he said with a bright white smile.

Darlin’? He was cheesy for sure, but definitely cute. “You know what a Vodka Sonic is?”

“Sure darlin’. Vodka, club soda, splash of tonic, and a lemon. We call it a Jolly Roger around here.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Vodka Sonic for the pretty lady it is,” the bartender replied, strolling off to mix the drink.

Heather alternately looked at a table tent menu with nightly specials and toward Burton, still deep in conversation with the other man, who was perhaps a little shorter. The man had short black hair, slightly graying at the temples. His profile revealed a large nose with a knot two-thirds of the way up, where it had been broken before. Both men had a beer in front of them, one-third finished, along with a bowl of popcorn. They leaned in close as they talked, their hands crossed in front of them.

• • • • •

“So where is the investigation at?” Smith asked, taking a pull off of his Budweiser.

“We’re good,” Burton answered, hat pulled down low. He ignored his Miller High Life and cautiously peered around the jam-packed bar, trying to determine if anyone was watching or looking in their direction. He wasn’t comfortable meeting in this environment, but Smith insisted and he was the one pulling the strings. “The discovery of the house today actually worked to your advantage.”

“How so?” Smith asked with raised eyebrows.

“Besides the obvious, which is that we didn’t find anything to identify you, it means that the best St. Paul has to offer are sitting on the house right now. It’s the only break the case has had, so they’re lying in wait, hoping you’ll come back.”

“Which means they’re wasting their time and not looking for us,” Smith answered, smiling, taking another hit off the beer. He was so happy, he was thinking of ordering another.

“And that’s a good thing,” Burton said. “These guys aren’t bad, particularly this McRyan character.”

“Now that name’s familiar,” Smith answered. “Why do I know that name?”

“Let me tell you why,” Burton took a sip of his beer. “You were still in the can at the time, but last winter the St. Paul police took down a crew of ex-CIA guys running security at Peterson Technical Applications, you know, PTA, in St. Paul. This McRyan was the main guy in all that, figured it out, broke the case wide open, and chased the guy behind it through downtown. He put him down in the RiverCentre Parking Ramp.”

“I saw a TV report on that,” Smith answered. “Shootout in downtown. Arms sales and stuff like that.”

“That’s it,” Burton replied, taking a couple of kernels of popcorn out of the basket. “Anyway, this kid’s a pretty good cop.”

“He’s fourth generation. I knew his old man,” Smith said, nodding his head.

“As well you should,” Burton added. “Simon was a hell of a cop, one of the best local cops I ever saw. His son is a chip off the old block for sure, scary smart and just tenacious as hell.”

“Tenacious?”

Burton related the argument about releasing the video to local authorities and the mayor and Duffy’s objections. “He didn’t back down one bit. He’s essentially calling the mayor, his boss I might add, an idiot and political hack in front of a room of cops and agents. He was one hundred percent right and wouldn’t back down until he got his way.”

“What lets him get away with that?” Smith asked, stunned.

“I’m not totally sure. If I had to guess, at least part of it is his DNA. Word is he’s never, ever, backed down from anything. On that arms sales thing, he was repeatedly told to leave it alone, but didn’t. Hell, he wouldn’t, and he brought that thing home. If he thinks he’s right, he won’t stop.”

“He’ll end up on the street if he keeps doing that.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think he worries about it. He’s got money.”

“How? He’s just a cop.”

“It’s not widely known, even within his department, but he invested ten grand about five or six years ago with two old high school friends in a coffee business, the Grand Brew. You’ve seen them around town, haven’t you?”

Smith nodded.

“Well, that little enterprise is up to nearly thirty shops, with more on the way, and McRyan has a piece of that action, gets a check every so often. When that little business goes public or gets bought by a bigger corporation a few years from now, he’ll be a multi-millionaire. It gives him a certain freedom to say what he thinks and do what he wants. He doesn’t have to worry about whether he can make the mortgage payment.”

“Tenacious and he’s going to be rich, which is good for him. But what makes him like the old man? What makes him someone we should be worrying about? I mean, he can’t be that old. What, early thirties?”

“Thirty-three to be exact.” Burton snorted and shook his head, “You haven’t seen him in action. Let me tell you a little about him.” The agent pulled a paper-clipped set of papers out of his pocket. “I got myself a look at his personnel file. Honors graduate of the University of Minnesota and William Mitchell College of Law, second in his class. His college entrance exams and LSAT to get into law school were off the charts. The guy is brilliant.”

“Why did he become a cop, then?”

“He’s fourth generation. Two of his best friends growing up were two cousins, Peter and Thomas McRyan. Apparently, the three were tight and all planned on becoming cops. But Mac has the college grades, marries a smart and pretty girl, and they both head off to law school, graduate with high honors, and line up the six-figure jobs after graduation.”

“Still doesn’t answer my question. Why the cop bit?”

“Two weeks after he takes the bar exam, his two cousins die in the line of duty, and he feels the calling of the family business. That was eight years ago. He trashed a legal career where he’d probably have made a big pile of money and blew his marriage because the wife didn’t like him being a cop, all to take up the family business. I guess he felt obligated.”

“So in eight years, he’s the best St. Paul has? I bet the veterans love that.”

“It’s an interesting dynamic for sure, but from what I’ve seen the vets roll with it pretty well. You can tell they all know he’s the smarter one in the room. Plus he’s a McRyan, a name that means something around here. These guys—Riley, this big guy Rockford, and fat Lich—all try keeping him just enough in line to stay employed, but then run interference for him so he can do his thing.”

“Sharp, then,” Smith acknowledged.

“Damn straight,” Burton answered, taking a pull from his beer. “He knew the safe house was the safe house five minutes after he got there. Long before they got into the house to look around.”

“What told him that?”

“Gut. Instinct. He just knew it was the place. He said he could feel it. Cops like that scare the shit out of me. They see what you don’t want them to see.” Burton took a last pull from his High Life. “I feel much better knowing I got McRyan sitting still.” Burton finished the popcorn, picking out one piece at a time and popping them into his mouth. “So tell me about the plan for tomorrow.”

“The call will come in at 6:00 p.m. …”

• • • • •

Heather nursed her drink, a small amount of the diluted, yet refreshing liquid remaining amongst the melting ice cubes and squeezed lemon. She looked at her watch, 1:22 a.m., and the bar was still going strong. The crowd was whoopin’ it up, including the woman strangling a cat in the corner, or maybe she was just singing karaoke.

Burton was still in the booth and had been talking for over half an hour with the other man. Heather had only seen his profile, except for now. The man looked in her direction just briefly and then turned away and back to Burton. The conversation was equal at first, but now the other man was doing most of the talking, counting off on his fingers while Burton nodded along, only occasionally speaking.

“You want another drink, darlin’?” the cute bartender was back.

Heather learned that his name was Skeet, which couldn’t possibly be his real name. She contemplated the offer, the first drink having tasted so good. “Sure. Easy on the vodka though.”

“Anything for you, darlin’,” Skeet answered, giving her his big cheesy smile and a wink as he started to mix the drink in front of her. Heather smiled inwardly and chatted with the bartender while he poured. This guy was working her, and he thought he was closing the deal, which was the funny part. Skeet put the drink in front of her, smiled again and moved away, beckoned by a loud crowd demanding Kamikazes on the other side of the bar.

The reporter took a small sip of her fresh drink and casually turned her gaze over to the right. Both men were gone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Did you ever see Forrest Gump?”

WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH OF JULY

1:28 a.m.

Mac, Lich, Peters, and Sally waited at the security guard station of the World Trade Center Tower in downtown St. Paul. Lich chit-chatted the men working the desk, who were retired suburban cops. The three men discussed pensions, benefits, and divorces; as it turned out, all of them had one. Dick got on a roll, causing hoots and howls with stories about getting cleaned out by his ex-wives. Mac’s partner was looking at possible retirement, at least early retirement, in a few years and frequently worked his numbers, figuring what he would have to live on. Dick would have to work long past age sixty-five, whether it be at a security desk or taking up Shamus’s long-standing offer to tend bar at the Pub.

All of the men looked up as Summer Plantagenate pushed through the interior glass doors. Stressed and tired, with bags under her eyes, the tall, thin lawyer arrived with her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing a zip-up gray nylon sweatshirt, white jogging shorts, and running shoes. The last two days had been hard on Lyman’s protégé, and she answered on the first ring when Mac called. Unable to sleep, she welcomed the chance to do anything to help. Summer led them to a bank of elevators for floors twenty-eight through thirty-seven.

Hisle & Brown occupied the entire thirty-seventh floor. The firm resided in ornate offices, their dark-paneled walls appointed with fine paintings and impressive statues. In the spacious lobby, a waterfall separated the reception desk from the leather chairs and sofas of the waiting area. The offices proved to be a powerful aphrodisiac when enticing clients or lawyers to join the firm.

Summer led them through the lobby, past the reception desk and into a large interior room. It was a training room, with a bank of six computers set along one wall, a mahogany conference table surrounded by high-backed black leather chairs in the center, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the other wall, stocked with reference materials, legal reports, and treatises. On one end wall, cherry cabinet doors opened to reveal a large screen television on the left and a whiteboard to the right.

“We can set up shop in here,” Summer said. “We can use all these computers to access our system and the conference table to look through the paper files.”

“Are your other people on the way in?” Peters asked.

“Yes. I’ve got three of our civil lawyers, a paralegal, and two secretaries on the way—all people who’ve been here for years. They all love Lyman and would do anything for him.”

“Good, we’ll need them all, and Sally can help, too. The guy we’re going to have run the computer part of this should be here any time,” Mac answered and then looked to Peters. “You better get Scheifelbein back over to HQ.”

“I’m on it,” Peters answered, pulling out his cell phone and walking out of the room. Lich followed as his cell phone started chiming.

“Why do you need a computer guy here?” Summer asked, grabbing Mac’s arm. “Can’t you just have a guy run it from your place?”

“Problem is,” Mac said, looking around the room quickly and then back to Summer, “we think someone might be working this from the inside.” Mac explained their theory, Sally nodding along. Plantagenate was stunned.

“They could have… been… gaming this thing from the get go.” She put her hand over her mouth, astonished.

“That’s right,” he answered. “This just developed in the last couple of hours. We’re not looking to shut the Feds out. We just don’t want to take any chances. That’s why we wanted to run it out of here until we know something more concrete.”

Summer nodded. “Do we tell the rest of my people coming?”

“Let’s not if we don’t have to,” Mac cautioned. “I want to keep this part of it quiet for now.”

Two lawyers and a secretary walked into the room. Summer broke off from Mac and Sally to give them the rundown. The three immediately went to the computers and started them up, and Summer waved Sally over, showing her what to do. The idea was to pull every name they could find from the civil side of Lyman’s practice. When Hagen arrived he’d run that information against the database of information at the Department of Public Safety.

Mac went to the whiteboard, flipped open his notebook, and started copying out the thoughts he had at the pub. He excluded his speculations on the inside job, keeping that close for now. With it all back up on the whiteboard, he scanned once more for the big picture. Lyman and Chief, long list of cases. How long? Mac turned to Plantagenate.

“Can you access all of Lyman’s civil cases here at the office?

“Everything in the last five years or so,” Summer replied. “The rest is off-site.”

Mac sighed. Nothing was ever easy. “Where? Where is the off-site?”

“North St. Paul, up off of Highway 36, place called Old Files,” one of the other lawyers answered.

“We need people up there as well. Get them there with cell phones, laptops, Dictaphones, the works,” Mac said. “We’re on a tight clock here.” Summer started dialing.

Lich came back into the room with an odd look on his face. “We gotta go somewhere.”

• • • • •

Riles and Rock stood with the warden at the front entrance to the Ramsey County Correctional Facility, otherwise known as the County Workhouse. The short and heavyset warden of the facility, a man named Ferm, worked his second Marlboro. He talked about the first-place Twins, the weather, and the circus that often was the Fourth of July event in his hometown of Stillwater.

“Shit, with all the boats on the river tomorrow night, there’s sure to be trouble.”

“How many boats?” Rock asked as he sucked on a cigar he’d bummed off Lich, skillfully blowing smoke out through the gap in his front teeth.

“In Stillwater, around the bridge,” Ferm replied, “hundreds for the fireworks. Not to mention it’ll just be busy as hell up and down the whole thing all day. My wife and I love the river,” Ferm blew smoke and then shook his head, “but we never go out on the Fourth. The only place it’ll be quiet is up north, near the old railroad bridge and even then, with the fireworks in Stillwater, not to mention those that people just shoot off normally, it’ll be a raucous night. I just hope nobody gets hurt.”

Just then, the diminutive Hagen came through the doors with a pair of guards. He saw Riley and Rock and smiled. “I should have known it was you two fuckers.”

“Ooooo, it’s the hardened convict,” Rock said, smiling, pulling cuffs out of his pocket and dangling them in Hagen’s face before slapping them on the man’s wrists. The cuffs secured, Rock eased him into the backseat of the Crown Victoria.

Riley shook Ferm’s hand and got behind the wheel, pulled away and drove back east on I-94 toward downtown St. Paul. Once on the highway, Rock reached into the back and undid the cuffs. The cuffs were just for show anyway. Hagen was an unlikely flight risk.

Arrested last winter as part of the bust on PTA, Hagen, a computer whiz, was seduced by the money offered by the company to run their network and computer systems. The company, and in particular the vice president of security, a man named Webb Alt, noted Hagen’s computer skills and put him to work on operations that monitored company employees. Before he knew it, Hagen was working for former CIA operatives who had no trouble dropping bodies to protect a covert arms sales operation. When Mac and Company came down on PTA, Hagen was found in a basement bunker in the PTA building, running the computer operations for Alt’s crew. In an effort to shave years off his sentence, Hagen worked with the police and federal authorities to piece together the PTA operations and track down missing PTA personnel.

He was no hardened criminal. Small in size and about as far from intimidating as you could get, Hagen had been dragged into the whole thing without much choice. He could have been sentenced to years of prison time, but Flanagan, Mac, and the rest took a shine to him as he helped tie up loose ends on PTA. Sally successfully worked to get his sentence reduced and also have it served in the County Workhouse.

Hagen had another six months to go on his one-year sentence. Two times already, Riles and Rock had sprung him to do a little work for the police department. This was on top of all the computer work he did at the workhouse. It would cost the county millions to pay contractors for what Hagen was providing them in return for three hots and a cot. Now they were calling on him again.

“So what is it this time?” Hagen asked flippantly, rubbing his wrists.

Rock turned and gave him a serious look. “The chief’s daughter has been kidnapped.”

Hagen’s smile vanished.

“We need your help with that.”

“Whatever you need,” Hagen answered. “Whatever you need.”

• • • • •

3:04 a.m.

Mac pulled his Explorer up in front of Fat Charlie’s place in north Minneapolis. The Fat Man had been cryptic with Lich, merely saying he needed to see them about some information that might prove helpful. Three large African-American men were waiting for them, all with their arms crossed and heads shaved, each sporting sunglasses and a skin-tight black muscle shirt—all in all, an impressive “gun show.” Fat Charlie needed good security in his game, and these guys looked the part. Mac gave them a quick scan and noted no weapons. The guns wouldn’t be far away, however, perhaps stored in the wheel wells of the Tahoe also parked out front. The one in the middle, slightly taller than the other two, spoke up in a deep yet poetically smooth voice. “Charlie sent us up to watch your ride while you’re inside.”

“Thanks,” Mac said. “Around the back again?”

The man nodded.

As they walked around the back, Lich couldn’t help himself, quipping, “What’s with the shades at three fuckin’ a.m.? Shit, it’s darker than their skin out here. That’s just…” Lich grappled for the right word and missed, “silly.”

Mac smiled. “Silly? Maybe. But I tell you what, you go tell that dude, all six-plus-feet, two-forty of him, that he looks silly. Christ. His upper arms are the size of my thighs. See what he does with you.”

“Ahh, I’d just pump a little of my Smith into him,” Lich said, touching his hip.

Mac snorted. “Anything out of your Smith would just bounce off those guns of his.”

Down the back steps, the door was already open and one of Charlie’s sons, attired in a white dress shirt and blue silk tie, was waiting for them, Déjà vu set in as he walked them back into the barroom, where they found the same haze of cigar smoke and Charlie sitting in the same chair.

Dressed in a more subdued gray suit with a black and white striped tie, Charlie sat with a cigar in his right hand and a drink in his left, a bottle of Wild Turkey and a bucket of ice sitting on the table in front of him. His sons sat on either side of him. On the couch to the left of Charlie sat what looked like a homeless man dressed in dirty, work jeans, a soiled white T-shirt, and a black stocking cap. The man was eating a towering ham sandwich off a plate full of chips and coleslaw.

Mac took a chair in front of Charlie, and Lich stood behind him, both hands on the back of the chair. Mac could feel the time running down, so he skipped the pleasantries. “You said you had something for us?”

“And good evening to you, Detective,” Charlie replied, a little put off by the curt start.

Lich jumped in, always ready to soften Mac’s attitude. “Look, Charlie, we just don’t have a lot of time for chit-chat,” he said mildly. “We need to get right to it.”

“Pretty tough the last couple of days, huh?”

Mac nodded and exhaled slowly. “Although, we might be on something now that will help us and we need to get back to it. So…”

“We best get to it then,” Charlie said, nodding and pointing to his right. “This is the guy you need to talk to. Meet Ron.” The homeless guy acknowledged them with a nod.

“This guy?” Mac asked skeptically.

“Yes,” the drug lord replied. “I know he don’t look like much, but looks can be deceiving. Trust me. He provides an important service for me.”

“Which is?” Lich asked.

“He watches my competition.”

Mac understood immediately. “He looks like a junkie.” And then turning to Ron, “But I take it you’re not?”

“Correct, Detective,” Ron replied, looking up from his plate of food. He wiped the corners of his mouth neatly with a napkin. “I’m incognito,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice, sounding nothing like a strung-out street raver.

“That’s great, Ron,” Mac answered. “But why do I need to talk to you?”

“Before he speaks,” Charlie interjected, “we’re just talking here, right?” The drug lord wanted to help, but he didn’t care to be pinched either.

“I work St. Paul. I don’t care what you’re doing in Minneapolis,” Mac replied. “So what do you have?”

“This last week, I’ve been watching our competitors down along Lake Street,” Ron said. “There are a couple of good crews down along there, and I’m evaluating them.”

“So?” Lich said, rolling his hand.

“I was sitting in a vacant house a block north of Lake Street around noon on Monday, getting out of the sun and eating some lunch, when I saw a van pull up across the alley behind an abandoned building. It pulled up right alongside another van.”

Mac turned his chair toward Ron. Lich pulled up a chair of his own, taking out a notebook. “What happened next?” Mac asked.

Ron grabbed Lich’s notepad and pen and drew a diagram. “I was just casually looking out the window—I was at a bit of a distance away from the vans, which were across the alley and to my right at maybe a forty-five degree angle.” Ron drew a line from his perch in the vacant house to the vans across the alley. “But something about the movement looked a little odd to me, so I went to the window.”

“What then?” Mac pushed, leaving his chair and taking a knee at the coffee table, looking at Ron’s diagram.

“I saw two men get out of the van on the left and get into the front seats of the van on the right.”

“What did they look like?”

“Big guys, easily over six feet. Big arms, shoulders, pretty defined,” Ron said, running his hands over his pecs and arms. “They’d done some weightlifting, I’d say, based on the way they carried themselves.”

“What did they look like?”

“Hard to say,” Ron said. “They wore baseball caps and sunglasses. I’d say black hair. They had darker complexions, maybe what looked like dark razor stubble.”

“That’s two men. Did you see anyone else?” Mac asked, looking up from the diagram.

“I didn’t.”

“Charlie’s told you what’s going on, right?” Mac asked. “You know about the kidnappings we’re working?”

“Yes.”

“So did you see these men transfer a girl between the vans?”

Ron shook his head. “I saw them moving something between the vans, but I couldn’t make out what it was. It happened very fast, and the vans were kind of angled away from me,” he said, pointing to the diagram. “I could tell they transferred something between the vans, something that took two people. But I couldn’t see what and, at that time, I didn’t know about the kidnappings, so I didn’t really have any context for it.”

“Are the two men the only people you saw?”

“Yes and no. There was someone who jumped from the one van to the other, but other than seeing the blur of him jumping, I didn’t see anything else. I only really saw the two I described to you.”

Mac shared a look with Lich. Ron was on the level. “Anything else?” Mac asked.

“Yeah,” Ron answered. “There was one other thing about the big guys.”

“Which is what?” Mac asked.

“Did you ever see Forrest Gump?”

“The movie?” Mac asked, puzzled. “‘Stupid is as stupid does.’ ‘Life’s like a box of chocolates.’”

Ron nodded.

“Sure, what about it?”

“Remember the part where Forrest finds out he has a son? Then he goes and sits down in front of the television with the little boy? The way they’re sitting exactly the same, tilting their heads to the left at the same time as they watch TV. You realize they’re father and son. Brothers do the same type of things.”

“So you’re saying…”

“If I didn’t know better, I think they might have been brothers.”

“Brothers?” Mac asked, interested.

“Yeah. The way they walked, the way they swung their arms, along with height and physical appearance. It was very much alike, very similar. And then, the kicker was that before they both got into the van, they each crooked or rolled their neck to the left, like a nervous tic.”

“Let me get this straight,” Lich said skeptically, “you got all this watching them for a couple of seconds?”

“I know I saw them for just a few seconds,” Ron answered, nodding, “but the neck roll, the gait, you know, it just… registered with me that they looked like brothers.”

“You think just brothers?” Mac asked, buying what Ron was selling. “How about this… could they be twins?”

Ron closed his eyes and stroked his bearded chin, trying to remember. “Maybe. It’s possible, I mean there were definite similarities between the two based on how they looked and walked. They were the same size. Complexion was the same.” He looked away for a few seconds and then nodded his head, “I think it’s entirely possible, but again, that’s based on just a few quick seconds.”

“So what happened after you saw them get into the van?”

“They pulled out and turned to their right, my left, went down the alley, and that’s the last I saw of them.”

“What did you do next?’

“I went back to eating my sandwich and then…”

“The van blew,” Lich said.

“That’s right,” Ron said, mimicking the explosion with his hands. “Then I hear sirens, so I bailed.”

“You what?”

“I bailed.”

“You fuckin’ bailed?” Mac was incredulous. “You see this and you fuckin’ bail?”

“There’s a reason for that,” Charlie interjected. “He has orders from me to avoid contact with the police at all costs.”

“Why?”

“It’s why I didn’t want Gerdtz and Subject here,” he answered. “Ron scouts for us. He’s unknown to my competition as well as the police. I want to keep it that way,” Charlie said. “I don’t want the authorities thinking I’m looking at moving into that area. I don’t want the police thinking I’m eyeing people up for a hit, because I’m not.”

“So why scout it?” Lich asked.

“I’m not interested in new territory. I am keenly interested in how they operate, what their strength is, what the quality of their shit is,” Charlie responded. “Minneapolis is rehabilitating Lake Street and the surrounding neighborhoods, pouring in tons of money, public and private. I mean, take a look at what they did to the old Sears building. It’s magnificent. Hell, I’ve got some money in the businesses going up. But with all that investment, the city will not stand for open drug-dealing down there. Those crews are eventually going to get pushed out. They gotta go somewhere, and every time turf gets shut down around the city, the guys who lose the turf come up to the north side and try to set up shop. I want to know what my people might be facing.”

“In other words, you want to know in advance who might need to be popped, eh?” Lich said bluntly. “I mean, we’re just talkin’ here, right?”

The drug lord shrugged his shoulders. “You don’t have to kill someone to make them go away,” Charlie said. “I prefer my people talk business without stickin’ a gun in someone’s face. I get a read on someone before they come up here, then my people will know what’s coming and how best to handle it. You end up with less trouble this way. There’s crews that have come up here, moved into my area, and after a little talk, have gone to work for me. There were others that,” Charlie shrugged, “didn’t make the cut.”

Mac nodded and gestured to the scout. “And Ron here let’s you know what you’ll be up against.”

“That’s right,” Ron said. He sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and lighting a cigar, talking as if Charlie’s place was his private office. “I spend a week or two roaming around, making some buys, sizing up the crews, evaluating how they operate, and getting a sense of how they’ll tool up if they moved here.”

“I get all that,” Mac answered. “But still, you see those two vans, one blows up and these kidnappings are all over the news and yet you don’t…”

“I didn’t know about the kidnappings,” Ron answered. “Not until tonight.”

“How is that possible?” Lich asked. “It’s been all over the news.”

“When I go undercover, I go undercover,” Ron replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m walking around twenty-four seven doing the junkie thing. I watch these crews until late into the night; sleep in a vacant house, under a bridge or overpass, looking all the part of a junkie. I’m not watching the news, reading a paper, monitoring the Internet. A junkie doesn’t do that, so I don’t. I’m a junkie when I’m scouting, the only difference being I don’t use what I buy.”

“No cell phone?” Lich asked.

“Nope,” Mac answered before Ron, knowing the answer. “Police could be listening to cell phones.”

“Correct,” Charlie added. “Cell phones and the drug business do not mix.”

“So how is it then,” Mac asked, “that Ron comes to us now?”

“I put word out after our meeting the other night for our people to keep their eyes open. Word went out face-to-face. It’s old fashioned I know, but safe. My guys are out driving around, talking to our crews and spreading the word that way. Because of that, word didn’t get to Ron until after dark tonight. And when it did, he immediately said he needed to see me. Once he told me what he’s just told you, I made the call.”

Mac looked at his watch, now 4:10 a.m., and yawned. The hours were catching up to him. He looked back at Ron, relaxing back in the chair, smoking his cigar. If it weren’t for the clothes, you’d think the only thing missing was a snifter of brandy.

“So Ron, where’d you go to school?”

Ron smiled. “I suppose I blew my cover, huh? I was in the Army out of high school. After I got out, I used the GI Bill to pay for college. I was a business major at Minnesota State—Mankato. After I graduated, I went to work for Charlie in his real estate business.”

“How’d you end up as a scout then?”

“I had the Army background, and Charlie asked me to put it to use. It’s a little dangerous, mind you, but kind of fun as well. Lets me feel like I’m working recon again.”

“You don’t have a problem with the drug trade?” Mac asked, interested.

“Maybe a little, but I get an adrenaline rush from doing it,” Ron said, and then smiled. “Plus, I get hazard pay for this, which is more than I get paid for real estate work.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I wonder what that is?”

Mac yawned and then put the cup of coffee to his mouth. He stared at the whiteboard, jotting down notes or questions every so often. He added the information they got from Fat Charlie’s in red.

Two men, large, over six feet, dark hair, and muscular. Brothers? Perhaps twins?

If they were twin brothers, that might make it a little easier. He ordered Hagen to figure that little nugget into his search criteria.

He glanced at his watch, 5:02 a.m. A quick glance out an east-facing window showed just a small cord of the sun peeking over the horizon.

The whiteboard was getting full. He had more pieces to work with now, although he still wasn’t sure what the puzzle really looked like. It was like you needed an answer key. Perhaps somewhere in all the paper and electronic data, they would find it.

“What are you thinking?” Sally asked, putting her arm lightly on his lower back.

“That if we can find just one solid piece, the dominos will fall. We just need one little thing,” he said optimistically. “One good name or a little connection between names and it will all come together.”

Of course, any optimism he felt dissipated when he turned around. The more they dug into the civil files of Lyman’s firm, the harder it all became. The sheer volume of what they were looking at would have been daunting if they had a week, let alone twelve hours. Class-action cases involved thousands of names, and that was just the plaintiffs. Then there were all of the witnesses, family members, and experts on Lyman’s side of the cases, not to mention the defendants, experts, and executives on the defense side. Then there were the sexual harassment, discrimination, and personal-injury type cases, with thousands more names involved. And it wasn’t enough just to have a name. This was Minnesota. By its very nature, any class-action case involved multiple Johnsons, Petersons, Andersons, Swansons, or Ericksons. Consequently, you needed a date of birth, address or addresses, occupations, social security numbers, and any other piece of information to specifically identify and ultimately find these people. To harvest the names, the attorneys, paralegals, and secretaries were going through the computer and paper files one by one. In the paper files alone, it required scanning the correspondence and pleadings, not to mention trying to speed-read two-hundred-page deposition transcripts for people not mentioned elsewhere in the correspondence or pleadings files. There was no analysis taking place. They were simply pulling names and entering them into a database that Hagen had created. If something popped on a name, they would then go deep into the file.

Hagen was talking to Scheifelbein at police headquarters, his head crooked sideways, cradling the phone as his fingers pounded at lightning speed across the keyboard. Scheifelbein was tapping into the various FBI Systems. Mac walked over to take a look, and Hagen pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Barry’s getting me access to the database you already have, plus Social Security, IRS, INS, NCIC, and even state and federal penal systems.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Mac said crossly, more worried about the appearance of a felon accessing social security numbers than of Hagen actually trying anything.

Hagen shot him a dirty look back. “I’m out of the can in six months. I’m not gonna fuck that up.” He turned back to the task at hand. “In about an hour, I’ll have this thing running so we can run every name we get through the system. If these guys have a connection to anyone on the chief’s list, we’ll find it.” The computer magician turned back to his monitor and frantically typed while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with Scheifelbein. Hagen looked like a pig in shit as he worked away, cigarette burning in an ashtray and three coffee cups littering his work area.

Mac walked back to the whiteboard. The phone call was coming at 6:00 p.m. so they had a little more than twelve hours. He worked the board over, making notations, drawing arrows between items, jotting down questions and theories, circling, checking, and underlining items. As he ran out of space, he used sticky notes, attaching them to the sides and then adding an easel for more space.

He put the markers down on the board’s tray and stood for ten minutes, his eyes fixed on the whiteboard, soaking in all the information and letting it marinate in his mind. Sooner or later it would all come into focus, or at least he kept telling himself that. If it didn’t they would have to rely on Burton’s plan when it came time to pay the ransom.

He was deep in thought when a voice bellowed from the hallway. “Mac!”

He turned to see Summer Plantagenate rushing into the room, pointing her cell phone at him, an agitated look on her face.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s the off-site storage,” the willowy blonde replied. “We’re having some issues with access.”

“What?” Mac replied exasperated. “Why? I mean, don’t you have a pass code or something? Aren’t those places on a key-coded system?”

“We do and it is. The issue is that the security guy working won’t let anymore than one person to get back to the files,” Summer answered, shaking her head. “At that rate…”

“…We’ll be screwed,” Mac finished.

“Can we get a hold of the owner, a supervisor, something like that?”

“During normal business hours perhaps, but we’re not yet to normal work hours and on top of that it’s a holiday.”

“How about getting a home number?”

“Our people asked. The guard wasn’t helpful.”

“Where the heck is this place?”

“Highway 36 up in North St. Paul. Our people are up there waiting, wondering what to do.”

“Tell them to stay there, I’ll take care of it,” Mac replied, grabbing his holster off the conference table.

“How?”

“I’ll figure it out when I get there. It might involve my gun.” He stormed out of the conference room and flipped open his cell phone.

• • • • •

Smith was up at the crack of dawn, placing a call to Burton, who reported that there was nothing new from overnight. The police were still parked at the safe house, but otherwise, all was quiet.

He looked back at the tent, thinking he probably should still be sleeping, since the day was going to be long. But it wasn’t possible. He’d waited fifteen years for this day. So he left Monica to sleep. Dean and David were asleep in a separate tent, fifty feet away.

He grabbed three logs and put them in a tepee formation, crunched up some newspaper and started a camp fire. Reaching inside a knapsack, he pulled out a small stainless steel coffee pot, coffee, and bottled water. He loaded it up and set it on the fire. The coffee and water slowly started to percolate.

Sitting in a blue canvas lawn chair, Smith took in the humid Fourth of July morning, the sun rising up behind him, lighting the trees and cliffs on the west side of the river. Along the far side of the river, two men trolled in a fishing boat, up early hoping to hook a lunker.

The campsite was on a small patch of sandy, low-lying shore, surrounded by a thick forest of trees and brush. Cliffs and steep bluffs rose at alternating heights well above the beach as far as you could see in either direction. The boat sat moored in the water, the bow fifty feet out from shore with two anchors securing it. The body of the St. Croix River flowed two hundred yards in the distance.

Dean and David would take the boat later in the morning and move down to the slip in Hudson. Smith and Monica would be on the road by 9:00 a.m. and into St. Paul by noon. The action would start at 6:00 p.m. Hopefully it would be over by 10:00 p.m. By sunrise tomorrow, they’d be driving east through Ontario on their way to Nova Scotia and, from there, they were on a boat heading for the Caribbean.

The coffee was ready, and Smith poured himself a cup. Rustling to his left told him that David was up, and the smell of coffee drew the big man over. He poured a quick cup and took a sip.

“That hits the spot.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Smith asked.

“I slept enough.” David took another drink. “Any word from Burton?”

“I called him just a bit ago. Things are quiet. Police are sitting on the safe house, but there’s nothing new going on in their investigation. It’s in a holding pattern.”

• • • • •

Jupiter Jones yawned as he walked back into the room, a hot cup of coffee in one hand and a full coffee pot in the other. He sat back down and stared at the large computer monitor. Shawn McRyan had crashed out on the sofa for a couple of hours, but he was starting to stir now thanks to the aroma of fresh coffee.

Throughout the night, Jupe watched the video from the kidnappers over and over, looking for anything that might give them a read on the kidnappers or where the girls were buried. His perceptive eyes had failed him thus far.

Right now he was running the video in slow motion through the section of the film with the girls and materials being removed from the back of the van. At this point, he was breaking the video down by the second. Taking the full screen, he split it into quarters and then enlarged each quarter, looking for the tiniest detail.

Shawn stumbled to the coffee, pouring a cup. He yawned and scratched the back of his head. “Nothing, I take it?”

“Bupkus.” Jupe maneuvered the mouse and started in the upper left corner, enlarging it and scanning it. Now the plan was that if something drew his interest, he would break down the quarter into four more quarters and so on and so on. If need be, he could take a frame, run it through a different piece of software and enlarge an object that looked like a speck of dust on the regular monitor.

Jupiter scanned the enlarged quarter, running the video forward a second at a time. Shawn pulled a chair back up next to him and watched as well. The two viewed the upper left-hand corner for five minutes, but nothing jumped out at them.

“Let’s go to the upper right,” Jupe said, clicking and hitting play. The video displayed the back of the head of one of the kidnappers, who was wearing what looked like a wool ski mask. The kidnapper was leaning down to pick up a piece of PVC piping, then turning to his right, with his back to the camera, he took the piece out of the van.

“Hmmm,” Jupe murmured. He ran it back and forth, frame by frame, again and again and then stopped. “Look at that.”

“What?” Shawn asked.

“Look, as he turns right with the pipe,” Jupe said. “He turns to his right and takes it out of the van.”

“Yeah, and?”

Jones rewound a couple of frames, and then pushed play again. The kidnapper leaned down, picked up the pipe, and turned right. The pipe passed the rear window. “Right there,” Jupe pointed. “Look at that reflection in the rear window. Something is sticking out of the top of the pipe. It’s only there for an instant but I think we might have a receipt.” He ran the video back a few frames and started it again.

“I think you’re right,” Shawn said as he looked closer at the screen. “It’s a little fuzzy, and it looks like maybe only part is sticking out of it.”

“Yeah it’s fuzzy, but I have just the thing that will allow us to get more out of this,” Jupe answered, moving the mouse around again, this time opening up a new program.

• • • • •

Mac pulled up to Old Files to find four people and a North St. Paul squad car parked and waiting. Two cops leaned against the cruiser. Mac jumped out and introduced himself to the patrolmen, a younger one named Ball and an older one named Woodcock.

“Have you been inside yet?” Mac asked.

“No. We were waiting on you,” Ball answered.

“It’s my understanding that this guy is being inflexible. I also don’t have a search warrant. I may need you to back me when I get in this guy’s grill.”

“This relates to the Flanagan thing?” Woodcock asked.

“It does.”

“Our chief said we extend whatever assistance you need. We’ll back your play, whatever it is.”

“Let’s go then.”

The group walked inside to find the security guard waiting at the front desk. Mac showed his shield. “We need to get more people back to the storage area.”

“This is North St. Paul, not St. Paul,” the guard answered with attitude. “You don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Fine. As you can see, these two officers here are North St. Paul Police.”

“We’d like you to give access to Detective McRyan and the rest of his crew here. They need access regarding an important investigation.”

“Does he have a search warrant?”

“He does not,” Woodcock replied. “Nevertheless, he and the rest of these folks need to get back there.”

“Can’t do it,” the guard replied. “Against the rules. Only one person can be back there at a time. You get a search warrant and I’ll comply.”

Mac blew up.

“Listen, shithead. We don’t have time for that. I and these other people will be going back there whether you like it or not. You stand in my way, you’re going to end up in handcuffs.”

The guard looked to the North St. Paul officers. “Are you going to let him get away with this?”

“Yes,” Woodcock answered plainly. “I’d suggest you let the man pass.”

Mac walked by the front desk, waving the others to follow, which they did.

“Where are we going, by the way?” Mac asked, now that he was past the front desk.

“The storage rooms you need are fifty-eight through sixty in the way back,” an attorney named Neumann replied.

“There are three rooms?”

“Yeah.”

“Cripes,” Mac groaned.

“What can I say,” Neumann said, shrugging his shoulders. “Lyman’s had a lot of work over the years.”

The storage rooms themselves were ten feet wide, fifteen or so feet deep. Each room contained a wall of white boxes. Lyman Hisle had practiced law for over thirty years, and at least the first twenty to twenty-five years of practice records waited here.

Mac looked at the four people from Hisle’s firm and suddenly felt like Chief Brody in Jaws. Except that, instead of saying, “You’re going to need a bigger boat,” he was thinking, “We’re going to need a bigger crew.” He looked to Neumann. “How many more people can you get down here?”

“Let me call Summer. I bet she’ll be able to get us more people,” he replied.

“Do that,” Mac answered and then opened his own cell phone and dialed. It was early, but the voice he was looking for answered on the second ring. “Shamus, I need you to get as many old hands as possible over to Old Files on Highway 36.”

“More cops?” Neumann asked Mac, a concerned look on his face.

“Retired ones.”

“I don’t know about that,” the lawyer started. “There’s privileged information in there…”

Mac cut him off. “There’s no time to argue about this. They’re not going to do anything other than help. They’re retired detectives. They’ll know what’s important.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“We’ve got eight hours.”

Carrie awoke and lifted her head, only to hit the roof on the box. Reality immediately set back in. She turned on the flashlight and shined it on her watch: 8:03 a.m. They’d been in the box for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-six hours now. No water or food for all that time, if not more, and Carrie could feel the weakness in her body, the dryness in her mouth as she moved her tongue around, trying to moisten things. She turned the light to Shannon, who started to stir. Shannon looked weak and groggy. Carrie shook her arm to bring her back.

“Shannon, wake up, honey.”

Shannon didn’t move right away. Carrie shook her arm harder.

“Shannon, wake up! Wake up, honey!”

Shannon slowly started to awaken. “Where are we?” she said weakly.

Carrie turned on the flashlight and shined it around the box. Shannon was groggy, but her eyes opened wider and looked around and she started to realize and remember where she was at. She rubbed her eyes.

“Wake up, sunshine.”

Shannon managed a weak smile and whispered. “Nice try.”

“Hey, I always try to operate as if the glass is half-full,” Carrie answered, rubbing Shannon’s arms.

“Then you must be the most optimistic person to walk the earth,” Shannon retorted, more awake now.

“We’re still alive,” Carrie proclaimed. “And as long as we’re alive, we’ve got hope.”

“They better come soon then,” Shannon responded.

Carrie held the light closer to Hisle. “Getting worse?”

Shannon nodded as she pulled her legs up to her chest. “I don’t know how long I can go on like this.”

Carrie knew that Shannon needed to stay awake. “Tell me about your diabetes.”

“What do you want to know?” Shannon asked weakly.

“Tell me everything you can. We’ve got time to pass. Nobody in my family has ever had diabetes. I think I had one friend who had it, but it didn’t seem like too big of a deal. My sense is that you have a worse kind.”

“I probably do,” Hisle replied. “There are two types of diabetes, type 1 and 2.”

“Is one worse than the other?”

“Yes. Type 2 is the most common form, and most people who have diabetes have it.”

“If you have type 2, what happens?”

“With type 2, your body produces some insulin, but either it isn’t enough or the body doesn’t recognize the insulin and doesn’t use it right. Over time, if the body doesn’t have enough insulin or doesn’t use insulin properly, then glucose…”

“Sugar?”

“Right. When the body doesn’t use the insulin properly, glucose can’t get into the body’s cells and instead builds up in the blood. If that happens for long enough, the cells won’t function properly. Over time, if not taken care of, a person will get dehydrated and fatigued, and you can be more prone to infection. This could take weeks or months before those problems will manifest themselves. Sometimes people go a long time without even knowing they have that kind of diabetes.”

“That’s probably what my friend had then,” Carrie said.

“Probably,” Shannon answered, but then got quiet, “That’s not the kind I have.”

“You have type 1 then?”

Shannon nodded.

“What makes type 1 worse?”

“With type 1, my immune system has destroyed my insulin-producing cells in my pancreas so that my body doesn’t have the insulin hormone. That means glucose won’t move into my cells and instead, it builds up in my blood and I get high blood glucose.”

“So you need to inject insulin then, right?”

“Yes. I need to take insulin. Like I mentioned before, I take, or I should take, insulin every time I eat.”

“How long have you had type 1?”

“About five years. Generally, I’m really good about taking my insulin, but there are times where I’ve forgotten to bring it with me and of course the time I didn’t take it intentionally for a few days and got really sick. I’ve been thinking of going on an insulin pump but I didn’t like the idea of having this little machine attached to my body all day. However, right now I’m really wishing I’d gone to the pump.”

“If your body starts to get out of whack what will happen?”

“My body will start to break down. Eventually, I’ll get confused and start to shake. I’ll probably have issues breathing, rapid breathing.”

“And maybe lose consciousness?”

“At some point,” Shannon said, her voice down to a whisper, “if it gets really bad, I could go into a coma.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Let’s just try to keep talking. The longer I can stay conscious the better.”

• • • • •

The review of documents at the off-site storage was slow and plodding. It wasn’t that people weren’t trying or they didn’t have enough people. They were and they did as Shamus brought the cavalry. It was simply a slow process. While there was a portable Wi-Fi point set up, the work took a lot of manual labor just to get the information into a place where it could be used. The group had to work through the archived files, pulling out the red-ropes, digging through pleadings, correspondence, memorandums, and depositions to find names and other key data. It was a massive and manic excavation of information.

Once the group mined the data out of the files, the information was placed, via laptop and over the Internet, into a program that Hagen had quickly created over at Hisle’s office. The program was cross-referenced into the police and FBI databases that had been created for purposes of cross-referencing Hisle’s and Flanagan’s work on criminal matters. Hagen was now cross-referencing the information the group was finding with those FBI and police databases. Scheifelbein was doing his best to mask it at HQ and to keep the Feds from noticing.

Mac immediately recognized how difficult the process would be. He immediately arranged for the Wi-Fi hookup and organized the operation as best he could. He had people work in teams, matching an attorney from Lyman’s firm with groups of the retired cops. The groups worked through the documents, the lawyers explaining where the parties, families, and witnesses could be found in the various legal documents. The cops would read through the information and determine what to enter into Hagen’s program.

Riley called Mac from Lyman’s office to report that nothing had turned up as of yet, not even a nibble. He was sounding skeptical. “I don’t know, Mac, we’re not finding anything. How much you got left?”

“We’ve just started out here,” Mac answered. “We’re maybe fifteen to twenty percent into the files. It’ll take a while to get through it. There are hundreds of boxes in these three storage units. I mean, if you have a better idea I’m all ears.”

Riles sighed. “I don’t. It’s just that the clock is ticking.”

“I hear ya,” Mac answered as he looked out a window. The sun was now bright in the sky, and a look at his watch told him it was 9:56 a.m. “We’ve got eight hours. Something will pop.” He didn’t know if that was confidence or hope, but he didn’t have a choice. They had started down this path, and they had to see it through. “What’s going on at HQ?”

“Nothing like what we’re doing,” Riles answered. “Burton seems focused on the ransom and preparing for the phone call. Although…”

“What?”

“He did ask Peters about what we were doing.”

“What did the captain say?”

“He covered. Said we were on the safe house still. Peters thought it might be a good idea for us to make an appearance.”

“I hate to break away from this.”

“It’s what cell phones are for. Burton has called a meeting for eleven thirty. Peters said we should be there. We keep doing what we’re doing, but…”

“We keep people from wondering where we are.”

• • • • •

While Shawn McRyan watched anxiously, Jupiter Jones opened a computer program he developed to get as much out of pictures as possible. He set it to enhance the best frame of the reflection in the van’s rear window. The program worked slowly, but soon a new window popped up on the screen.

“Is it done?” Shawn asked.

“Let’s look.” Jupiter scrolled over the part of the picture with the reflection. The enhancement revealed a white receipt. On the screen, the label ran lower right to upper left and you could make out three letters reflected backward in the glass.

“So we have an H, then a small a and n,” Shawn said.

“And part of another letter,” Jupe added, pointing to a straight vertical line. “What has a straight line, lower case letters?”

Shawn grabbed a scratch pad, quickly writing down the alphabet, “We got b, h, k, l, or t.”

“What about d?”

“I don’t think so,” Shawn replied shaking his head and pointing to the screen at the gap between the n and the next letter. “The gap between the n and the next letter isn’t wide enough for a d, so it has to be one of the other letters.”

“Okay, so we have the PVC pipe, which is manufactured by Ampipe,” Jupiter said. “Now we have part of a receipt that’s likely from the store where they bought it.”

“Maybe,” Shawn said. “They could have taken this out of the scrap heap for all we know.”

“I doubt it,” Jupe answered. “The pipe looks newer. There aren’t scratches and the white color is bright, not yellowed or dirty. And we have a receipt sticking out of it. That wouldn’t be the case if you pulled it out of the scrap heap.”

“You could be right,” Shawn remarked, putting his face closer to the screen.

“Well, one way to find out is to see if we can get a hold of someone at this manufacturer and see who sells this stuff in Minnesota,” Jupiter answered, printing off a copy of the picture. “I’ve taken it this far. We need Mac or someone else to get us to that manufacturer.”

Shawn sighed. “And today is a holiday.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s up to something.”

11:03 a.m.

Heather Foxx looked in her compact mirror, finishing a last bit of work on her eyelashes in the cool air-conditioning of her television truck. She turned and looked through the windshield. Things were starting to percolate around the police department. In these times of a twenty-four-hour news cycle, the story had gone national quickly, especially since it was the Fourth of July. All the heavy hitters were hanging around—FOX, CNN, MSNBC, and the networks. Rather than simply doing puff pieces about parades and fireworks, there was hard news to cover.

Given the potential exposure, Heather went back to her compact to check her makeup again. She wanted things perfect. You never knew who might be watching. As she applied just a touch more lipstick, her thoughts turned back to last night. What had Burton been doing? It could have been an old friend, a late night beer and a chance to reconnect, but that didn’t feel right. The conversation hadn’t seemed confrontational, but it didn’t appear overly friendly either, not like two old buddies sharing a beer and swapping stores. It looked like a colder conversation, a business one. Could it be someone involved with the investigation? Perhaps, but then why meet up in Forest Lake? Why not at the hotel or somewhere closer in town? Why drive miles out to a far-flung suburb? It was odd.

And what exactly should she be doing with this information? She didn’t share it with anyone. What was there to share, after all? John Burton had a conversation in a bar with another man: alert the media.

She could ask Burton about it, although he’d proven a difficult person to reach, keeping himself in the background and allowing the local FBI office and St. Paul Police to be front-and-center. She’d thought of approaching him in the bar. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done something like that. For some reason, she held back. Intuition, instinct, whatever it was, told her not to do it. The whole event was strange, but without any context, it didn’t seem to mean much. But it did give her an idea.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Gail Carlson, a veteran reporter who used to work the investigative beat, but now worked general reporting. She was at the station today, but not covering anything.

“Carlson.”

“Foxx. I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Monitor the police band up in the Forest Lake area today.”

“Forest Lake, honey? Not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

“I know, I know. But all the same, monitor the jurisdictions up there, Forest Lake, Chisago, maybe Wyoming.”

“What am I listening for?”

Heather explained. She wanted Carlson listening for anything about the bureau or St. Paul Police poking around the area.

“Heather, what do you got?” Carlson asked, suspiciously.

“Just a hunch.”

Heather’s cameraman stuck his head inside the truck. “The scuttlebutt says there’s going to be a big powwow here soon: FBI, police, and so forth, and then a press briefing at noon.”

“We best get out there then,” Heather replied, quickly signing off with Carlson. She stepped outside into the blazing heat, already ninety-three degrees. She decided that her suit coat was a no-go and jettisoned it. Besides, the collar of her white, V-neck silk blouse plunged just enough to give a tiny hint of cleavage, which she knew would draw the attention she wanted.

“What do you think they’ll be talking about in there?” the cameraman asked.

“Word is there’s a call coming later today on the ransom. I haven’t been able to find out if there is a set time, or if they’re just sitting around waiting for it,” Foxx answered as they joined the gathering horde of media at the front of the police department. “There doesn’t seem to be much going on from an investigative standpoint.”

“You think that’s unusual?”

“I’m not a cop, but I do think so,” Foxx answered. She watched as Mac McRyan pulled into the lot in his Explorer. His partner wasn’t with him, which was a bit unusual. “I can’t imagine Mac McRyan sitting around and waiting,” she said. “That’s not his style.”

McRyan, rather than parking to the side and trying to avoid the media, approached the front of the building. This was rather peculiar as well, Heather thought. Despite his friendly little news tip on Wiskowski yesterday, McRyan loathed television reporters. He generally did everything he could to avoid them. Today he looked relaxed, almost cheerful. As he passed her he gave her a “Hiya, Heather,” and smiled. As he walked through the media crowd he was pleasant in saying, “No comment” and “I’m sure the department or bureau will have something to say shortly.”

“Now that’s odd,” Heather remarked out loud as the doors closed behind McRyan.

“What?” the cameraman asked.

“McRyan just now.”

“What about him?”

“He was friendly, casual, relaxed—as if he wanted to be on camera. Heck, he gave me a wink, a smile, and a hello. That never happens.”

“Heather,” the cameraman answered, smiling, “come on. Any man smiling at you, even Mac McRyan, is not unusual.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she answered, waving him off, but then looked him in the eye. “But it is for Mac McRyan. He thinks most of us are parasites.”

The cameraman shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bite. What does it mean then?”

Heather bit her lip and thought for a minute. “Friendly, casual, relaxed,” she said, tapping her index finger on her lips. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s up to something.”

• • • • •

Mac stepped inside the building and stopped, letting the refreshing blast of the air-conditioning wash over him. He found Riley, Rock, and Lich drinking coffee and waiting, and they all slipped into an interview room and closed the door.

“Anything from down at the firm?” Mac asked.

“Nothing helpful yet,” Riles answered, and then smiled. “But Hagen has them all working their asses off.”

“And,” Lich added, “whatever he’s doing works, I think. He’s got this program running, and whenever a name matches between the chief’s list and Lyman’s clients, it lets you know. At this point, what it’s finding is common last names like Johnson, Anderson, Peterson or Swanson. Now, a lot of them are eliminated because first names don’t ultimately match, or maybe a middle name eliminates them. In a couple of cases where there has been some sort of match, we’ve taken a look and eliminated them quickly. They weren’t even worth a phone call or interview. It was obvious there was nothing there.”

“So,” Mac said, “if there’s a connection to be found…”

“This program Hagen has running should find it.”

Peters knocked on the door and then entered. “Anything?”

“Not yet,” they replied in unison.

“Well, come with me. Burton’s about ready to start the show.”

They all started to file out, but Mac stopped them. “Scan the room,” he said quietly. “If we’re right, and somebody is working this from the inside, that person is likely in the room. I don’t know what to look for, but look.”

Everyone nodded and they walked down the hall and into the overflowing meeting room. Burton saw them walk in and immediately approached.

“Have you been back on the safe house?” he asked, looking at Mac and then to the others.

“Yup,” Mac answered neutrally. “They haven’t come back yet, obviously, but we think it’s still worth watching.”

Burton looked to the others, who nodded.

“All right then. Stay on it, at least for this afternoon. However, if they don’t come back to the house, we will need you guys when the ransom call comes in.”

The group agreed. Burton headed up to the front of the room. Mac and the others found space along a side wall and stood as Burton began to speak. Conspicuously seated at the front of the room, the chief and Lyman watched as Burton called the room to order. The chief in particular looked to Mac, giving a small nod that Mac returned.

Burton began with a recap of where the investigation stood, which was really nowhere, other than the safe house, which was looking deader by the minute.

“We have a crew sitting on the house right now. I’ve spoken with Detectives Riley and McRyan, and they are of the opinion that the house should remain under surveillance. I concur, and so we will continue to monitor that situation.”

“Has anything come of the video release?” a voice asked.

“No,” Burton replied. “I’m a little surprised frankly. It’s been played every half hour since yesterday, and we’ve gotten nothing.”

“How about anything from the video itself? Anything to help us?”

“Again, we’ve found nothing,” Burton replied. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to pull anything off it that is useful.” Burton transitioned to the ransom. “As you know, the ransom demand is for five million.” Burton explained the details of the demand.

“Do we know when the ransom call is coming?” another cop asked.

“Six o’clock p.m.,” Burton replied. “We expect that we’ll receive drop instructions at that time. We’ll need to move quickly.”

“How’s the drop going to be completed?” Double Frank asked.

“We don’t know,” Burton answered honestly. “We’re getting a call at 6:00, and it’ll be the kidnappers’ show at that point.”

“So what are we doing?” Mac asked. He wanted to be free for the afternoon, but at the same time, wanted to assess the preparedness of Burton and the bureau.

“Good question,” Riles said in his ear.

“Let there be no doubt, we’ll be ready,” Burton said. “We don’t know what they’re going to do, that’s true, but we will have massive resources at our disposal when it comes time to pay the ransom. They’ve demanded five million in cash. That’s a lot of money, and it doesn’t come in a small package. It’s sizable. It will fill two large duffel bags. In other words, we should be able to track it. We have plenty of bodies. We’ll have birds in the air. We’ll put a tracker in the money bag. As you’ve noted a couple of times, Detective McRyan, the kidnappers are sharp, well prepared, and precise in their planning. That suggests to me that we’re looking at a money drop. They will have to expose themselves to get the money, and that’s when we’ll have our chance to pounce.”

“Just like that, huh?” Double Frank snorted skeptically.

“It’s never just like that,” Burton replied evenly. “All I’m saying is that if something doesn’t break between now and then, our best chance to get them is when they go for the money. That’s when they’ll come out of hiding. They have to.”

“We don’t know when or where the drop will be?” Mac asked. “And let’s be honest, we don’t know for sure there will be a drop, you’re just getting a phone call at six, right?” Burton nodded, and Mac noted the chief’s piercing gaze as he spoke. “They could throw you a curve.”

“I’m sure they’ll try to. All I can say is we’ll be as ready as we can be, Mac,” Burton replied, nonplussed by the hard questioning. “I understand the concerns of everyone in this room. I share them. I’d like to know more, a lot more, about whom and what we’re up against. But we are where we are.”

“What about the girls?” someone asked.

“We don’t know for sure,” Burton replied. “This is a kidnapping, and we have a ransom demand. We catch the kidnappers at the drop, and we’ll find out where the girls are.”

“You hope,” a voice from the group said.

“I think I’m right. These guys won’t want a murder rap. They’ll look to start cutting years and making deals. If we handle the drop right, if we get them there, then we stand a chance to get the girls.”

Mac wasn’t so confident, but didn’t want to say so with the chief present. In his mind, there was more than a payday in play. Burton was planning as though it was just about the money, as if it was a simple exchange of dollars for the girls and that didn’t feel right. If it was just about money, the ransom demand would be for more. This was about more than money. It was about retribution, and the chief, Lyman, and everyone else was about to be led right into something a lot uglier than a payoff.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“What connects him with Hisle?”

12:03 p.m.

Shamus McRyan knelt down to tie closed a white box labeled Hammond et al. v. Easy Flow Systems, a class-action case, and reached for the next box. Shamus was in a row of files that covered the early to mid-1990s.

“This search lead to anything yet?” inquired Percy Wallace, a rotund, black retired detective who was one of Shamus’s golfing buddies. Percy was supposed to be working the first tee as a starter at Highland National Golf Club. Instead, Shamus recruited him down to the storage garage.

“Not yet,” Shamus answered.

“Man, how many boxes we been through?”

“I stopped counting after twenty, and that was a while ago,” Shamus replied.

“So, what do we have here?” Percy asked, pushing the sleeves up on his golf pullover.

“Looks like Erickson v. TOM Trucking, 1994.” Shamus grunted as he moved the box and opened it up. Wallace grabbed a red-rope folder marked “Pleadings Vol. 1” and started scanning for information. Shamus grabbed another red-rope that contained deposition transcripts along with the correspondence file, which he flipped open to read the summary of the case. He found that reading the small summaries helped him understand the information he was looking at. The one paragraph summary on a now-faded green piece of paper indicated that Erickson v. TOM Trucking was a sexual harassment case brought by Barb Erickson and three other women against the owner of the trucking company, Thomas Oliver Mueller, hence TOM Trucking. A notation at the bottom of the summary noted the file was closed in 1994 after Lyman obtained a verdict of $3.4 million. Shamus smirked. Just another cool million for Lyman Hisle.

Wallace noticed Shamus reading the summary and asked, “What’s that sheet say?”

“Sexual harassment,” Shamus answered. “Appears the owner of the company liked to fondle the hired help.”

Just then Henry Brown, the Brown in Hisle & Brown, walked up. Summer had called him in to help supervise. He noted the name on the case and said, “I remember that one. I couldn’t believe that verdict.”

“Why’s that?” Wallace asked, looking up from the pleadings.

“Mediocre facts,” Brown answered. “Lyman offered to settle the case for a couple hundred thousand early on, but Mueller refused.”

“So they ended up at trial, then?” Shamus asked.

“Yeah, and Lyman did an absolute number on Mueller at trial. The jury came back and nailed him but good. I think the verdict eventually put Mueller out of business. His insurance didn’t cover harassment, and he had to pay the verdict out of his back pocket. For a little trucking company, $3.4 million is hard to swallow,” Brown said. He moved on to check on the next group.

Shamus grabbed the deposition transcript for Thomas Mueller and found the personal information for Mueller and his family. He looked to a young attorney from Hisle’s office named Ramler who’d come to help and was sitting at a laptop.

“Dougie, you ready?”

“Yes sir,” Ramler answered, his fingers at the ready.

“Good. I’ve got a Thomas Oliver Mueller…”

• • • • •

Peters ushered Mac and the boys into a small, windowless interview room. After a minute, the chief joined them. He was sleep-deprived and ill-looking, with large dark bags under his eyes. But his bright blue eyes were alert as ever, and he cut to the chase.

“What are you boys up to?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Mac replied.

The chief looked at Mac squarely. “I know you,” he said, and then pointed at the rest of the group. “I know all of you. Burton’s setting up for the ransom and has everyone waiting it out. They’ve run all the criminal connections between Lyman and me and crapped out, he says. The only possible lead is this safe house that we got a tip on yesterday. He says you guys have been sitting on that house for seventeen hours or something like that. You four? Sitting on a house for seventeen hours? I don’t buy it. That’s not your style, just sittin’ around and waitin’. So while we were in there, I was watching you,” he pointed at Mac. “I was watching all of you. Mac’s standing there, checkin’ his watch every two minutes. The rest of you are all looking around the room as if you’re looking for someone or something. And your body language says you’re not buying what Burton is sellin’. So what are you up to?”

Mac didn’t want to burden the chief further—the man was under enough stress as it was. But the jig was up. Mac glanced over to Peters, who nodded.

“We haven’t been laying back, Chief.”

“But whatever it is you boys are up to, nobody else in that room has a clue, do they?” the chief asked.

“They do not.”

“Why not? And I better not find out that this is some sort of fuckin’ pissin’ match.”

“It’s not,” Mac answered and then put all the cards on the table. “We’re worried the kidnappers have someone on the inside.”

“What?” the chief replied, stunned. “How did you reach that conclusion? How do you know this? Who is it? Is it one of our people, the FBI, who?”

“We don’t know,” Riley answered. “But all of us think someone is a source for these assholes.”

The chief was flabbergasted. He paced around the room, pinching the bridge of his nose and then sighed. “Tell me what you boys are thinking.”

“You better start from the beginning, Mac,” Peters suggested.

Mac started, “Chief, these guys have been ahead of us from the start.” He laid out what they knew about the two kidnappings, the woman working the inside, the calculated dropping and blowing of the vans, the setting-up of Drew Wiskowski, and the fact that the criminal-case connections between the chief and Lyman weren’t panning out. “These guys left next to nothing behind,” Mac said. “Then, at the safe house, after we searched it, we were sitting on it, watching from across the street.”

“That’s when things might have changed, Chief,” Riles added.

“How so?”

“Pat and I were talking to the owner of the house and his wife, and we start talking about when the kidnappers left the safe house.”

“So?”

“It was within minutes of his call. And then we talked about how the vans left in a hurry. Mrs. Hall said, and I quote, ‘they ripped out of there.’”

“That triggered all sorts of alarm bells,” Riley added. “We started thinking that maybe they got a tip.”

“That’s a pretty big stretch,” the chief replied, skeptical. “And you didn’t find anything in the house, did you? No forensic evidence, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Lich answered, explaining the chipped paint on the basement beds. “It’s thin, but we think it was a safe house, the place these guys were operating out of.”

“And forensics is telling us that the house was cleaned at least twice in the days before we went in.”

“Still, how can you know they were tipped off?”

“Other than the timing of when they left and how, we don’t,” Mac answered honestly. “My gut tells me something wasn’t right about it. And if they weren’t tipped off, why not come back?”

The chief nodded at that.

Mac continued, “We know that’s a little thin, but… I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”

“So what have you been doing to look into that?”

“Before I get to that, there’s one other thing that occurred to us last night,” Mac added. “We looked at all the connections for Lyman’s criminal cases to you, but one thing we weren’t looking at was Lyman’s civil cases.” He quickly related the story about the attorney getting chased with an axe in Minneapolis the day before. “We’ve looked at the obvious connections on the criminal side, so now we’re looking at Lyman’s civil cases. If someone is pissed enough to go after an attorney with an axe, why not do what the kidnappers are doing here?”

“So what are you doing?”

“We have people down at Lyman’s office and at an off-site storage unit looking through the civil cases, the harassment, discrimination, and class-action stuff.”

“There are thousands of names,” Riles added. “Plus Hagen…”

• • • • •

Hagen lorded over his computer, monitoring the program, swiveling back and forth in his chair, twirling a pen through his fingers when his monitor beeped at him with a hit. He sat up and clicked on the search result, which showed connections between a Smith Brown on the chief’s list and a David Mueller, the son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, a defendant in one of Hisle’s sexual harassment cases.

Sally noticed Hagen peering closely at the computer and walked over. “What do you have?”

“Connection of some kind,” Hagen answered, running his cursor over the screen, clicking on and reading various links. “Smith Brown, who was…” Hagen looked away from the computer to a binder-clipped packet of papers, flipping through it until he found Smith’s name, “…a DEA agent that Chief Flanagan put in prison fifteen or sixteen years ago, and a David Mueller, who occupied the neighboring cell at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.”

“Who’s Mueller?”

The computer whiz scrolled down the screen and whistled, “Son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, who Hisle sued back in the early ‘90s. It must have been a good case, because Hisle got himself a $3.4 million verdict.”

“Where are these guys now?”

Hagen clicked through several programs and brought up the federal prison system records, accessing the records for Leavenworth. After a minute he found the records, and they both whistled. “Brown finished his sentence six months ago, and Mueller has been out for nine months.”

“What are their current addresses?” Sally asked, pulling up a chair and grabbing a notepad.

“Brown has one in Chicago, and Mueller,” Hagen clicked on a different link, “Mueller has an address in Osseo.” Osseo was a small northwestern suburb of Minneapolis. “Is this worth a look?” Hagen asked, turning his gaze to Sally, who was furiously jotting notes down on a legal pad.

“Keep digging and I’ll ask Mac,” she said as she took out her cell phone.

• • • • •

“You have Hagen in this?” the chief asked. “How’d you swing that?”

Riles shrugged. “Warden at the workhouse is a friend of mine. All I had to mention was this involved you, and it wasn’t a problem. Anyway, Hagen’s got this computer program set up and is cross-referencing your list with Lyman’s. So if there’s a connection to be made, he’ll find it.”

Mac’s cell phone went off and he looked at the caller ID. “It’s Sally,” he said as he stepped into the hallway to take the call.

“So how many people are in on this?” the chief asked.

Riles chuckled. “Mac had Shamus call the cavalry. He recruited a whole boatload of retired guys to this off-site storage place. They’re out there, going through boxes of Hisle’s old files. They’re using laptops and putting what they find into this program that Hagen created. Apparently, the program is constantly searching the records for a match.”

“What’s he searching?”

“Social Security, IRS, INS, NCIC, federal and state prison systems, maybe more. Whatever we could access here, Hagen is accessing from the firm.”

“Here’s where you might have to provide some cover, Chief,” Peters added. “Our guy Scheifelbein has been providing Hagen access to this information and masking the access, hiding it from everyone else, so he might need a little chief-like protection if and when this comes to light.”

“Done,” the chief replied.

Peters nodded. Then Mac burst back into the room and looked to the chief. “Do you recall a guy you put away named Smith Brown?”

The chief looked down in thought for a moment and then looked up. “Yeah. DEA agent. That’s years ago, fifteen or twenty. He was holding back bricks of coke from busts here and putting it on the street. He had some gambling debts or something like that. I pinched a bookie, who fed me Brown for a reduction in his sentence, as I recall. It was at one of those times when drug enforcement was big with the first Bush administration and the US attorney wanted to make a statement.”

“And you were heavily involved, right?”

“I busted him. You know how I feel about dirty cops.”

“So what do they have?” Lich asked. “What connects him with Hisle?”

“He was in a cell next to a guy named David Mueller, who was also in the pen for a federal drug charge,” Mac answered, reading from his notepad. “David Mueller was the son of Thomas Mueller. Thomas Mueller owned a trucking company that Lyman sued for sexual harassment. Lyman hit the jackpot with a $3.4 million verdict from a jury.”

“That’ll piss a guy off,” Lich said.

“Well, Thomas Mueller can’t be pissed anymore,” Mac said. “He committed suicide within a year or two of the verdict. The case killed his business. His wife left him, and his two sons were in prison for drug dealing, apparently trying to make money to help the old man save the trucking company. There’s a newspaper article Sally found from up in Chisago Lakes, where Mueller Lived. The article quoted his daughter Monica as saying between his sons being in jail, the loss of the business, and losing his wife, he simply couldn’t go on. And there’s one other thing.”

“Which is?” Flanagan asked.

“Mueller had two sons, both, it turns out, in Leavenworth. The other Mueller is named Dean. And there’s one other thing about the brothers. They’re…”

“Twins,” Lich finished. “They’re not just brothers, but twins, aren’t they?”

“Identical, in fact,” Mac answered. “They’re both six-three and about two hundred forty pounds, with dark hair, according to their prison records.”

“Damn,” Lich said. “Fuckin’ Fat Charlie actually came through for us,” he said, shaking his head.

“So, we have Brown, who the chief put in, and Mueller’s father, who Lyman put out of business and who then committed suicide. Mueller and Brown spend years in prison together and probably get to talking about how they both ended up in jail. Brown talks about the chief becoming chief. Mueller sees Lyman getting rich off of cases like the one that did in his father. The two of them probably start talking about payback, revenge. They were in the can together for what? Twelve years?” Mac said. “That’s a lot of time to talk about payback, to plan it and to get the courage up to seek it. Then they get out about the same time and put this all together.” Everyone nodded. Perverse as it was, the connection made sense.

“This could be it,” Riles said. “Brown was a DEA agent. He’s probably a pretty bright guy.”

“He was, as I recall,” the chief added.

“So he’s running it. He’s the voice on the phone,” Rock said. “He’s the one calling the shots.”

“The one who said Shannon was the appetizer and Carrie was the main course,” Mac noted. “It fits. Brown’s the brains of the operation.”

“And the Mueller brothers are the brawn,” Riles added. “They fit the general descriptions we had on both kidnappings. Big guys, dark hair, and so forth.”

“That looked like brothers,” Lich added, “just as Fat Charlie’s guy told us.”

Everyone nodded, running it through their minds.

“Where are these guys now?” Flanagan asked, breaking the momentary silence.

“I’ve got Sally looking into that,” Mac answered. “Dean and David currently share an Osseo address, and Smith apparently has an address in Chicago. Sally is calling CPD to have someone check on him, see if he’s around.”

“He’s not,” Peters said, pointing at Mac. “He’s here. These are our guys.”

“I bet they are,” Riles added, and then pivoted. “What do you think, Mac? Do we let others know? We might need their help.”

Mac thought for a moment, his arms crossed. “Not quite yet. If we’re right and someone is feeding Brown information, we don’t want to tip them off. We don’t know where the girls…” Mac stopped, aware of having spoken about the girls as if the chief wasn’t in the room. “Sorry, Chief.”

The chief didn’t flinch, “It is what it is, boyo.”

“We don’t know where these guys are, or where they have the girls. If they do have someone on the inside, and we come out with this, the kidnappers get tipped off and the girls could pay the price.”

“Agreed,” the chief said. “You don’t have much time. We’re getting a phone call at six. You’ve got…” everyone looked at their watches, 12:15 p.m., “less than six hours.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“This is where it gets interesting.”

Smith Brown sat in a desk chair in a fifth-floor hotel room, looking east through binoculars down Kellogg Boulevard on the south side of the Xcel Energy Center in downtown St. Paul. He checked his watch: 12:28 p.m. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The heat radiated off the pavement as the temperature continued its inexorable climb to triple digits. He was happy to be inside.

On a national holiday, there was little activity around the brick and curved glass of America’s finest hockey arena, which sat kitty-corner from his perch. A digital marquee on the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg announced upcoming events, which in the summer were generally concerts. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were coming to town the last week in July.

Smith glanced to his right, looking south down the ever-expanding restaurant-and-bar-district that was West Seventh Street. There was little car traffic and less on foot. It was one of the traits that made St. Paul unique. The downtown area was generally quiet when the working folks weren’t around. Of course, a Minnesota Wild game or event at the arena across the street changed all that, bringing 20,000 people downtown. However, if there wasn’t a specific event, activity moved to the other neighborhoods around the city. Given that it was a holiday, the foot and car traffic was even less than its normal negligible amount.

He turned his gaze back to the east to see Monica coming into view, dressed attractively in white tennis shorts and a low-cut, dusty-rose tank top. She was walking toward the hotel along the sidewalk of Kellogg Boulevard, a black nylon computer case hanging over her shoulder. As she crossed the street and stepped under the canopy of the hotel entrance, Smith scanned the area outside, making sure nobody followed or watched her. Satisfied that she was free and clear, he moved away from the window. A minute later he heard the key card slide into the reader, and Monica entered the room.

“Everything go okay?” he asked as he dropped some ice into a hotel glass and poured himself a Diet Coke.

“No problem. It’s pretty empty in there.”

“You tested the camera?”

“Yes,” she answered, putting the shoulder bag onto the bed. “It worked fine. We’ll be able to monitor what they’re doing.”

“Excellent.”

“What’s next?’ she asked as she opened a bottle of water.

“We sit and wait for awhile, try to relax,” Smith answered, turning on the TV. “At five thirty I’ll drive the minivan over to Eagle Street and wait.”

“Dean and David get the easy duty, don’t they?”

“At least for now,” Smith replied. “David saved my life in prison. If things go awry, he and Dean can walk away, as can you.”

“Have you changed your mind about the girls?”

“No,” Smith replied.

“You know how Dean and David feel.”

“I do,” Smith replied looking out the window. “They don’t think the girls should pay.” He turned back toward Monica. “The thing is, if everything goes according to plan, nobody will ever know who we are. Or if they do eventually figure it out, it will be too late. We’ll be long gone. If we let them know where the girls are, that increases the risk that we’ll be found before we’re safely away. If we give them the girls, the police very likely will discover who we are, probably before we’ve made the necessary changes to our looks.”

“I know, I know,” Monica answered, looking down and picking at the carpet with her toes. “Thing is,” she started quietly, “the girls are guilty of nothing other than having the fathers they have.”

“And what about my daughter?” Smith asked, anger rising in his voice. “What was she guilty of besides having me as her father? She died because of Charlie Flanagan. I’m in prison, and my wife can’t get insurance. She can’t get treatment for my little girl. When the state finally comes through, my little girl’s on her deathbed and it’s too late. That’s all on Charlie Flanagan.” Smith turned back toward the window, away from her. “He needs to feel what I felt. He needs to feel what it’s like to lose a daughter. He’s going to feel that before he dies.”

• • • • •

Mac and the others burst into the conference room to find Hagen’s fingers dancing frantically over the keyboard and a printer spitting out reams of paper. “What do we know?” Mac asked, walking up to Sally.

“It doesn’t look like Brown is in Chicago,” Sally said. “I had CPD go to the last known address. It doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t exist? The address doesn’t exist? It’s a fake?” Rock growled.

“Yeah. Brown served his full sentence and was a free man, free to go wherever he wanted,” Sally answered. “It would appear that in his six months out he has chosen to fall off the grid.”

“And this is the guy who was in prison with David Mueller?” Rock asked, looking at a picture of Smith taken six months before he was released. Six feet tall, Brown had black hair graying at his temples. He had brown eyes and a knot at the bridge of his already large nose.

“Yes,” Sally replied. “For twelve years. We looked at Brown’s records for Leavenworth. It appears he had trouble on his arrival.”

“He’s probably lucky to be alive,” Lich said. Cops have issues in prison.

“That’s where David Mueller comes in,” Sally added, flipping to a different page. “He saved Brown’s life. Apparently David was pretty good with his fists. He, and his brother Dean, who I’ll get to in a minute, were in the Golden Gloves back in the day. Anyway, David seems to have used those skills to save Brown, or at least that’s what we’re seeing as we read between the lines on some stuff from Leavenworth. Apparently, David, and later Dean, took it upon themselves to apply a couple of beatings, to send a message and that probably allowed Brown to make it out alive.”

“So he’s loyal to them,” Rock said. “And I suppose vice versa.”

“What about the Muellers?” Mac asked, looking at pictures taken prior to their release from Leavenworth. The brothers were definitely twins, thick necks, black hair, unibrows, but all-in-all decent-looking boys. The only noticeable differences were their eyes and noses. Dean’s eyes were spread a little farther apart from his nose. David had an unnaturally crooked nose, probably broken from boxing.

“This is where it gets interesting. The brothers have an Osseo address, an apartment complex a block off of the main street,” Sally gave him a sheet with directions and the address. “I spoke with the Osseo police chief. He says give him a holler at that number,” she handed a yellow sticky note to Mac. “He and another officer will meet you at a gas station a few blocks away.”

“Okay, but you said ‘interesting’ a minute ago, what else?” Mac pushed impatiently, reading from the sheet. “What’s so interesting?”

“The Mueller boys have an older sister named Monica Reynolds—her married name.”

“Tell me the older sister looks like our missing woman,” Riles said, hopeful.

“Here’s a picture we got from the DMV for her license,” Sally responded. “Tell me what you think.” Her tone said she thought it was a match.

The group gathered around the table to look at the artist sketch of the woman from Cel’s Care next to the blown-up DMV photo. They also had security camera stills from Milwaukee and St. Thomas University for comparison. The hair color was right, as were the lips and nose and the eyes. The hair of the woman at the café didn’t match, but again, the eyes, nose, and lips looked about right. Mac spoke for everyone. “It could be her, there’s certainly a similarity.”

“Where is Monica Reynolds at these days?” Rock asked.

“Again, interesting,” Sally said, as Summer Plantagenate handed her another set of papers, as smoothly as if the two were going through exhibits at a jury trial. “Up until two months ago, she owned a house over on the east side of St. Paul by Lake Phalen. She sold it for $225,000 and left a PO Box as a forwarding address. It doesn’t appear she has established another home.”

“At least not one I can find,” Hagen added, looking up from his computer. “I’m still searching.”

“The money from the sale ended up in a checking account at Wells Fargo,” Sally said, “an account that she closed shortly thereafter; we can’t find any evidence she’s opened another one somewhere.”

“So she’s floating out there with a nice chunk of walking-around-money to finance whatever it is these guys might be up to,” Mac said. “This is adding up.”

“It is,” Sally said.

“So we’ve got a solid connection between the chief and Lyman in Brown and the Muellers. We have physical descriptions that are consistent. They’ve got motive. Brown gives them the intellect to pull this off,” Riles summarized.

“And Brown and Monica at least seem to have pulled a disappearing act,” Mac said.

“So what’s next?” Sally asked. “What do you think?”

“We check out this last known address,” Mac answered. “Lich and I will do that.”

“What do you want Rock and me to do?” Riles asked.

“Stay here and work this for now,” Mac replied. “We need to look into family for the Muellers and Brown. Do they have family around and where? If they do, we need to be talking to them. We should have someone run Monica’s photo over to the café, see what people over there think. Also, run these four against the department personnel files. Maybe we find the mole that way. And one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone should be around when the ransom call comes in,” Mac said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about that. Brown and the Muellers have been ahead of us every step of the way. There’s no reason to think they aren’t now.”

“Especially if they have someone on the inside,” Sally said.

“Exactly,” Mac answered, pointing at Sally. “But now maybe, just maybe, we’re evening out the odds here. We finally know who we’re up against. Now we just need to find them before this all shakes out.”

Mac and Lich turned to leave when Jupiter and Shawn McRyan came into the room. Jupe was holding up a DVD and color pictures.

“Tell me you found something?” Mac said.

“Maybe,” Jupiter said, briefly explaining the pictures pulled off the video. “If we can figure out where the PVC piping was purchased, maybe it’s another way to get a line on these guys.”

“Do that,” Mac ordered and then turned to Sally. “Let’s get on the horn to this company, figure out a way to find out who’s selling this pipe in Minnesota.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” Sally replied skeptically. “The Fourth of July keeps getting in the way. It’ll be tough to track somebody down.”

“Sally,” Hagen interjected. “While you’re trying the legal way, why don’t you give me what you have there,” he said pointing at the picture. “I might be able to find another way.”

Chapter Thirty

“This will serve as my last will and testament.”

After talking for a couple of hours, even having a few laughs along the way, conversation between Carrie and Shannon had faded. It was a pattern. Neither of them slept for long or stayed awake and alert for more than a couple of hours. Sleeping, if you could, was the best of the two options. If you were awake, especially if the other was sleeping, you just lay there thinking about where you were. Carrie was also trying to sleep lightly so that she could monitor Shannon’s condition. She was beginning to get worried about her and how long she could last.

Following their last conversation, Carrie slept for a little while, but she was awake now and her mind had started racing again. What else would your mind do when you were buried alive? Flanagan thanked God repeatedly that she wasn’t claustrophobic. What she needed was something to do, something to occupy her mind.

Carrie picked up the Dictaphone, contemplating its use. What if the kidnappers wouldn’t let anyone know where they were buried? She figured since they were buried alive, it was intended that they were to be found. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if they weren’t found in time? Carried sighed, and tears welled in her eyes for the first time in hours. What a way to go.

Her thoughts turned again to her family, to her parents, brothers, sisters, ever her boyfriend. She never had the chance to say good-bye. She took another look at the Dictaphone. There was plenty of space left on the tape—the message from the kidnappers had been short and to the point.

She remembered watching M*A*S*H with her dad. He loved that show and could recite from memory the dialogue from entire episodes. She chuckled at how many times her dad would say, for no reason, “Nope, its oak.” Or if Mom cooked a bad meal, he would get that mischievous smile and quote Hawkeye Pierce behind her back, “I don’t know how our cook got off at Nuremburg.” Her father loved the episodes with Trapper and Henry Blake, the early years of the show. But right now she remembered an episode from the later years, when the show got preachy. It was where Hawkeye was sent to an aid station at the front. Between triaging injured soldiers and ducking bombs exploding all around, he sat and wrote his will on a yellow legal pad, bequeathing gifts to everyone in the 4077.

Carrie was in the same situation for real. She could die. She wanted to say something to the people she cared most about, even if they never got to hear it. Twirling the Dictaphone around in her fingers near her face, she contemplated what to say. She closed her eyes. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she uttered quietly, tears still pooled in her eyes. She hoped this was just an awful dream that she would awaken from, but it wasn’t and she hadn’t.

Flanagan opened her eyes and pushed the record button on the Dictaphone, “This is Carrie Marie Flanagan. I am the daughter of St. Paul Police Chief Charles Flanagan.” She stopped the tape and sniffled, getting her emotions in check before she continued. She didn’t want her family to hear the terror in her voice.

“I was kidnapped on Monday, July 2nd. I’m buried in this box with Shannon Hisle. Shannon is the daughter of Lyman Hisle, a St. Paul lawyer, a friend of my father’s. Shannon was kidnapped the day before on July 1st.” Carrie stopped again and rested the Dictaphone on her chest, breathing harder.

“Today is the Fourth of July and it’s…” she checked her watch, “2:15 p.m. We have been in this box for over forty hours now. If we’re not found soon, we will both die.” She heaved a big sigh and swallowed, a dry swallow, with little moisture left in her mouth. She wetted her lips as best she could and pushed up on the record button.

“This will serve as my last will and testament.”

She closed her eyes again and wiped the tears from her cheeks, still having a hard time believing she’d uttered those words. You were supposed to do something like this sitting across a large mahogany table from a lawyer, not buried underground, speaking into a Dictaphone that might never be found. But, as her father often liked to say, “it is what it is” and she was where she was. She contemplated what to say next. Carrie thought about the three older brothers who had looked after her all these years, protecting her, and in some, no, make that in many cases, chasing interested boys away, much to her chagrin.

Now her protectors would be feeling helpless, unable to help and guard her. Carrie didn’t want them to worry about it. She wanted them to remember the good times, what great brothers they were, how much she looked up to them, adored them, and loved them. One of her favorite possessions was the three pictures next to her bed, from her high school graduation: a picture of her with each of her brothers. A proud night for the family, the last of the Flanagan kids graduating from high school. She treasured those pictures.

Carrie pushed the record button. “To my brothers, I bequeath….” She stopped. To her right, she sensed Hisle moving, but it was unnatural. Hisle wasn’t adjusting her body, trying to get comfortable. She was starting to shake and reflexively pulling her legs into her chest. Shannon had warned this might happen when her blood sugar started getting really high and she didn’t have enough insulin in her body. Flanagan rolled onto her right side, slid over, and lightly shook Hisle.

“Shannon. Are you okay?” she asked in normal tone. Hisle didn’t respond. “Shannon! Shannon! Wake up! Wake up!” Carrie said urgently, shaking her shoulder harder.

Hisle started to stir.

“Shannon.” Carrie rubbed her arms and shoulders. “Stay with me.”

Shannon was shaking uncontrollably.

“Shannon, are you okay? You’re shaking.”

“I… don’t…” she stuttered. She didn’t finish the thought.

“Shannon, are you with me?”

“I’m not su… su…sure how much longer I can last.”

Carrie could tell that Shannon was breathing fast. She grabbed Shannon’s wrist and checked her pulse. Her heart was racing and there was almost a sweet fruity smell to her breath.

“Hang in there with me, honey. Hang in there,” Carrie said, hugging Shannon, rubbing her arms and legs, trying to keep her comfortable and conscious. The lack of insulin had slowly been weakening Shannon. However, now, nearly four days without insulin, Carrie could tell that Shannon’s body was now rapidly succumbing to the lack of it. She put the flashlight to her watch: 2:18 p.m.

“You’ll be okay, Shannon. They’ll be here soon. They’ll be here soon.” Carrie hoped that was the case. She was scared that Shannon didn’t have much longer.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Now we’re cooking with gas.”

3:08 p.m.

Mac ran the scenario round and round in his head as he and Lich drove north on County Road 81 into the northwestern suburb of Osseo. They were on to it now, finally. Smith and the Muellers were behind this. The motives were perverted, but if Mac could not understand them, he could at least see where they were coming from.

For Brown, it was the chief.

Charlie Flanagan hated dirty cops more than almost anything. In Brown’s case, he caught the DEA agent putting coke back onto the street to pay off gambling debts. It might have only been a one-time thing, but Brown was guilty and admitted it to Detective Flanagan. Peters told Mac that Brown had pleaded—flat-out begged—the chief to let it go. Brown was in counseling for his gambling and hadn’t placed a bet in ten months. Faced with the wrath of his bookie and his bookie’s muscle, he stole the coke to retire the debt. Brown told Flanagan he’d leave the bureau and law enforcement if he let it go. Brown also had a seriously ill daughter and was worried about what would happen to her.

Smith Brown simply didn’t know Charlie Flanagan. If you were dirty, you had to pay the price. Peters recalled Flanagan ruminating about what to do with Brown at the time, saying, “It would be one thing if he stole a couple of watches, a fur coat, maybe a TV from the evidence room, something like that. I wouldn’t condone it, but I would at least understand it. I could let that kind of thing slide. But stealing drugs, coke, and putting it back on our streets and all that comes with that? That I can’t look past.”

As Peters said, “You know the chief. It was a principle thing.”

Mac didn’t know what to think of it. He understood the chief’s position. But he doubted the chief thought Brown would end up with fifteen years in Leavenworth Federal Pen either. Life had to have been miserable in there, and the information they were finding said that was indeed the case. Fifteen years in prison is a long time to think. Especially after they also learned Brown’s daughter died after he went in, at least in part because his wife and child lost medical insurance. That only added fuel to the fire.

“He blames the chief for all of that, I’m sure,” Peters said. “I suppose I see how he gets there, but he’s wrong.”

“Smith might be wrong about the chief’s choices, Captain,” Mac answered, “but at the moment, he’s sitting with two aces in the hole.”

For the Muellers, it was Lyman Hisle, the man who killed their father.

The whole conspiracy was simple and made sense once you had the pieces. All of which made Mac more concerned about the ransom.

“This ransom call is about more than money,” Mac told his captain. “There’s a trap door here that we’re not seeing, and the chief and Lyman are going to fall right through it.”

“What’s the trap door?” Peters asked.

“I don’t know,” Mac answered. “But the ransom will not be some simple money drop. You’re not going to be dropping it into a garbage can somewhere. These boys want blood. The chief and Lyman are going to be involved in the drop somehow, and we need to stay close.”

Mac hung up his phone and retreated into his thoughts as they passed the Osseo city limits sign. Mac hadn’t been to Osseo for years. As a kid he came up this way to play hockey a couple of times every winter at the Osseo Arena, a rink that looked like a big beige utility shed and felt like the inside of a freezer. It had the hardest and fastest ice around. Back in those days, the town sat by itself among fields, looking like the small farm town you now had to drive out much farther to find. Today, Osseo was a little piece of small-town America completely surrounded by the suburbs of Maple Grove and Brooklyn Park, complete with three-car-garage mini-mansions, big-box retailers, chain restaurants, Lexuses, BMWs, and exploding populations.

Mac turned right off the highway and onto tree-lined Central Avenue, the town’s main drag. Osseo didn’t seem a natural choice for the Muellers, who were born and raised in Chisago Lakes, an equally small bedroom community fifty miles northeast of St. Paul. But it started to make some sense when Sally told him that they’d been working for a nearby lumberyard, based on wage records.

“Of course,” Sally said, “the Mueller brothers had checking accounts, but they were cleaned out a few weeks ago.”

Mac pulled up to a patrol car in the parking lot of the gas station along the main drag. Two uniform cops, one much older than the other, casually leaned against the front bumper of their cruiser, which was parked under the shady canopy of a small group of maple trees. The older of the two, who Mac assumed was the chief, was smoking. Mac powered down his window and stuck his hand out to shake. “Detective McRyan from St. Paul.”

“I’m Police Chief Pete Mitchell,” the older cop replied as he took Mac’s hand. “This here is one of my patrol guys. His name’s Bennett.”

Mac thumbed toward the passenger side, “This is Detective Lich. How do you want to do this, Chief?”

“I called the landlord,” Mitchell said, taking a drag on his Marlboro and blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “He says the guys you’re looking for haven’t been around for a week or two, at least as far as he can tell.”

“We still should take a look.”

“I figured you’d want to. The landlord will let us in,” Mitchell said, stamping out his cigarette and waving them to follow.

The apartment was two blocks away in a rundown 1950s-style apartment building with a water-stained dark beige stucco exterior with brown-trimmed windows. The landlord was sitting on the steps, having a smoke of his own, when they pulled up. The man, dressed in dark brown pants and a white, short-sleeved collar shirt, looked to be in his sixties. His last strands of hair stretched in a brutal comb-over from one ear over to the other. Without saying a word, he turned and led the group up the steps to the second floor and a rear apartment. The landlord knocked on the door, waited fifteen seconds, knocked again, waited, and then slid in the key.

“Like I told Ole’ Pistol Pete here,” he said in a gravelly, smoke-damaged voice, “they haven’t been around for a week or two.”

Mac and Lich entered to find an apartment evidencing a Spartan existence. To their right was a tiny galley kitchen, straight ahead was a living room, and to the left was a hallway to two small bedrooms and a full bath. The living room had an avocado-colored couch and a harvest-gold-upholstered loveseat perched in front of an old twenty-seven-inch TV that sat on side-by-side milk crates. Down the hallway, there were mattresses on the floor of each bedroom, but no sheets or blankets remained. An old clock radio sat unplugged on the floor in one bedroom. The closets were empty. In the bathroom, there was a half roll of toilet paper but nothing more. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was empty except for a nearly empty carton of spoiled milk, three eggs, and a half stick of butter. Mac sifted through the cupboards and drawers, finding only a single pay stub for Zorn Lumber.

“This place is empty,” Lich said, standing in the living room with his hands on his hips.

“Abandoned, I’d say,” Mac added.

“When’s the rent paid up through?” Lich asked the landlord.

“Through June,” he answered. “They haven’t paid for July yet, and I was startin’ to wonder about it.”

“I doubt you’re going to get July’s rent,” Mac said. He showed the landlord pictures of the Mueller brothers. “Were these the guys renting the place?”

The landlord nodded, “That’s them, all right.”

Mac dug out pictures of Monica and Brown. “You ever see either of these folks hanging around?”

The landlord scratched the back of his head and peered at the pictures for a moment. “Her, yes,” he said. “You couldn’t miss her. She was a pretty thing. I’m not sure about the guy though. They didn’t have many visitors that I can recall, although people come and go all the time.” He held the picture in his hands for another minute, giving it a good look. “I just can’t say for sure if he was ever around.”

Mac turned to the chief, holding up the pay stub. “Is Zorn Lumber the lumberyard we passed out on County 81 as we drove into town?”

“It is. Ol’ Ray Zorn runs the place. You want to talk to him?”

“We need to.”

“I thought you might. I called Ray and told him we might be stopping by. He lives five blocks from here.”

• • • • •

Jupiter sat next to Hagen as the convict computer genius’s fingers set speed records flying over the keys. Sally was striking out with the pipe company, which was located in Des Moines. There just wasn’t a way to get hold of someone on the holiday. If the FBI and their resources could be trusted, they might have been able to throw some weight around. However, Mac and Riles both said they didn’t want to do that unless they were left with no choice.

Hagen said they had a choice.

He rolled his eyes when Sally asked him if he could crack into the company’s system. Hacking was a skill one never really lost, he said, “like riding a bike.” Peters had already promised protection if anyone caught him.

It took him about twenty minutes, but now he was into the company’s electronic shipping records for the kind of pipe shown in the video. “So where do they ship the pipe to?” Hagen asked, staring at the computer screen with a perplexed look on his face.

“You’re in, right? Jupiter quizzed. “But can you find the information you need?”

“I’ve never been much of an end-user. I’ll find what we need, but…”

“It’ll take you some time,” Jones filled in. “I have a little expertise in this area. May I?”

“Be my guest,” Hagen replied, scooting over.

Jupiter wasn’t a hacker. He was originally a programmer who had since moved to video. He liked to use technology as a tool to develop information, whether it was business intelligence software, where he had made his initial fortune, or in video, where he was making his next one. Hagen, on the other hand, knew programming and he liked to use technology as a tool as well, but more like a sword to access the information of others—that was where the thrill, and utility, lay for him. It was a different mindset. But Hagen had used his sword, and now, Jupe thought, it was time for the toolbox.

“While I was looking over your shoulder I thought I saw a previous page where I could…” Jones’s voice trailed off as he exited the shipping records and moused through menus. He clicked on an icon for a program named Customer Choice. “Here we go,” he said. “This is business intelligence software. This is the kind of stuff I used to make. It should let me search for what we need.”

Now Hagen was the interested one as Jupiter set up a search, entered the kind of pipe, the letter H in the company name profile, Minnesota and Wisconsin in the state field, and then clicked search. The program quickly turned out thirty-nine hits. “Now we’re cooking with gas,” Jupiter said. “I’m going to see if we can’t narrow this down a little more.”

• • • • •

Ray Zorn lived on a quiet corner in a blue two-story with a white picket fence. Zorn was sitting with his wife at a picnic table under the shade of a large maple tree. He was dressed in an old, yellow Munsingwear golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, and dark socks, along with a John Deere ball cap. Prepared for company, a white tray with a pitcher of lemonade and six glasses rested on the table.

“Hiya, Chief,” Zorn welcomed, waving the group over.

“Ray.” Mitchell introduced Mac and Lich, who both declined refreshment.

Mac wasted no time, “Mr. Zorn, David and Dean Mueller worked for you?”

“Yes they did.”

“They still work for you?”

“I don’t think they do.”

“Don’t think?” Lich queried.

“Well, they stopped showing up a few weeks ago and I haven’t heard from them since. So if those boys ever show up, it’ll only be for me to tell ‘em not to come back. Must say, though, I’m kind of disappointed in those boys.”

“Why’s that?”

“I knew their father. Tom Mueller was a friend of mine years ago. Those boys came to me, just out of prison, looking for work. I had my doubts, but I liked their father and thought I’d give them a chance.” Zorn went on to explain that they had been good workers who showed up on time, did whatever he asked, were respectful, caused no problems. “I was surprised when they just stopped showing up. Figured, if they got a better offer somewhere, they’d do me the courtesy of tellin’ me, ya know?”

“Did they ever have any visitors when they worked for you?”

“Just their sister. She showed up once, maybe a week or two before the boys up and scooted on me.”

Mac paused, then asked, “Did the Muellers ever purchase any lumber from you?”

“I don’t right know,” Zorn replied. “Employees can purchase from us at a pretty good discount, and they may well have done so. I can check if you need.”

“We do,” Mac said. “You said their sister stopped by. Would that be this woman?” He placed a picture of Monica on the picnic table.

“That’s her,” Zorn said. “Pretty girl, I always thought.”

“Have you ever seen this man?” Mac asked, sliding a picture of Smith across the table.

Zorn stared at the picture, as did Mitchell. Mitchell spoke first.

“These boys showed me this picture a few minutes ago and it didn’t hit me, but now for some reason it does. I think I’ve seen that guy before. Doesn’t he look familiar to you, Ray?”

Zorn wrinkled his nose and looked at the picture closer. “You know, I think you’re right there, Pete. He looks familiar. It’s the nose I think. That big knot up there on the bridge is what I remember.”

“Where did we see him?”

Zorn stared at the photo for a moment more, and then his eyes lit up, “We saw him at the Derby.”

“The Derby? What’s the Derby?” Lich asked.

“Restaurant out on County 81,” Chief Mitchell replied. “A dingy old greasy-spoon you passed on the left as you drove into town. It’s an old highway joint, few booths and a counter. Ray and I like to eat lunch there a time or two a week.”

“Pete’s right,” Zorn added. “We saw this feller in there. He was in a booth, the back booth I think, with the Mueller boys.” He shook his head. “Good memory, Pete.”

“When was this?”

“Not long ago,” Miller said. “Few, maybe three weeks ago.”

“Now that you mention it,” Zorn added, “probably a few days before the boys up and bailed on me.”

Mac and Lich shared a look. “That pretty much locks it up,” Lich said.

“These boys have something to do with that kidnapping in St. Paul?” Miller asked.

Mac nodded.

“Anything else we can do to help?’

“It would help to find out if the Muellers bought any lumber from you.”

“Why would that matter?” Zorn asked, concerned. “I don’t think we did anything wrong.”

“You didn’t, Mr. Zorn, you didn’t. But trust me,” Lich replied, “it matters for us to know. It just does.”

• • • • •

“So that gets us down to three stores with the right letters,” Hagen said.

“Hanlin’s in Brainerd, Hankley’s in Grantsburg, up in Wisconsin, or Hanburg’s in Wyoming,” Jupiter replied.

“Damn holiday,” Sally said. “It’ll be a nightmare to try to get hold of these people.” She shook her head.

“Call Mac,” Riles said. “See what he thinks. Sooner or later we need to bring more resources into this.”

• • • • •

“Here we go,” Zorn said as he held up a sheet of paper as they had all crowded into his office at the lumber yard. “Employee purchase form right here. Three weeks ago. They bought heavy plywood, two-by-fours and wood screws.”

“How about PVC piping?” Mac asked.

“Nope. Just the wood and the screws. We don’t sell PVC pipe.”

“But they bought it all about the time Smith met with those boys at the diner,” Lich added.

Mac nodded, but he was getting anxious. He looked at his watch, which now said 4:10 p.m. Time was running out and, while they were confirming the players, it wasn’t getting them any closer.

“We know who it is now,” Lich said, pulling Mac to a corner. “We know it’s Brown and the Muellers.”

“Which is great, we’ve figured out who’s behind it. But where are the girls? We’re no closer to answering that.”

“Maybe we tell Burton, a few select others, see if we can spread the word quietly.”

Mac ran that around in his head, thinking about what Dick said, thinking it might be time to broaden their little group in the know. “Maybe…” he started, when his cell phone rang. It was Sally, reporting that Jupiter and Hagen narrowed the source of the pipe. “Okay, so I have Hanlin’s in Brainerd, Hankley’s in Grantsburg, or Hanburg’s in Wyoming, just north of Forest Lake up Interstate 35,” Mac repeated as he wrote down all of the stores on his notepad.

“What’s with Hanburg’s?” Zorn asked, overhearing Mac.

Mac pulled the phone away from his ear. He figured anything he said in front of Zorn or Miller was fine. He gave them a quick rundown on the girls being buried alive. Zorn looked sick, probably thinking that wood purchased from his business had been used for that purpose. “There’s PVC piping these guys used. You don’t sell that here. We think it came from one of those three stores.”

“Two things,” Zorn said, a dead serious, pissed-off look on his face. The small-town friendly demeanor was long gone. “I know Freddy Hanburg out in Wyoming. He owns that store. He’d be sick about this. I’ll call him for you right now.”

“And I’ll call the Wyoming chief,” Mitchell added.

“You said there were two things,” Mac said. “What’s the other?”

“The Mueller kids are from Chisago Lakes. That’s ten miles up the road from Wyoming. You don’t have much time left from what you boys are telling me. If I were you boys, I’d look there first.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Hey! I know her.”

5:10 p.m.

Fifty minutes until the ransom call. Wyoming was thirty-five miles east from Osseo. With the light holiday traffic, Mac made the drive in a little over twenty minutes, his portable roller pushing what traffic there was over to the slow lane. Hanburg’s hardware sat on the main drag of Wyoming, a quarter mile east of I-35.

“We’re getting our fill of small towns these last couple of days,” Lich said as Mac skidded to a stop in front of the hardware store. The Chisago County sheriff and Wyoming police chief were waiting in front, along with a man in his mid-fifties, sporting a large beer belly and a flowered shirt that looked like a tent. He had the look of a walrus, with a bushy mustache and two-day old razor stubble.

Mac and Lich jumped out, showed their credentials, and quickly exchanged introductions. “Ray Zorn told you what we’re here for?” Mac asked Hanburg.

“He did,” Hanburg answered over his shoulder as he opened the front door to the store. “I’ll do anything I can to help you boys.” Hanburg’s was an old-school hardware store. Inside the door was an island checkout area with registers on either side. To the right was a more open area for lawn mowers, tillers, and snow blowers. The back of the store was a maze of metal shelves. It reminded Mac, oddly, of the hardware store at Fat Charlie’s place in North Minneapolis.

“Can you take a look at these photos? Tell us if any of these people were in your store recently?” Mac asked as they walked to Hanburg’s office in the back.

Hanburg took a look, but shook his head. “I couldn’t tell ya. But I’ve made calls to all my guys, and they’re on their way here. Maybe they can be more helpful to you.”

“When will they be here?” Lich asked impatiently. “We’re on a tight clock.”

“I know you are,” Hanburg replied. “I told them to hurry, not optional if they wanted to remain employed. They’re good fellas who work for me. They’re hustlin’ in. It’s rough you know, it’s…”

“…a holiday,” Mac interrupted, frustrated. “That’s been an issue all day.”

Hanburg sat in his metal desk chair, pulled up to the computer, and started working the keyboard and mouse. “You boys got a picture of the piping? There are different kinds. I want to look for the right ones.”

Mac pulled three still photos out of his folder and handed them over.

Hanburg looked at the sticker. “That looks like one we sell. Let me run a search here. What do you think, back a month or two?”

“At the most,” Mac answered, walking around behind Hanburg and sitting on a corner of the desk. Within a minute, the store owner had a report up on his screen. It showed purchases of the PVC pipe over the past two months, providing dates, amounts purchased, and payment methods. There were more than fifty purchases, many of them bulk sales to local building and plumbing contractors.

“How many are in cash?” Mac asked.

Hanburg narrowed the search more. “I’ve got five that paid in cash.”

• • • • •

With Mac and Lich now on the PVC pipe, Sally, Jupiter, and Hagen searched for any connection between Smith or the Muellers and anyone from a list of cops provided by Double Frank and Paddy the day before.

“We’re not finding anything,” Jupiter admitted.

“Not even a sniff,” Hagen added.

“Let’s take a look at the FBI people working the case,” Sally said.

“You want me searching FBI personnel files?” Hagen asked, concern in his voice. Jupiter flipped up an eyebrow as well.

Sally didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”

• • • • •

Carrie kept talking, about anything and everything, her family, friends, boyfriend, job hopes, aspirations, school, everything. She talked about her whole life, as if she wanted to relive it one last time, which she knew she might be doing. Talking about it let her make a mental escape, if only temporarily. It put her mind in a place outside the box, a place where there was light and sun, and she could move wherever and however she wanted to.

Shannon wasn’t carrying along with the conversation.

She was barely conscious.

Carrie held her tight, trying to keep her awake. She talked to her, rubbed her arms and legs, doing anything she could to keep Shannon conscious and comfortable. Carrie was trying to buy as much time as possible, praying somebody would get to them soon.

Over the last hour, Carrie kept talking, about TV shows, her favorite music, and even about politics, a first for her, just to show how few topics were left to comment on. Then she started talking about Jessica Alba. “I mean, that girl is so beautiful. I can’t imagine what she does to keep her body looking that good, can you?”

Shannon didn’t respond.

Carrie shook her shoulder, “Shannon, doesn’t Jessica Alba have a great body?”

Shannon mumbled incoherently.

“Shannon! Shannon! Wake up, honey! Wake up!” Carrie babbled on for a few minutes before she realized it was no use. Shannon had warned that this could happen. Her body was shutting down. Time was running out.

• • • • •

Gail Carlson pulled into the gas station across the street from Hanburg’s hardware. She’d heard the call come through on the Wyoming police band, a call for the chief, asking him to meet two St. Paul police detectives at Hanburg’s. Carlson called Foxx on her way out the door, telling her that her hunch may have paid off.

The veteran reporter jumped into her black Jeep Cherokee and raced from Minneapolis up to Wyoming, a half hour to the north. Now she slumped down in her driver’s seat, looking up at her rearview mirror, watching the police cars and a black Ford Explorer parked in front of the store. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Foxx.

“Where you at, Gail?” Foxx asked without preamble.

“Across the street from Hanburg’s hardware. I’m looking at two patrol cars and a black Ford Explorer.”

“I’ll bet that’s Mac McRyan, that’s what he drives,” Foxx exclaimed, with just a touch of glee in her voice. “Can you see anything else?”

“No, but people are starting to arrive, so they must be on to something. So what are they on to?” Carlson asked. “You want to let me in on it?”

Foxx related her experiences from the night before.

“So something’s going on up here,” Carlson said agreeably.

“Yeah, I just don’t know what.”

• • • • •

The employees of Hanburg’s hardware started filing in. Mac and Lich were talking to them back in Hanburg’s office, showing the photos. It was going nowhere. Nobody recognized any of the pictures. There were some comments about people being vaguely familiar, but nobody said, “Yeah, I’ve seen Dean or David or Monica Reynolds or Smith Brown in here recently.”

“Fuck me,” Mac said, leaning over the desk.

“What next?” Lich said. We’ve got what?” He looked at his watch. “Twenty-five minutes until the call?”

Mac looked at the floor, “We put out the description. Brown and the Muellers are probably hanging around for the money drop. Maybe we pick them up that way.” He said it without much conviction. Mac didn’t believe it was going to be that simple.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lich replied. “At least give it to our people. People we know we can trust. We still keep it close to the vest, but at the same time, we’ve got eyes out looking.”

“Do it,” Mac replied. “Call Riles. We should start driving back that direction anyway.”

Lich pulled out his cell phone and started dialing and walked down a back hallway, away from Mac.

“No go, huh?” Hanburg asked sympathetically.

“Long-shot to begin with,” Mac replied, exhaling loudly as he collapsed into a folding chair. He felt like they were close. If only they had more time, they might have pulled this off.

“Hey! I know her,” a voice belted out from the front of the store.

“Who said that? Who said that?” Mac said, flying out of Hanburg’s office into the front of the store.

“I did,” said a short, heavyset man who was a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy. “My name’s Todd Crawford.”

“How do you recognize her?”

“That’s Monica Mueller, and those are her brothers Dean and David. I went to high school with them back in the day.”

“That’s great, Todd,” Mac answered. “But were any of them in here recently?”

Todd nodded. “Monica was about two, maybe three or so weeks ago.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“Oh it was her. I went to high school with her. I was a couple of years behind, but everyone knew who Monica was. She was a looker back then. She still is now, for that matter.”

“Did she recognize you?”

“I doubt it,” Crawford responded with a laugh. “She didn’t have much time for my kind back in high school.”

“Which was what?”

“Burnout, smoking, in the back forty,” Crawford said, and then added smiling, “Of course, Detective, that was back then. Now I’m a fine, upstanding family man.”

Mac ignored the jocularity and asked, “Recall what she bought?”

Crawford nodded, “Sure. Pipe—PVC pipe, I think—and a long extension ladder. Odd things for a woman to buy, generally—it’s probably why I noticed her to begin with. It was a Saturday. It was real busy here in the store, people everywhere. I was working my register on one side of the counter and she went to one on the other side. She’s a smaller gal, and she was carrying this big piece of PVC pipe, and she asked for somebody to get the extension ladder for her, so that’s what drew my attention at first.”

“How’d you recognize her? Was it obviously her?” Mac wanted to make sure Crawford was on the level.

Crawford shook his head. “Not at first. She had on a visor and sunglasses, so I didn’t recognize her right away. But she took her sunglasses off, put them up on top of the visor, you know, like golfers do?”

Mac knew what he meant. He did it himself when he played, usually when he putted.

“It was her. No doubt about it.”

“You’re sure she bought the pipe?”

“Yeah. I remember carrying it to her van. We had to strap the ladder on top and we put the pipe in the back.”

Crawford seemed sure of himself. He wasn’t bullshitting. But it still wasn’t getting Mac anywhere. So Monica bought the pipe; that confirmed that and nothing more. The Mueller boys bought the lumber. Again, they knew who they were up against, but they weren’t any closer to finding them or the girls. Mac exhaled and thought a little more about the pipe and ladder. How far away would they drive with the pipe and ladder strapped to the roof? Probably not too far, he surmised. Mac took a shot in the dark. “I don’t suppose you have any idea of where she was going with it, do you?”

Crawford shrugged, “I assumed to her aunt’s place.”

“Aunt’s place? What aunt?”

“Yeah, her aunt, or at least I think it’s her aunt. Maybe a second aunt. Some relative of hers had a farm place, or at least a big piece of land, over by Marine on St. Croix. I figured they was makin’ repairs. The place is kinda run down.”

“What’s the aunt’s name?”

“Anita something? Anita, Anita…” Crawford stroked his chin. “God, it’s Anita something.” Crawford grabbed a phone and dialed a number. “Mom. What was the last name of Anita, you know, the relative of the Muellers?” There was a pause. “Yeah, that’s the one, Mom. What was her name? Russell? Anita Russell. Thanks, Mom.”

Mac’s mind was already moving. “Dick, get up here,” he yelled as he dialed his cell phone. Sally answered right away. “There’s an aunt or something of the Mueller’s. Her name is Anita Russell. She has a farm over by Marine on St. Croix. Start looking.”

Lich came into the room. “What?”

Mac filled him in and then said to the Chisago sheriff, “Marine on St. Croix is back down in Washington County, right?” Washington County was the next county south.

The sheriff nodded.

“Can you call your opposite number and tell him to call me? And do it so that it isn’t broadcast?”

“Where you gonna be?” the sheriff asked as he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.

“We’re driving out that direction,” Mac replied.

“Mac, these guys have been awful careful,” Lich said. “You really think they would bury the girls on family property?”

“I don’t know,” Mac answered, “but it’s worth a look.” His cell phone went off, Sally again.

“What do you got?”

“This access to the FBI system is something,” Sally said. “Anita Russell must be a more distant relative or something, because we didn’t find her earlier. Anyway, she has a place maybe a mile or two north of Marine on St. Croix. It’s on eighty acres.” She gave him the address and general directions from Wyoming. “Here’s an interesting thing about the property,” Sally added.

“What’s that?”

“It backs up to William O’Brien State Park.”

“That is interesting. See what else you can find out about it,” he directed and then hung up. He looked at his watch—5:45 p.m.—and stormed out the front door saying, “We gotta hustle and right now.” Lich chased him.

“Mac?” Lich asked. “What are you thinking? Clue me in, eh?”

“Anita Russell has eighty acres over by Marine on St. Croix. The land backs up to William O’Brien State Park. I’m thinking it’s worth a look.”

“A look for what?”

“The girls.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Watch your back.”

5:44 p.m.

Riley and Rock walked into the conference room. The shades were pulled and the television turned off. Cups of cold coffee and half-eaten donuts littered the table. Burton, Duffy, and an FBI technician wearing a headset stood around a phone and laptop computer at the far end of the conference table. Peters, the chief, and Lyman milled around the other end. The room was quiet as they waited for the call. Sitting unattended in the middle of the conference table were two large nylon bags, one black and one navy, with five million dollars split evenly between them.

Riles and Rock immediately went to the chief, who, under cover of a hug, asked Riley, “Anything?” The chief and now Lyman both knew about Brown and the Muellers. It had gone no further.

“Mac’s working it, Chief,” Riles replied, equally quiet, having just got off the phone with McRyan.

“What’s he working?”

“Something up around Marine on St. Croix,” Riles answered cryptically, his voice just a whisper.

“What’s up there?’ Lyman pressed quietly, his lips barely moving. “I’m familiar with the area. I could make a phone call or two.”

“The Muellers have land up there,” Rock answered, turning his back. The FBI men at the other end of the room had started looking down toward the conversation. “Mac and Lich can’t get back in time, so they’re going to check it out, that’s all.”

“It’s a long shot,” Riles whispered, unwrapping a piece of Big Red gum and shoving it into his mouth. “But you know Mac,” he added.

The chief nodded. If Mac had a hunch, good luck getting him off it until he was satisfied, no matter what anyone else said.

Burton broke away from the group and walked down to the men from St. Paul. “We’re set here,” he said, and then looked to Riley. “Where’s McRyan and his partner?”

“They’re in the neighborhood,” Riley answered neutrally. “He tends to draw attention when he’s around, so he wants to be on the street when the call comes in.”

Burton nodded and then looked at his watch. “Should be any minute now.”

“Tracking in the bags?” Rock asked Burton.

“Sewn into the fabric. Very small, Can’t be seen or felt. Where it goes, we’ll be able to follow.”

Rock walked over to the window, moved the drapes back, and noted the mass of media coalescing out front. There might have been two hundred people milling about. “How do we get out of here without the media being all over this?” Rock asked. “They’re hovering like flies out there. Riles and I were practically strip searched on the way in and it seems like more people are coming by the minute.”

Duffy nodded. “We’ve got three sets of plain white vehicles ready to go in the parking ramp, which the media can’t get to. When the call comes, and we have to leave, three sets leave. If, after we leave, the main vehicle still picks up a tail, we’ll take care of it before we get to wherever we’re going.”

“Any idea where we’re going?” Riley asked.

“No,” Duffy replied, taking a sip from his Styrofoam coffee cup.

• • • • •

Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small beige-and-brown-brick strip mall along Highway 95 in Lakeland, one of many small towns that dotted the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River, south of Interstate 94. The strip mall held a hair salon, an insurance agency, an accounting office, a law practice, and a pay phone. A flat canopy hung over the sidewalk in front of the businesses. Given the holiday, the parking lot was empty. There were no surveillance cameras, sparse traffic on the highway, and zero foot traffic. The nearest houses were on the other side of the highway, at least a couple hundred yards away.

Dressed in flip-flops and a ball cap, Dean looked like any of a thousand men on a warm holiday. The only unusual part of his ensemble was a red nylon shoulder bag, out of which he pulled a pair of black leather gloves. Taking a quick glance around, he slid on the gloves and pulled out the portable voice changer and two quarters. He also took out a three-by-five-inch index card. Dropping the quarters into the phone, Dean looked down at the card and dialed.

• • • • •

The conference room was silent, other than the sound of pacing shoes scuffing against the carpet. Burton and Duffy leaned over the phone, both hands on the table. The call would be recorded, and they would trace it, although nobody expected the kidnappers to stay on the line for any appreciable length of time. Everyone’s eyes were on the second hand on the wall clock. When the red hand hit twelve, the phone rang. The chief picked up on the second ring.

“Flanagan.”

“You and Hisle at the corner of Washington and West Fifth in ten minutes. With the ransom. No police. We’ll be watching.”

“What about… the… girls,” the chief’s voice trailed off. The kidnapper had already hung up.

Burton moved immediately. “Let’s hustle,” he said, leading everyone out of the conference room. “We’ll wire these two in the truck.” As the group approached the elevators, Peters pulled Rock and Riley aside.

“This is no good,” Riles said through gritted teeth. “They’re going to wire the chief and Lyman in the truck? This smells. Mac’s right, this isn’t a simple money drop. They’re going to put the chief and Hisle on the move.”

Peters nodded. “I want you two mobile. Keep a perimeter and stay on this radio frequency. We know who’s behind this, so if you see this Brown or the Muellers, move on them,” their captain ordered.

Riles’s cell phone rang.

• • • • •

Heather Foxx noted the three separate convoys of trucks pulling out and immediately recognized what she was seeing. “They’re running different groups out of here so we don’t follow,” she said to her cameraman as the trucks and cars streaked out in different directions. She looked back to the side entrance she’d seen McRyan and his friends use in recent days. Detectives Riley and Rockford burst through the doors and ran down the steps. Heather took a look at the news truck and her rental car. “Jump in the rental car,” she told the cameraman, fishing out the keys.

“We’re supposed to stay here,” the cameraman said.

Foxx’s instincts told her to get on the move. “Trust me. There’s nothing to do here but wait for the police to feed us a statement, and everyone gets the same thing. On the other hand,” the reporter said, gesturing toward the detectives, “Riles and Rockford, those are two of the chief’s boys. If we follow them, we might actually see something worth reporting.”

• • • • •

“Less than ten minutes?” Mac yelled into the phone as he accelerated down the county road to meet up with the Washington County sheriff. “Where?”

“Where?” Lich demanded, doubling up. “Where are they going to?”

Mac put his hand over the phone. “Corner of Washington and West Fifth, that’s the northwest corner of Rice Park,” and then to Riley, “What then? Nothing? They just wait? You know what they’re going to do? They’re going to run the chief and Lyman around, Riles. They’re going to try and lose you… yeah… sounds like you’re on it. Good. Yeah, I’ll have the phone with me.” Mac hung up. “I knew it,” Mac railed to Lich. “It’s not a simple ransom drop. They’re going to put the chief and Lyman on the run.” He felt no satisfaction at being right.

“FBI will have assets all over the place, Mac,” Lich said. “They’ll be tough to shake. Especially in the middle of downtown.”

“On a normal day, yeah,” Mac replied. “But it’s the Fourth of fuckin’ July, and it’s hotter than hell. Downtown is a graveyard. There’ll be nobody, and I mean nobody, around Rice Park at that time of day. If we’ve got people following closely, they’ll stick out like 50-Cent at a Faith Hill concert.”

“Fine,” Lich replied, “but it’ll also be hard to lose them, with so few people around. There isn’t anyone for them to blend with.”

“Maybe, but they’ve been ready for everything thus far. They’ll be ready for that.” Mac sighed. Dick’s point was valid, but he didn’t agree. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him all he needed to know. The whole thing felt wrong. “The chief and Lyman are the real target, the money’s just so they can get away in style.”

The Explorer’s speedometer read eighty-five, and the flasher pushed cars off to the shoulder as Mac burned south on the county road.

“They should be up just around the bend,” Lich said.

As Mac slowed to sixty-five and drove around a small bend in the road, two Washington County Suburbans came into view, waiting on the right shoulder a half mile ahead. Mac pulled in behind them. A paunchy man with a bushy black mustache was already out, walking up to Lich on the passenger side.

“I’m George Head, sheriff out here. The Russell place is up on the left side, another two miles.”

“Anyone do a drive-by?”

Head nodded. “I had a couple of my guys drive by five minutes ago. The said it looked awfully quiet.”

“Just the same,” Mac said, “we need to go check it out.”

“You’re sure they’re the guys?”

“They’re behind it,” Lich answered. “No question at this point.”

“Let’s not dick around then,” Head said bluntly. “We’re just gonna blow right up the driveway and crash the place. You fellas got vests?”

Lich pointed to the back seat.

“Put ‘em on.”

The sheriff hustled back to his Suburban while Mac and Lich pulled on and secured their vests. Once set, Mac gave a quick honk and they all pulled out, accelerating down the road. The house, a sad place with chipped and fading yellow paint and a slightly sagging green-shingled roof, was set back two hundred yards from the road in a thin grove of maple and poplar trees. A large, rusted, light-blue pole barn sat behind the house. The yard was unkempt, the lawn overgrown and weed-filled. The Washington County Suburbans sped up the long dirt driveway and skidded to a stop at the front porch. Mac stopped hard behind them and everyone was out.

The sheriff yelled, “Go!” Two men went up the porch and hammered down the front door, while Mac, Lich, and a deputy ran around to the back, weapons drawn on the back door. They heard the men working the house, with several “Clears” called out. Within thirty seconds, a deputy pushed out the back door and shook his head. Nobody was home.

Mac and Lich moved inside. A quick inspection of the house revealed no furniture or working power. The only sign of a recent presence was a familiar-looking card table and four chairs in the kitchen.

“They’ve been here,” Mac said. “The table. The chairs. They’re clean, new, recently used, and the same as we found at that house in St. Paul.”

Mac was out the back door and jogged to the large pole barn. The front and back doors were open. It was empty other than a few cement blocks, scraps of wood, two sawhorses, and four new garden shovels and a new spade leaning against the wall. Mac walked to the shovels, the metal still shiny. He looked to his left. At the far end a deputy was kneeling down, picking at the dirt with a pen.

“What do you have?” Mac asked, hustling up to him.

“Sawdust,” the deputy replied. “It’s just kind of spread here in the dirt, and it’s spread around here.” The deputy saw the look on Mac’s face. “Is this important?”

“Yes,” Lich replied as he walked up. “Mac, did you see the new shovels and sawhorses over along the wall there?”

“Yes,” Mac answered as he jogged out the back door of the pole barn, his hand over his eyes as he scanned the property.

Sheriff Head walked up to them. “House is clear. I assume you noted the chairs and table in the kitchen.”

Mac nodded, but kept the search on. “How big is this piece of property again?”

“Eighty acres,” Head replied, following Mac as he started to walk back toward the driveway. “It runs out the back, east to the property line for the state park. What are you looking at?”

Mac walked quickly past the sheriff’s Suburbans and his Explorer to where a jagged road ran back toward the state park. Mac kneeled down where the road ventured into taller grass. There appeared to be fresh or at least recent tire tracks. “I think someone’s driven through here recently.”

He stood up and looked up at a thick forest in the distance, perhaps a half mile or a little more away. The road—practically a trail through the taller grass—meandered like a stream in the direction of the trees. Mac closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and thought back to the kidnappers’ video, the view out the windshield that showed high grass, weeds, and a rough road up to a heavily wooded area. Then later they’re in the woods, thick woods, burying the girls.

He opened his eyes, looking again into the distance. The land looked right. As Mac looked around, he couldn’t see another house or building anywhere in the distance. He knew O’Brien State Park. The area that was frequented by the general public was along the St. Croix River, not on the land backing up to the farm.

“Sheriff, how far to the state park line?”

“Like I said, it’s an eighty-acre plot,” Head replied, pointing straight out. “It goes back, I don’t know, maybe another quarter of a mile, maybe a little more to the property line.”

“Is there a fence or boundary for the state park?”

“No,” Head replied, shaking his head. “There are some green posts every so often that mark it, but there isn’t a fence or anything.”

Mac turned to the sheriff. “There are a bunch of new shovels in the pole barn. Grab them!” he yelped back over his shoulder, running to the Explorer.

“Mac!” Lich yelled, running behind him. “Where are you going?’

“You drive,” Mac ordered, handing the keys to Lich. “Follow the trail.”

“You think the girls are out there?”

“No,” he answered. “I know it.”

• • • • •

As the van took I-35E south into downtown St. Paul, an FBI tech taped body mics to the chests of the chief and Lyman. “Just speak normally,” Burton said. “These are very sensitive microphones. They’ll pick up any conversation you have, even if you whisper.”

Lyman and the chief both nodded, tucking their shirts back into their pants.

“Downtown’s pretty quiet today. Won’t be anyone around,” the chief said. “It’ll be hard for you to be close.”

“We’ve got you wired, and we’ve got the tracker in the bags,” Duffy said.

“We won’t be far, and your boys will be around and they know the streets,” Burton said calmly. “Just concentrate on getting your girls back, and we’ll worry about the rest.”

The chief sat down next to Peters and asked in a whisper, “What do you think?”

“Watch your back,” Peters replied quietly.

“Two blocks,” the driver yelled.

Burton and Duffy each handed bags to the chief and Lyman.

• • • • •

Foxx pulled up to the curb just short of the corner of Main Street and West Fifth Street. She was parked a block back from Riley and Rockford, who’d taken a left on West Fifth Street and parked their white Chevy S-10 along the side, just short of the end of the street. The reporter could see Rockford, who had a set of binoculars put up to his eyes.

“What are they watching?” the cameraman asked, filming across Heather from the passenger side.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Heather answered.

• • • • •

The truck pulled up to the corner, and the chief and Lyman jumped out. Without a word, Burton slid the door closed. The truck pulled away down Washington Street and turned right on Kellogg Boulevard, heading out of sight.

Lyman and the chief walked up onto the corner. The chief scanned Rice Park, a park shaded by mature trees. The park took up the entire block, with benches lining walkways running diagonally from the outside of the block to the large marble fountain in the middle. The park was empty.

“What next?” Lyman asked.

Just then a ringing sound came from the garbage can sitting on the corner.

“That,” Flanagan answered as he looked down and then reached into the can, pulling out a duffel bag. A cell phone with a traditional telephone ring tone was inside. The chief answered.

“Flanagan.”

• • • • •

Paddy McRyan stood in the empty St. Paul Grill restaurant, inside the St. Paul Hotel, peering out the large picture window that looked out across market Street and into Rice Park. He watched the chief grab a bag out of the garbage can, pull the cell phone out, and start walking toward the water fountain in the center of the park. “Captain, they’re getting into the fountain, they’re going underwater,” Paddy said as calmly as he could, knowing what would happen to the body mics.

“Copy that,” Peters replied into Paddy’s earpiece. And then, his captain confirmed his worst fears. “We’ve lost audio contact.”

“We need to keep an eyeball,” Paddy said urgently into his radio, moving to his right to improve his viewing angle.

“Copy that,” Peters answered, taking charge. “What are they doing now?”

“They’re out of the fountain.” Paddy put his binoculars to his eyes, focusing the view. “The chief is on a cell phone. Do we have audio back?”

“Negative. We are not getting that feed.”

Paddy watched as Hisle and the chief knelt down to the ground, just out of his view. He couldn’t see what they were doing. After a minute, they slung the nylon bags over their shoulders. “They’re on the move, south, hold on…” The detective moved to his left, to the far edge of the picture window. “The chief and Hisle are walking out of Rice Park, south, back along Washington Street over to Kellogg.”

“Are you sure?” Peters asked. “The tracking devices in the bags show them stationary.”

That explained why they had knelt down. “They transferred the ransom into different bags. They are now out of my line of sight.”

• • • • •

“I’m on the west side of the Xcel Center,” Riles said into a radio. “They’ll have to come out onto Kellogg Boulevard, and we have a good viewpoint.”

“Copy that,” Burton replied. “But keep your distance. Hang on… I’m looking at the map…”

“We’ll hold along West Seventh and Kellogg,” Riley responded. “We should have an eyeball if they walk our way.”

“Do that, but hold to the corner,” Burton ordered.

Rock pulled his truck up to the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg, holding in the left hand turn lane, his hazard lights on in case anyone pulled up from behind. Riley was looking east as Kellogg gently curved away like a half-moon. Flanagan and Hisle came into view, walking across the street to the sidewalk on the south side of Kellogg. They turned west, walking toward Riles and Rock. Three hundred yards away, a half-dozen people waited at a bus stop in front of the pedestrian tunnel entrance to the RiverCentre parking ramp, an underground ramp built into the bluff over the Mississippi River. You could enter the ramp with your car from Kellogg Boulevard on top or from Eagle Street, which ran eighty feet below Kellogg at the bottom of the bluff.

“We have them in view. They are walking in our direction,” Riley reported into the radio.

“They’re stopping,” Rock added. “They’re stopping.”

“Be advised the chief and Hisle have approached a group of people waiting at a bus stop at the RiverCentre parking ramp,” Riles said. “Are they going to put them on a bus?” he asked Rock.

“Looks like it,” Rock answered. Just then a bus approached from the south on West Seventh. It had its turn signal to take a right.

“We have an MTC Bus, an articulated bus, approaching our position from West Seventh. It’s turning east on Kellogg.” Riles gave the bus number and read the digital board over the windshield. “Be advised. The digital board on the bus says it is going to the Taste of Minnesota.” The Taste of Minnesota was a large food and music festival taking place on Harriet Island on the south side of the Mississippi River, opposite downtown. The culmination of the Taste was the big Fourth of July fireworks show. There were thousands of people on the island taking in the concerts and food.

“Those buses must be thirty, maybe forty feet long,” Rock said.

“If not longer,” Riles responded and then to Burton he said, “They’re going to run the chief and Lyman through the crowds at the Taste and try to lose us.”

Burton’s voice came over the radio. “We’re flooding the Taste of Minnesota. I want units converging on that location now.”

“That’ll help,” Rock said, relieved.

“About fuckin’ time we got after it,” Riles added.

The bus pulled up to the stop. The chief and Hisle were out of their view now, hidden behind the bus.

“Do I turn?” Rock asked, anxious.

“Hold here,” Riles responded coolly. “We have temporarily lost visual,” he reported. “We are blocked by the bus.” They didn’t have enough assets in the area at the right spots. “If they get on, we’ll follow.”

“Copy that,” Burton answered.

Twenty seconds later, the bus’s brake lights went off and it pulled east down Kellogg Boulevard. There was nobody remaining at the bus stop.

“Be advised, Flanagan and Hisle are on the bus,” Riley reported.

Rock turned left and followed.

• • • • •

Lich accelerated along the path, which had started to smooth out. The sheriff and his deputies followed behind them. The tall grass was halfway up the doors on the Explorer at points as the trail snaked its way towards the tree line. A green metal stake appeared to their left, just as the sheriff said.

“That’s the property line for the park,” Mac explained. The trees were getting ever closer.

The tire tracks turned in a slow arc to the left until they ran parallel with the tree-line, now two hundred yards to the right.

“God, I wish I had the laptop with me,” Mac muttered as he closed his eyes again, pulling up the video in his memory bank. He recalled the van turning to run parallel to the tree line and then abruptly turning right, into the high grass, directly to the woods. Opening his eyes, he saw it, fifty feet ahead, a right turn into the high grass. “Turn right.”

“I got it, partner. I remember this from yesterday,” Lich said, slowing the Explorer and turning right to follow the fresh tire tracks. “These aren’t too old, Mac. A day or two at the most.”

Mac nodded. The adrenaline was rushing through him now as Lich closed in on the edge of the trees. “Where is it?” Mac said. “Where is it?” He peered at the line of trees, looking for it.

“What? What are you lookin’ for?”

“That!” Mac pointed at a tree with orange tape tied around it. “That orange tie. That was on the video. They’re here. They’re here.” He grabbed a flashlight out of the glove compartment and jumped out of the truck before it had even stopped and ran frantically along the tree line, looking for the next sign. Where had they gone in? Mac worked his way down the edge of the tree line to the right of the orange tape. That felt like the right way. The box was wide. It would have been natural to slide it out of the van and walk straight back. The opening needed to be wider to allow them to operate in the dense trees.

He found it forty feet back from where they were parked, an opening with a jagged path that angled further into the trees. Crouching down, he saw matted-down grass and brush. The trees along the path showed broken branches and scraped bark. The area had been trampled through and recently.

“In here,” Mac said, following the trampled path into the woods, Lich was right behind, with the sheriff and his men trailing with shovels. “We’re looking for a white PVC pipe,” Mac yelled back. “At most, it’ll be sticking up three or four inches out of the ground.”

Mac moved another fifty feet ahead and stopped, wiping the perspiration from his brow. He could feel his hair soaking with sweat and his shirt clinging to his body. There were fresh tracks in the ground straight ahead of him; another set branched to the right off of a larger tree. Lich tracked to the right, while Mac moved straight ahead, deeper into the woods. The mosquitoes hovered in vicious swarms. Within fifteen feet of the split they walked into a clearing, maybe twenty by twenty feet. A thick layer of loose branches and leaves covered the forest floor. Mac panned right to left with his flashlight, and the light bounced off of something unnaturally white beneath a camouflaging layer of twigs and branches.

“There! There it is!” Mac yelled, running and then sliding down to his knees, ripping the debris away from the open pipe.

“CARRIE! CARRIE! CARRIE FLANAGAN! SHANNON HISLE! WE’RE HERE! WE’RE HERE!” Mac yelled down the pipe. He waved frantically to the deputies. “Get those shovels over here! We’ve found them! We found them!” He bent down again, mouth to the pipe, shouting, “CARRIE! SHANNON! WE’RE HERE! WE’RE HERE!”

• • • • •

Carrie held Shannon in her arms. Shannon’s breathing had become more labored, and she was showing no signs of consciousness for the last few minutes. It was just after six now. Carrie didn’t think she had any tears left, but she started to cry one more time.

Sobbing, she almost didn’t hear it. Then she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. It was there and then it was gone. But then it was there again, muffled, coming from the air pipe, but it was unmistakable. “Carrie! Shannon! Hang on!”

She scrambled over to the vent and yelled as loud as she could. “HELP! HELP! WE’RE DOWN HERE, WE’RE DOWN HERE! HELP US! HELP US!”

• • • • •

“I think I heard something,” Mac said, holding up his hand. Everyone froze. He heard the voice, faint beneath the earth. “I hear them! They’re down there! They’re down there! DIG!”

The deputies dug haphazardly, throwing dirt everywhere. “How far down are they?” the sheriff asked.

“Four feet, maybe five.” Mac replied. “In a large wood box, two feet high, four feet wide, six feet long, running to the left of the pipe.”

Four deputies were working furiously in the loose soil. Mac stood up and Lich gave him a big hug, lifting him off the ground. “You son of a bitch. You unbelievable son of bitch.”

Mac paused to regather his wits. “Sheriff, we’re going to need an air ambulance out here. Shannon Hisle is a type 1 diabetic. She’s been without insulin for at least two days, probably more. She’s going to be in rough shape. Get an ER doc on that chopper, and I want you to call North Memorial, not Regions in St. Paul.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story, but someone is working this from the inside. So if we fly into St. Paul, that could end up bad for the chief and Hisle. You need to do this quietly, Sheriff—keep it off the airwaves.”

“I understand,” the sheriff replied, reaching for a cell phone instead of a radio.

“One other thing,” Mac said. “In the center console of my Explorer is a black bag. It has a syringe and insulin in it, bring that back.”

The sheriff nodded and jogged as quickly as he could out of the woods, Lich in tow.

“Dick, call Riles,” Mac yelled after them.

• • • • •

“Where are these guys going?” Heather Foxx’s cameraman said as they followed the pickup truck over the Wabasha Bridge and the Mississippi River below.

“I think toward the Taste of Minnesota—Harriet Island. The chief and Hisle must be on that bus,” Foxx answered. “This could be really good. Shoot some footage.”

• • • • •

“What’s up with the ransom?’ Mac asked Lich as he hung up his cell phone.

“The chief and Hisle are on a bus heading to the Taste of Minnesota. Riles thinks they’re going to try to run the chief and Hisle through the crowd and either do a drop of the money or try to lose the chief and Lyman.”

“Are they tracking them?”

“Only with an eyeball,” Lich replied. “They hooked up body mics and tracking in the bags, but now both are compromised.”

“How?” Mac asked, and Lich explained.

“We have the girls. Let’s just move in,” Mac griped. “We’ll get Brown and the Muellers later.”

“That’s what I said,” Dick answered. “But Riley wants that fucking mole, and he figures the best way to get him is to catch Brown and the Muellers at the Taste of Minnesota. Burton doesn’t know about the girls, but he senses the danger to the chief and Lyman as well. He’s locking Harriet Island down. He’s got two choppers overhead. He’s flooding the area with agents and cops, the whole nine yards.”

Thump.

Mac turned his head.

The deputy pushed the shovel down again.

Thump. Thump.

It was the unmistakable sound of a shovel hitting wood.

“Clear the top! Find the sides! Find the sides!” Mac yelled frantically. A deputy quickly found one side and Mac jumped down into the pit, kneeled down and noted the screws, one every six inches along the side. He climbed back out and looked to another deputy standing to the side. He climbed back out and looked to another deputy standing to the side. “The top is screwed into this thing. We’re going to need crowbars, tire irons, anything to help pry the top off. Go!”

The deputy ran out while another retuned with an update. “North Memorial’s chopper is in route, ER doc on board. ETA is less than fifteen minutes.”

The deputies worked frantically to dig out the sides of the box enough so they could have leverage to pry up the top of the box. It took a couple of minutes of digging and clearing. The deputy returned with four crowbars and two tire irons.

Mac and Lich jumped down into the pit to the right side of the box. The remaining deputies surrounded the box. Everyone jammed the crowbars and tire irons in, prying in between the top and side pieces, pushing down with all their strength to pry the top off. At first the screws wouldn’t give, but under continuous pressure, the screws started to come loose, groaning loudly, and the top came off with an ear-shattering pop and was pushed to the left.

Everyone froze.

Carrie Flanagan laid on the right and Shannon Hisle the left. Flanagan looked up and shaded her eyes with her left hand. Her hair was matted, and there were dirty tear streaks down her cheeks. Hisle was curled up in a fetal position, unmoving.

Mac jumped into the box, between the girls, and helped Carrie up. Two of the sheriff’s deputies lifted her out. Mac knelt down to Shannon, checking her pulse and listening to her chest. She was breathing. Her breathing was rapid, and Mac noted her breath smelled almost fruity.

“Carrie, how long has she been like this?”

“I don’t kn… kn… know for sure,” Carrie chattered. “She’s been fading in and out for the last couple of hours.”

“What’s her status?” the sheriff asked.

“She’s unconscious. Her pulse is rapid and so is her breathing,” Mac replied as he lifted Shannon and handed her up out of the box. He climbed out and took her limp body from the deputies, carrying her as the group made its way out of the woods. Once clear of the trees, Mac gently laid Hisle down next to the trucks, lightly slapping her face.

“Shannon! Shannon! Goddamn it, you hang on, do you hear me?”

Her head lay against the deputy’s lap.

The sheriff dropped down a first aid kit next to them. Mac checked her pulse while Lich opened up the box and grabbed the blood pressure monitor.

“I’ve got her pulse at 120,” Mac said.

“Blood pressure is low,” Lich reported. “Eighty-one over forty-five.”

“The black bag!” Mac said. “Get me the Glucose Meter.”

Dick handed it to Mac and he tested Shannon.

“What’s it say?” Lich asked.

“The glucose is high, way high. She needs insulin.”

Lich reached inside the black bag and handed Mac a needle and small bottle of insulin. Mac pulled the cover off the needle and stuck it into the top of the bottle, drawing out ten units of regular insulin, just as Lyman had instructed. He rolled Shannon onto her side and plunged the needle into her lower abdomen, injecting the drug into her system.

“Will that snap her out of it?” the sheriff asked.

“I don’t know,” Mac answered. “The girl’s father told us that if she was in this condition when we found her, this is what she would need.” After a minute he stood up, leaving the deputy to monitor Hisle’s pulse. He walked over to Carrie, who sat on the bumper of the Explorer with a bottle of water in her hands. Her face was blank, nearly lifeless.

“I told Shannon you’d find us,” Carrie said weakly as Mac sat down next to her. “I told her you’d find us,” she repeated as she started to cry again. Mac put his arm around her shoulder and held her.

“Wait a second,” the deputy said, his hand on Shannon’s wrist and his eyes on his watch, “I think we’re getting a little better here.”

Hisle’s eyes fluttered and her breathing regulated. Mac kneeled down and put his right hand to her face. “That’s it, Shannon, come back to us.”

“W… w… water,” she said weakly. A deputy quickly handed down a bottle, and Mac put it to her lips, letting her take some small sips.

Mac looked up. Lich smiled broadly as the sound of a chopper rose in the distance. The sheriff moved away and shot up a flare. Within a minute, the helicopter was touching down, the whoosh of the blades matting down the tall grass. The ER doc, in his hospital blues, was out of the chopper and on Shannon in an instant, checking her eyes and pulse. McRyan gave him the status report.

“You gave her insulin?” the doc asked.

“Her glucose was high,” Mac answered. “So she needed insulin. We gave her ten units.”

“Good,” the doctor answered as he checked Shannon’s glucose again. “The ten units looks like it was a good start.” He reached into his own box of supplies and pulled out another bottle of insulin and administered another ten units. He then set up an IV. The paramedics put her on a stretcher and transported her over to the chopper. The doctor stood up and came to Carrie, “How are you doing, young lady?”

“I think better,” Mac answered when the young woman said nothing. “She seems okay, physically at least.” They all knew that her injuries would be psychological.

The doctor looked Carrie in the eye and said, “How about you come with us, okay?”

Carrie looked at Mac, who smiled and nodded. “You go. I’ll see you at the hospital later.”

• • • • •

Gail Carlson sat on the county road, a quarter mile away from the farmhouse. It had been nearly a half hour since the police went up to the house. She’d driven down the road a little further, inching closer, but neither the Suburbans nor McRyan’s Explorer were around the farmhouse now. She heard it first, and then saw a North Memorial helicopter, flying low and fast from the south and passing right over the farmhouse. It passed out of her sight, but almost immediately the sound of its rotors changed to one she knew from experience meant that it was landing. Carlson figured it meant one thing. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Heather Foxx.

“I think McRyan might have found the girls.”

“Where?”

Carlson related her current position in Marine on St. Croix. “So where are you at right now?”

“Following two other cops. We just pulled up to the Taste of Minnesota. The cops are all over a bus that Flanagan and Hisle jumped onto.”

“So do you want to go with the story? That they found the girls?”

Foxx heard the question, but was looking at Pat Riley and Bobby Rockford racing back to the pickup and blowing out of the parking lot, siren blaring. Something was amiss. “Not yet Gail. Something’s not right here.”

• • • • •

Lich smiled around a fresh cigar in his mouth as he handed one to Mac. “Goddamn it Mac, we found them. Man did you pull a rabbit out of the hat with this one!”

Mac smiled, reaching out to take the cigar, but he paused when he saw the time on his watch. “We’re not quite done yet, my friend,” he said. “Six twenty-one: they should be at the Taste of Minnesota any minute.”

Mac’s cell phone chirped. It was Riley. “Do you have the chief? What? Wait. Slow down. Say that again. How in the hell can that happen?”

“What? What’s wrong?” Lich asked, his smile gone.

Mac looked at him with a stunned expression. “The chief and Lyman weren’t on the bus.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“So we play dumb for now?”

Smith followed well back of the minivan driven by Flanagan and Hisle on Shepard Road. The street ducked under the Robert Street Bridge and became Warner Road, with the Mississippi River running parallel on the immediate right. Smith, as well as Flanagan and Hisle, were free and clear of the FBI and police.

As Hisle and Flanagan had waited with the crowd at the bus stop, there was virtually no way for anyone following them to see them as the bus pulled up. Smith and Monica had scouted the location for a month, watching from various positions and angles, anticipating what the police would do. They had discussed contingencies with Burton and ways that he could control the situation from his end.

The Fourth of July holiday was the key. The arena, convention center, and the skyway that connected the arena to the parking garage would have provided surveillance stations on a normal day. But the skyway and the convention center were closed for the holiday. The only unobstructed view of the bus stop was at the Holiday Inn, where Monica had in fact been watching a white pickup truck parked in the left hand turn lane on West Seventh. The pickup had to be the cops, sitting pat in the turn lane with the hazard lights on through several green lights. Of course, the passenger using binoculars was a dead giveaway as well. Had the truck turned left at just the right time, maybe, just maybe, the police would have seen Flanagan and Hisle slip back ten feet and down into the RiverCentre ramp while everyone else climbed onto the bus.

Once Flanagan and Hisle were inside the parking ramp, they went down one level to a waiting blue minivan. One minute later, while the police were tailing the bus, the police chief and the lawyer were exiting onto Eagle Street, far below Kellogg Avenue and the bus stop.

When they exited the ramp, Smith, and only Smith, was waiting on the side of southbound Eagle. He watched Hisle and Flanagan approach in his rearview mirror. A dashboard camera in the minivan provided David, who was waiting on the boat, with a live video feed of Hisle and Flanagan as they drove the van. David in turn provided updates to Smith as he followed. The police scanner sat in his passenger seat. It had been quiet, with no sign that the police had yet realized they’d lost them. That wouldn’t last long.

Smith picked up the handheld radio and spoke to the van. “You’re doing well, Chief,” Smith said. “Stay on Warner until we get to 10.”

“Who are you?” Flanagan asked a few minutes later, as the van approached the intersection with County 10. “Tell me who the hell you are!”

“I can’t do that yet, Chief,” Smith answered calmly, two hundred yards behind the van. “When I’m satisfied, then we’ll talk about the girls.”

“We’ll talk?” Flanagan growled with angst in his voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“Patience, Chief. I want to see you as much as you want to see me,” Smith answered. He savored the thought of finally confronting Flanagan, of finally feeling the satisfaction for which he’d waited for years. But there was business to attend to first. “Turn left on 10. We’re going to Burns Park. There’s a red van waiting for you in the parking lot, and the key for it is in the glove box.”

The two men did as instructed. Smith pulled past them, driving another five hundred yards before making a U-turn.

He wanted this last change of vehicles. The police would go back to the parking ramp soon enough, and surveillance footage would give them the blue minivan and the plate number. Changing into the red van would put them in the wind.

• • • • •

“Mother fucker,” Flanagan said bitterly as he tossed the handheld radio onto the dashboard.

“We know who they are, or at least who this Brown is. You arrested him all those years ago,” Lyman said from the passenger seat. “Why not just tell them? Why not just talk to them like that?”

“Because then they’ll know we’re onto them, that we know who they are,” the chief replied. “If we do that, they might assume we know where they are, that we’re closing in. If we do that, they could kill the girls.”

“So we play dumb for now?”

“We give my boys as much time as possible.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“I know you found the girls.”

“What the hell happened?” Mac asked, still sitting in his Explorer outside the woods.

“Sleight of hand,” Riles explained. “They picked a good spot. We didn’t, hell, couldn’t have an eyeball on them, believe me.” Pat sighed, and Mac could hear the frustration in his voice. “They just picked a good spot. We thought they were on the bus. It’s ten minutes, and the bus gets over to the Taste of Minnesota. It had one stop just before it went over the river on the Robert Street Bridge and nobody got off, only on. Then when it got to the Taste of Minnesota and emptied, the chief and Hisle weren’t there. They never got on that damn bus in the first place.”

Mac closed his eyes. Such a simple thing—never having them get on the bus. It was brilliant, really.

“Where are you now?”

“We’re driving hack to HQ. We have a surveillance video from the garage attendant that we’ll have the techs take a closer look at.”

“What do you see on it?”

“The chief and Lyman leaving in a blue Dodge Sport minivan about a minute after the bus pulled away from the bus stop. We’ve got a plate and a broadcast out. We’re pulling over any and all blue Dodge Sport minivans. Nothing as of yet, but we’re pulling everything over.”

Mac pinched the bridge of his nose. They had made a trade. They had the girls, but the chief and Lyman were out of reach. While they had a plate for the van, the window of time to find the chief and Hisle before they changed vehicles would be small, if not already closed. “Pat, Brown and the Muellers had to know you’d be tailing the bus, and that when the chief and Lyman weren’t on it, that you would double back to the bus stop. They have to know the surveillance footage from the parking ramp will give you the plate for the van.”

“They’ll be ready, won’t they,” Riles said. It was an answer, not a question.

“They’ve been ready for everything else,” Mac answered. “There’ll be a switch at some out-of-the-way place. I’ll bet a month’s pay you’ll find it abandoned somewhere.”

Riles sighed and then said, “No bet.”

Then there was the mole. Mac hadn’t spent much time thinking about that for the past couple of hours. But now they needed to pursue that angle full-bore, and they had little to go on.

“Who’s the mole?” Mac asked.

“Hell if I know. You have any theories on who it might be?” Riles fired back. “I mean, beyond someone in the department with a connection to Brown or the Muellers?”

“How about the FBI? How about Duffy?” Mac asked, already grasping at straws.

“Or the mayor,” Lich added. “I wouldn’t put anything past him. Not the way he’s operated the last couple of days.”

“No way,” Riles answered. “I know Duffy and the chief don’t exchange Christmas cards, but I find it hard to believe he would do this. What’s the upside in that? And the mayor isn’t smart enough to pull this off. And besides, what evidence do we have?”

“Nothing, other than they were both around yesterday when the call from Stewart Avenue came in,” Mac answered.

“As were thirty or forty other people. What? Are we going to haul them all in?” Riles said skeptically.

“You have any better ideas?”

Riles got quiet on the other end. “I don’t. I gotta talk to Peters about it. What are you doing?”

“We’re lying in wait out here for now,” Mac answered. “Who knows, Brown and the Muellers could show. Where’s Peters?”

“He’s already back at HQ with Burton and his crew, working the broadcast on the van. It’s the only lead we got.”

“Get back there and talk to Peters, see what he thinks. The clock is ticking, and we need to make a move.” Mac hung up, but his phone beeped at him. Sally.

• • • • •

Heather Foxx trailed Rockford and Riley for two hours. She had watched as Riley, Rockford, Peters, and the FBI taped up the parking garage as a crime scene, everyone tight-lipped and grim. Now they seemed to be heading back to police headquarters. It certainly looked like they’d lost Hisle and Flanagan. She thought about the call from Carlson. The medical chopper was in and out fast, but she still had no confirmation that the girls had been found. The police weren’t talking about it at all. Gail Carlson was the only media on the scene at North Memorial, which was in lockdown mode. None of the stations had that story yet.

If the girls had been found, it didn’t seem to make anyone happy. It was as if McRyan wasn’t letting everyone, or anyone for that matter, in on the rescue. She doubted he’d be keeping that from Riley and Rockford. Those two were McRyan’s guys, along with Lich. But then why was McRyan driving from St. Paul, to Osseo, to Wyoming and now Marine on St. Croix? Perhaps the kidnappers called in the location of the girls. But if that were the case, she probably would have heard something. It was time to find out what the hell was going on.

“I’ll be back,” she told the cameraman as they parked two rows behind Rockford’s truck in the police parking lot.

“You don’t want me to come with?”

“No, and don’t shoot anything either. This will be off the record.”

Heather hopped out of the car and walked toward Riley and Rockford. She’d never really spoken to the veteran detectives, other than to say hello. As she approached, Riley was pacing back and forth, talking on a cell phone and Rockford was leaning against the truck. Rock saw Heather first, said something to Riley who turned around. She caught his eye as he hung up the phone. It was time to take a chance.

“I know you found the girls,” she blurted.

Riley and Rock tried to remain neutral, but Rock twitched, just enough to tell Heather she was right. “I know you found them, detectives,” she said. No notepad, no camera, just her making a statement. “I had someone monitoring the police bands up around Forest Lake and heard about the call at Hanburg’s Hardware. I’ve had a reporter following McRyan since. She saw a medical chopper come in over some farm up by Marine on St. Croix. It wasn’t there long, and McRyan was running around with Washington County sheriff’s deputies.”

“Heather, you’re right, but you can’t report that right now,” Riles pleaded. “Hell, only a few of us know about it. Not even the FBI knows yet.”

“Why not?”

Riley ignored the question. “How long you been watching us?”

“Last couple of hours, followed you down to the Taste of Minnesota and then back up here.”

“So what do you think happened?” Rock asked with an edge.

“I assume something went awry with the ransom.”

“Worse,” Riles replied, pausing and then running his hand through his thick back hair. The big detective exhaled. “It’s much worse. The chief and Hisle are missing. They’re out of pocket, and we don’t have a clue as to where they are. If you go with the girls being found, the chief and Lyman are as good as dead.”

It was Heather’s turn to go silent. There was more than just a story at stake here. She could scoop everyone else. Nobody knew the girls were alive. The story would be huge for her and her career. But if she went with the story, Riley was probably right. Flanagan and Hisle would be dead. She quickly decided to do the right thing, but worked it to her advantage, “I’ll hold it, but…”

“You want something back in return?”

“An exclusive with McRyan about how the girls were found.”

“Done,” Riley answered. He and Rock turned to walk inside.

That wasn’t a bad deal, the inside story. The networks weren’t going to be getting that. “I had the report of McRyan driving up and around Forest Lake today, so I figured something was up,” Heather said to them as they walked away. “You said the FBI doesn’t know. I figured they did since that Burton guy was up there last night.”

Riley and Rock both turned around, surprised looks on their faces. “Burton was up in Forest Lake?” Riley asked.

“Yeah. Last night, after midnight, up at a place called the Ranger. Do you know it?”

“It’s the local hangout in Forest Lake,” Riley answered, striding back to her. “What was Burton doing up there?”

Heather could tell that something about Burton’s little jaunt was important. “He met up with a man. They talked in a booth for a while and then they both left. I’m not much for surveillance work, as I missed both of them leaving the place.”

“What did the man Burton met look like?” Riley asked. “Height, weight, age, appearance? What did this fuckin’ man look like?”

“Forty-five to fifty, I’d guess. Black hair, graying at the temples, big nose, and he wore glasses. I’d say he was maybe five-ten to six feet tall. That’s a guess based on Burton’s height. They sat eye to eye in the booth, so I assume similar height and weight.”

Riley was suddenly agitated. “Heather, you’re sure?”

Foxx nodded.

“Rock, grab the folder out of the truck.”

• • • • •

“I have everyone here, running the names of the local FBI agents and Burton’s people through Lyman’s files and the department records,” Sally reported to Mac. She flipped through binder-clipped sheets of paper. “Scheifelbein has been running Brown and Mueller against the personnel records for the department for the last hour or so. We haven’t found anything on anyone except…”

“Except who? Duffy? The mayor?” Mac asked, his cell phone on speaker so Lich could hear.

“John Burton.”

“What?” Mac asked in total disbelief. Lich was on alert as well. “You can’t be serious?”

“Yes. Burton was stationed out of the local FBI office here in the early nineties,” Sally said, reading from Hagen’s computer screen.

“What else?”

“He left in August 1992, went to Washington, and moved to missing persons.”

“Moved from what?”

“While he was here, he worked the usual assortment of cases, some missing persons, bank robbery, and drug enforcement.”

“Drug enforcement?”

“Yeah, he worked with the DEA, and that’s where the connection comes in. It’s cryptic, but on a couple of occasions Brown’s name shows up with Burton’s on some drug cases. But then Burton transferred back out to DC in August 1992.”

“When did Brown do this drug deal that put him in the joint?”

“Looks like February or March 1992. He had his gambling issues. The record indicates he lost big on a 1992 Super Bowl bet. At that point, he started moving the drugs to cover it.”

“That’s the Super Bowl that was at the Metrodome,” Mac said, scratching his head. “He must have bet heavy on the Buffalo Bills and they got smoked by the Redskins.”

Mac rubbed his bottom lip with his index finger, Burton was in town in February and March of 1992, working drug cases. Both men worked for federal law enforcement out of the Twin Cities at that time. It wouldn’t be that unusual for them to cross paths. Besides, what motivation could Burton possibly have for helping Brown? Even better, what leverage could Brown possibly have to make Burton put his career and life in jeopardy?

“Take a look at Brown’s file again. When did he go to trial and get sentenced?”

Sally looked to Hagen, who found the record and opened it. Sally put her finger to the screen and read down. “Brown went to trial in December of 1992 and was sentenced to fifteen years, which started immediately. He was released this past December.”

Mac thought for a minute, “Sally, what does the FBI file say with regard to Brown’s case?”

Sally looked to Hagen and Jupiter, who were opening FBI files, going way beyond what little authority they had, but none of them blinked an eye. After a minute, Hagen said, “Here it is.”

“Hang on, Mac. I’m scrolling through it.” It took Sally a few minutes to read through the case summary. As she read the last paragraph she muttered, “Oh my God.”

“What?” Mac asked, hearing her.

“Mac, listen to this, I’m reading from a final report on Brown’s case. ‘Brown sold cocaine with a street value of slightly over $300,000, yet his gambling debts were only $150,000 and there were no financial records for Agent Brown and his spouse that account for the other $150,000. Agent Brown claims to have sold it at a low price, so as to move it quickly and quietly and pay off his debt to his bookmaker. It is possible that Brown took the other half of the money and placed it into a bank account. We have been unable to unearth any records that would support such a transaction. Instead, it is suspected that others may have been involved with Agent Brown. Agent Brown has denied this, despite repeated questioning and offers of a reduced sentence in return for the identification of any accomplices. At this time, there is no evidence pointing to any specific accomplices. In light of this, we consider this matter closed unless Agent Brown chooses to cooperate.’ Mac what if…”

“Burton was the accomplice,” Mac finished for her. It was a stretch, a big one, but it was also plausible. “It’s a big leap, but I can see it. Brown gets out, wants payback, and look who the FBI’s top kidnapping gun is? His old partner in crime, John Burton. So either Burton helps him because he’s his old friend or Brown holds it over his head, threatening to expose him if he doesn’t. However it goes down, he’s had Burton working this thing from the inside, and that mother fucker walks the chief and Lyman right into his hands. It’s possible.”

“Maybe, Mac,” Sally said. “We’re just inferring here. There is nothing in the records that we have that show that Burton was even under suspicion. Burton’s file does not mention the Brown case at all.”

“Nevertheless, Burton worked here at the time, and on drug cases. The timeline works.”

“But how can you know?” Sally said. “This isn’t much to go on.”

“See if he’s been in town lately,” Mac answered. “I’m calling Riley.”

• • • • •

Rock pulled the pictures out of the manila folder, handing them to Foxx. “Is this the guy you saw last night?”

Heather looked through the photos and stopped on one with a left-profile shot of an older man. She leaned back against Rockford’s truck, closed her eyes, and thought back to the night before. The nose looked right, and the graying hair at the temples. The jaw line, the nose, it all looked right. “That’s the guy. Who is he?”

“Heather, your deal just got better. A lot better,” Riles said, but he wasn’t smiling. “But you have to sit on the story now. That guy is named Smith Brown. We’re pretty sure he is the man behind the kidnappings.”

It was Foxx’s turn to be stunned. “Oh my… my… God,” Heather stammered, putting her hands to her throat. “If I’d only said something before now…”

Rock waved her off. “No way you could have known, sister.”

“And Burton’s been sabotaging the investigation from the inside,” Heather breathed.

“Looks like it. You’ve done good, real good, Heather. We appreciate it, we really do.” Riles reached for his cell phone, which was already ringing. “It’s as if the mother fucker reads my mind or something.”

“What?” Rock said.

“It’s Mac,” Riles replied, hitting the answer button. “Listen Mac…”

“It might be Burton, Riles. It’s really a stretch, but I can manufacture a scenario in which that mother fucker has been playing us all along.”

“God, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Figure this out, especially from where you are?”

Mac explained Sally’s investigation. “I know it’s weak, but…”

“It’s not weak. As a matter of fact it’s dead on the nuts,” Riles said, his turn to spring a surprise on Mac. He told him about Foxx’s trip the night before.

“Holy shit,” Mac said. His phone beeped. It was Sally. “Pat, hang on,” he said and switched lines. “What do you got?”

“Burton’s been to town three times in the last four months,” Sally exclaimed. “His last trip in was three weeks ago. Five days—he came on a Wednesday and flew out on a Sunday night.” It was at about the time Smith and Monica showed up in Osseo to meet with Dean and David. It was all coming together. “Great work, babe,” he said and switched back to Riles to report the new information.

“It’s him, Mac. He’s the source,” Riles said. “He has to be.”

“That’s enough for us to move,” Mac said. “Tell Heather we owe her.”

“She knows. I’ve struck a deal with her, and you’re the bargain, Mac.”

“No problem. But listen, we don’t have much time,” Mac said. His voice went cold. “You two know what needs to be done.”

“With fuckin’ pleasure,” Riles answered, looking over at Rock, who was punching his fist into the palm of his hand. “With fuckin’ pleasure.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Right during the rockets’ red glare.”

“Take the Highway 95 exit and drive north toward Stillwater,” Smith ordered, still five hundred yards behind. He’d driven them around the Twin Cities for the last hour and a half, tailing them all the way. Monica had been even further back in a different vehicle, watching Smith’s back and looking for anyone tailing him. When it was apparent that the police were nowhere to be found, Monica went ahead to the boat. At 7:56, noting the sun’s decline in the west, Smith started them on the final drive east on Interstate 94.

Now it was 8:21 p.m., and the red minivan wove its way through the small town of Bayport, the St. Croix River occasionally visible to the east down city streets. The van passed a bank and then a retirement home on the left, clearing the town proper. The road ahead was clear. “Past the entrance to the window plant, take a right down the dirt road.”

Flanagan, who was driving, did as he was ordered, turning right and driving slowly down the dirt road. “Stop at the dock. Do not get out of the van.” The van pulled to a stop at the dock.

Smith pulled up twenty feet behind the red minivan, Monica was already out of her car and approaching the front of the minivan, pointing a small 9mm. Dean stood at the end of the dock while David approached the van. The brothers wore blue nylon sweat tops with the zippers opened, revealing holstered .45s. Monica stopped five feet short of the driver’s side door and threw two sets of disposable handcuffs into the car. “Put those around your wrists.” Both men did as they were ordered and held their hands up to show compliance. “Get out,” Monica ordered.

Flanagan and Hisle did as they were told, awkwardly reaching down to open the van doors with their bound hands and stepping out of the van. David pushed Hisle around the front. Smith finally made his appearance, getting out of his van and approaching Hisle and Flanagan from behind, a .45 in his hand. “Hello, Chief.”

Flanagan turned and recognized Brown immediately, “Smith Brown.”

“You know this man?” Hisle asked quietly, glancing sideways at the chief for effect.

“He does, Mr. Hisle,” Smith answered in a mocking tone. “He needlessly put me in jail sixteen years ago.”

“Needless my ass,” Flanagan retorted, never taking his eyes off Brown. “You got what you deserved.” The chief looked over to Hisle. “He was ex-DEA, a cop, and he was dirty. That’s why I remember him. He was dipping his bill in the company stash and putting it back on the street.”

“Once,” Smith said, the anger flashing in his eyes. “I did it once. I did it to take care of debts.”

“Gambling debts. And you did it one time that we knew about,” was Flanagan’s acid reply.

“You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Smith growled, punching Flanagan in the stomach and sending him groaning and coughing to the ground. “I did it once. One fucking time! You could have looked the other way. I said I’d resign, walk away from the job.” Smith stood over the chief. “I had a wife, a sick daughter. If you’d looked the other way, I wouldn’t have done fifteen years, I wouldn’t have lost my wife. My daughter might have lived.”

“You’re pinning your daughter’s death on the wrong man,” Flanagan coughed, pushing himself up to his knees. “If anyone’s responsible, it’s you, not me.”

Smith kicked Flanagan in the side, “It was you. You killed her, and now you’ll pay.”

“With money?” Flanagan answered, coughing and spitting. “Figures.”

“No,” Smith replied, backing away. “With your life. You and the counselor here.”

“What’s Hisle got to do with this?” Flanagan croaked, still trying to get his breath.

“So does the name Thomas Mueller mean anything to you?” Monica asked Hisle, standing back, calm.

Hisle nodded. “TOM Trucking.”

“Good memory,” the woman replied. “You took that case for those bitches. They lied about my father, calling him a pervert, making the jury look at him that way, having the newspapers report about him in that way.”

“I offered to settle it,” Lyman said simply. “He should have settled.”

Monica would have none of it. “You shouldn’t have sued him to begin with. You ruined him. He lost everything. Everything. You drove him to put that gun in his mouth.” Monica glared at Hisle. “Now it’s your turn.”

Lyman looked resigned to his fate. He wasn’t going to plead for his life. “Fine, you all have grudges to settle with Flanagan and me. Fine, settle them then. Do what you’re gonna do. But what about the girls? Why hurt our girls?”

“The girls get us you, and they get us money, blood money,” Monica said coldly.

“But what about our daughters? They did nothing to you, nothing,” Flanagan pleaded, still on the ground, but now up on all fours. “We’re the ones you want. Let them go.”

“And quickly,” Hisle added, pleading, begging. “My daughter is diabetic. She’s in danger now, every minute counts for her.”

“Just make the call,” Flanagan added. “You have us. You have what you want. Let them go.”

“When we’re done,” Smith answered harshly, waving to the dock. “Get on the fuckin’ boat.” Then to David he said, “Grab the bags out of the van.”

Flanagan picked himself up, spat, and followed Hisle down a short flight of rickety wood steps and onto the old, weathered pier. The large river cruiser was tied at the end, its bow pointing out of the channel and into the river, which was visible through the end of a narrow, tree-lined channel to the right. A small box was placed at the boat’s side, allowing Hisle and the chief to climb on board. “Go down the companionway,” Smith ordered, “and into the bathroom.”

• • • • •

“You think they’ll even let the girls go, Charlie?” Hisle asked once the door was closed. He was leaning against the wall, his hands bound and clasped at his waistline.

“I don’t know,” Flanagan replied as he sat on top of the vanity He winced as he used the inside of his right forearm to lightly feel his ribs where he’d been kicked. He was having some trouble breathing. Leaning back, taking small breaths, he said, “I just don’t know. The look in Smith’s eyes scared me.”

“I saw it too,” Hisle replied and then snorted. “I guess we both really pissed them off, huh?” Lyman lifted Flanagan’s shirt up to inspect his ribs while the chief held up his bound arms.

“I suppose we did,” Flanagan said and winced as he tried to take in a deeper breath. “Bastard broke my ribs.”

“I suspect he did. He kicked you good,” Lyman added and then sighed. “So where do you thing we’re going?”

“You know the river better than me. What do you think?”

Hisle leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. “I’d suspect we’re going north.”

“Why?”

“Less boat traffic up that way, north of Stillwater, up toward the rail bridge maybe.”

“There’s a lot of boats on the river, aren’t there?”

“Yeah. There will be a big fireworks display in about…” Hisle looked at his watch, “an hour or so.”

Flanagan smiled wryly and shook his head. “They’ll cap us all right. Right during the rockets’ red glare. The sound of the gun firing will sound like fireworks.”

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling the acceleration of the boat into open water.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Hisle muttered sadly.

“We’re not dead yet.”

“I don’t sense the cavalry charge coming,” Lyman replied. “Face it, Charlie. Your boys know who these guys are, but they have no idea where we are.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“It’s that simple.”

8:22 p.m.

“You’re sure about this connection?” Burton asked Peters as they made their way down the steps to the basement of the Department of Public Safety.

“Yes,” Peters replied. “McRyan has been working this today. Frankly, I thought he was crazy, but that’s Mac. He gets going on something and he can’t be stopped. It reminds me of that PTA case. The guy simply won’t take no for an answer. Anyway, he unearthed this connection between Brown and Mueller and thinks it’s worth pursuing. I want you to take a look at it, but with the chief and Lyman missing, we need to move fast.”

“Sounds pretty thin,” Burton replied as Peters stopped at a metal door and took his keys out of his pocket. “I mean, this Brown name comes up on a criminal case and this Mueller is what, a fellow inmate? That’s pretty weak.” Burton followed Peters into the conference room.

“IT AIN’T WEAK, IT’S DEAD FUCKIN’ ON!” Riley roared as he threw Burton into the cement wall. Rock moved in with a knee to the gut and then threw Burton back across the metal interview table, where the agent slid across, into and then over two folding chairs, and smashed hard against the far wall. Riley picked a dazed Burton up, slammed him into the chair, and emptied the agent’s pockets of cuffs, keys, weapon, wallet, two cell phones, and a hotel key card.

“Better talk now, John,” Peters said casually, sitting on the corner of the table as Burton tried to catch his breath. “Or I’m going to let these two animals see if they can put you through these cement walls. And,” Peters added, crossing his arms and looking around the room, “nobody’s going to hear you down here. The room is soundproofed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Burton spat. “I’m gonna have all of you…”

Riley backhanded Burton out of the chair to the floor. “If you ever want to breathe free air…”

“Fuck that!” Rock yelled, grabbing Burton by his shirt. His bright white eyes bulging in his dark black face. “If he ever wants to get out of this room alive he better talk.”

“I’m an FBI agent…”

“Do I look like I give a shit!” Rockford yelled and threw the agent against the wall. He punched Burton in the belly again and then tossed him back over the table. Burton pushed himself up to his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“John, John, John…” Peters said shaking his head, a smile on his face. He crouched down to Burton. “How much longer you want this tune-up to last? I mean, these two live for this shit.”

“Where’s Duffy? I want you to get Duffy in here,” Burton demanded, gasping for breath.

“Duffy isn’t interested,” Peters said. In fact, Duffy had considered the evidence and made himself conveniently scarce. “I’m not getting anyone for you,” Peters continued. “We have you cold.”

“With what? You ain’t got shit on me,” Burton panted.

“Ohhhh yes we do,” came another voice. “How was the Ranger up in Forest Lake last night?” Mac asked, his voice booming over the speaker on Peters’s cell phone.

The look on Burton’s face spoke volumes. “How?”

“We’re just that good,” Mac answered in a mocking tone. “At the Ranger you met up with Smith Brown. The man who you partnered with to sell drugs sixteen years ago. The man who, because he never rolled over on you, forced you to help him with this. The man who has the chief and Hisle. The man you’re going to give us and I mean right fuckin’ now.”

“Or what?”

“Or you never leave that room alive,” Mac replied flatly. “It’s that simple.”

Burton looked up at Peters, “You wouldn’t…”

“It’s no big thing,” Peters said conversationally. “You simply go missing. A little cement around your ankles and we dump you in the Mississippi. The only way you leave the room alive,” Peters stated, “is if you tell us where Brown has Flanagan and Hisle.”

“Maybe we can make a deal,” Burton replied, on all fours on the floor, trying to play his last card. “I can help you find the girls. I don’t know where they are, but I can…”

“We have the girls,” Mac answered.

Burton’s jaw hit the floor. “How? How is that possible?”

“We’ve known since the safe house yesterday that someone was working this from the inside, you piece of shit,” Riley growled. “You have no leverage to deal.” Riley picked Burton up and threw him over to Rock.

“WHERE ARE THEY? TELL US NOW!” Rockford yelled. He grabbed the back of Burton’s pants and ran him into the adjoining bathroom. He stuffed Burton’s head in the grimy toilet. “Tell us where they are, or so help me God…” Rock pulled Burton’s head back.

“But I don’t know anything…”

“The hell you don’t,” Rock growled pushing Burton’s head back down into the water. After twenty seconds, he pulled his head up. “WHAT’S IT GONNA BE?”

“Okay! Okay! Okay!” Burton yelped.

Rockford picked him up and put him into a folding chair at the interview table. “Where? Where are they?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Burton answered. Rockford raised his hand. “I don’t know!” the agent yelped, cowering. Almost whimpering, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

“What the fuck do you know?” Rock demanded, grabbing Burton’s shirt and pulling the man’s face close to his.

“That Brown was going to drive them out to the St. Croix River, to some channel between Bayport and Stillwater, he said.”

“Then what?”

“They have a boat, a big boat. They’re going to go somewhere up the river.”

“Where?” Riles demanded, leaning on the table.

“I don’t know,” Burton answered. Rock released him, and Burton buried his face in his hands. “I just don’t know. Other than north, I don’t know. Brown had a spot that mattered to him, but I don’t know where. He didn’t tell me that part.”

“Were they planning to go ashore somewhere?” Mac asked.

“I think so. He said there was a spot important to him. A place he used to go. I can only assume that meant going ashore.”

Peters stood on the other side of the metal table, flipping through the contents from Burton’s pockets. He held a cell phone in each hand. “Odd to have two cell phones, isn’t it?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “One of these used to contact Brown?”

“Yes,” Burton replied, nodding.

“Will it be on?”

Burton nodded. “I’m not supposed to call him unless it’s an emergency, If I call him with an emergency now, he’ll likely…”

“Kill the chief and Hisle,” Riles finished for him.

“But…”

“But what?” Peters asked.

“He’s supposed to call me in about fifteen minutes.”

“We could get a fix on that phone then,” Riles said hopefully.

“I don’t think you can,” Burton answered. “He won’t call me on the phone number I have for him. I have that one for an emergency, if I needed to contact him. Otherwise, he’s contacting me with disposable cell phones. It’s a different one every time. He’s been using a phone once and then dumping it.”

“A different phone every time?” Rock asked.

“That’s right,” Burton answered. “I don’t see how you could get a real fix on it. At least not in the timeframe you need.”

“Well then,” Mac started, still listening in, “you best get him to explain to you where he is on the river, in as much detail as possible so that we can find him.”

“I’ll try.”

“You better do more than that,” Riles responded. “Do you have any idea what this boat looks like?”

Burton shook his head. “I really don’t other than it’s a pleasure boat, good size, it would have to be.”

“Why’s that?” Rock asked.

“Because he can’t have the chief and Hisle up on deck,” Mac answered. “He’ll have them down below and will only bring them up when he comes ashore. Until then, he’ll have them stuffed down below. Riles?”

“Yeah.”

“Get on a chopper and get out there,” Mac ordered. “I’m on my way.”

“To where?” Riles asked. “Here?”

“The river,” Mac answered. “My boat is docked just north of Stillwater. I’ll be on it in less than ten minutes. We need to find that boat. And Burton, you better come through if you want to get out of that room.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“That’s our boat, Mac.”

8:42 p.m.

Brown stood to the left of Dean and admired the flotilla that was now gathering around them, awaiting the start of Stillwater’s massive Fourth of July fireworks display. By the time the show started, sometime between 9:30 and 10:00 p.m., there would be hundreds of boats running from a half mile south of the famous lift bridge to another quarter-to-half a mile north of the town.

The mass of boats included a variety of sizes, from the Showboat Paddle Boats to yachts, sixty-foot cabin cruisers, houseboats, cigarette boats, speedboats, pontoons, and even a boat made out of a tiny sports car. All were full of revelers, the music roaring and alcohol flowing. In addition to the boats, the decks of the bars and restaurants that lined the river were packed to the rooftops with partiers ready for the show. The city riverfront park was covered with lawn chairs and blankets, not a patch of green to be seen.

It was a festive atmosphere and also a good one to get lost in, the congestion increasing by the minute. Most drivers were smart enough to float on either the east or west sides of the river, leaving something of a lane up the middle of the river to allow traffic to move in either direction. But it was closing, the clumps of vessels metastasizing on the north and south sides of the bridge. While it made maneuvering through the channel a slow and tedious process, it also provided camouflage as they moved north.

They approached the historic lift bridge. During some summers, a cruiser of their size might have had to wait for the lift section to open. However, the past winter as well as the summer had been unseasonably dry. Consequently, the water level was down, and Smith cruised easily underneath the steel bridge. Five minutes later, they were able to slowly accelerate as the traffic thinned.

Clear of town, Smith left Dean at the wheel and went back down the companionway to the cabin beneath. Flanagan and Hisle were locked in the bathroom. Monica sat at the small table, counting the bricks of money.

“How does it look?”

“Good,” Monica replied, thumbing through the stacks. “The bills are non-sequential, and it’s all there.” David was taking the bricks and stuffing them into separate smaller nylon shoulder bags.

They had their running money. In a little over an hour they would all be making their way to the Canadian border and toward a new life, leaving Minnesota behind forever.

Smith checked his watch and then took a cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed Burton. Burton answered on the fourth ring. “How are we doing?” the kidnapper asked.

“Fine,” the FBI agent answered quietly. “The police are running around with their heads cut off, frantic that they can’t find their chief and Hisle. It’s almost comical, really. They’re quite sheepish that you made Flanagan and Hisle disappear under their noses as you did.”

“Good,” Smith replied.

“Where are you at?”

“We’ve moved through Stillwater and past most of the traffic clogging that area. We’re clear now heading north to where the St. Croix starts to narrow.”

“How long until you get to your spot?”

“We have about fifteen to twenty minutes before we get there. It’s pretty far north. We have to get past all the campers.”

“And your cargo?”

“Hisle and Flanagan are locked up for now. We had a little fun with them already with more to come soon enough. What of you?”

“I don’t have a fan club, that’s for sure,” Burton answered. “No chief, no Hisle and now, no girls,” Burton replied flatly. “But this was to be expected.”

“You have more than held up your end. I will send you a package in a month or so.” Smith hung up.

• • • • •

“Does that give you an idea of where they are at?” Duffy asked over the radio. He stood next to Burton, who was now cuffed to the metal table in the basement interview room, under the watchful eyes of Double Frank and Paddy.

“Shit. They’re well north of us already,” Mac answered on his radio as he revved the engines on his boat and quickly backed out of his slip from Charlie’s Marina. He pulled out into the sea of boats congregating just north of the Stillwater lift bridge.

“Pat, what’s your position,” Mac asked into the radio.

“We’re flying over Bayport now and the river. The wind is from the west so the pilot thinks we can mask our approach if we come from the east, at least to start.”

“Copy that,” Mac answered as he was breaking free from the clogged area around Stillwater. Lich and the Stillwater police chief were downstairs in the cabin, scrutinizing boat traffic through binoculars. “Dick, what can you see?” Mac asked.

“I’ve got four or five still heading north,” Lich answered. “They’re pretty far in the distance. We need to get up there.”

“I can take care of that,” Mac answered, pushing the throttle down, opening up the horses on the powerful inboard motor. To his left stood Jackie Fornier, a Stillwater cop who changed from her uniform into a tight white T-shirt and pair of khaki shorts. She’d let down her shoulder-length brown hair and looked, for all intents and purposes, like the woman out for a little holiday boat ride—except, of course, for the Glock 17 on the floor between her feet. Next to it was a duffel bag that contained vests, Mac’s Sig-Sauer, extra clips, and two Remington twelve-gauge shotguns.

“You’ll look strange using the hand-held radio,” Fornier said as she handed Mac the earpiece for his radio.

“Thanks,” Mac answered as he put it in and checked it. It was working. Mac put his hand back on the throttle and eased it down just a bit more. His father bought the boat, aptly named Simon Says, nearly twenty years ago at an estate sale for a young couple who died without any family. For years, Mac mockingly called the powerful, white-and-teal-painted craft the Miami Vice boat. It wasn’t a practical boat, it was a cigarette boat. The compartment below the cabin was small and cramped, and the seating area up top seated only six people. But Simon McRyan was not always a practical man. He liked toys and speed. Right now, Mac was glad of it.

Well north of the city, Mac settled in a hundred yards behind a houseboat with five people on the top deck. “How about this one?” Mac asked, pretty much knowing the answer.

“Negative,” Lich yelled. “Nobody fits.”

Mac passed to the left of the houseboat at a moderate speed. He kept a close eye on his depth finder. The St. Croix north of Stillwater has an uneven bottom, and one could easily beach a boat on a sand bar. He had done it once many years ago, paying more attention to the girls in their bikinis on the back bench of the boat rather than to where he was going.

A larger river cruiser was next, up another two hundred yards. As he approached from the starboard side, he could see a man and a woman up top. Mac eased up on the throttle some, trying to get a better view. Burton said that Smith had a large cruiser, although he was short on details. However, the man was short and stocky, almost round with thinning gray hair, which didn’t fit any of the descriptions. The woman was taller and blonde, and when she gazed back in Mac’s direction he saw that she was young and didn’t look anything like Monica Reynolds. The vessel’s name was Bull Market, and Mac suspected that she was either the man’s daughter or trophy wife. In either case, it wasn’t the vessel they were looking for. Mac checked the depth finder and blew on by.

There were two more boats in the distance. The next was a cigarette boat with two large men at the wheel. “Dicky Boy, what do you make of the next one?”

“Maybe. Get me a little closer.”

Mac leaned into the throttle and began to close the gap, but it soon didn’t matter. Their target slowed and turned right into a cluster of cruisers and pontoons beached along a sandy island in the river. The island was full of tents and campers setting off their own fireworks. Brown wouldn’t be going there.

• • • • •

Smith came back up to find no river traffic ahead of them and little traffic behind. A cigarette boat was in the distance, perhaps three or four hundred yards back. Smith put the glasses on them. A man in a golf shirt and baseball cap and a brunette in a tight shirt were cruising north, a couple looking for open water and maybe a secluded place to celebrate.

They were approaching a left turning bend in the river, and Smith turned to check their path. The steel-arched train bridge appeared a half mile in the distance, towering two hundred feet in the air over the river.

“Dean, let me take over, will you,” Smith said. “I’d like to drive the last leg.”

Dean stepped back and Smith took control, his left hand on the wheel, his right resting on the throttle.

It was 9:17 p.m. and the sun was getting low. To the east, the darkness was moving in and the cliff walls soon blocked the remaining sunlight. It would be completely dark in twenty minutes.

• • • • •

There was one more target ahead of them, well in the distance. “Express cruiser ahead,” Fornier said. “It’s a big one, at least a thirty-footer. Nice boat.”

“Burton said a large boat,” Mac added as he once again pushed down on the throttle, up to twenty-five miles per hour now, gradually closing the gap to about two hundred yards.

“Dick?”

“Get me a little closer,” Lich replied.

Mac closed the gap a bit more. He could see one man and now another.

“That’s our boat, Mac,” Lich bellowed. “There are two men up top.”

“I see them.”

“One is large, muscular, dark hair. I’m only seeing him from the back, but a big guy,” Lich reported. “If we assume that’s a Mueller, the other man may be Brown. Mueller is six-three. Brown is six foot, and I’d say there’s maybe a three-inch height difference between the two. Wait… He’s got the glasses on us here, be cool.”

It was getting darker, but Mac saw the man looking their way in the dimming light, binoculars up. He eased back just slightly on the throttle and turned to Fornier and smiled, “Come close to me.”

She did and Mac put his arm around her, pulling her close, kissing her on the head. “Does this mean we’re going steady?” the female cop asked, putting her arms around Mac’s waist and laughing.

“My girlfriend might object. But I’ll definitely buy you a beer for being a good sport,” Mac answered, putting on a smile. But his gaze remained straight ahead on the man looking in his direction. After a minute the binoculars came down, and a moment later the man turned away.

“Mac, that’s Brown,” Lich yelled excitedly.

“You’re sure?”

“Hell yes. I had a good look at the face for a few seconds when he took the binoculars down. I know it’s getting dark, but that’s him.”

Brown was now steering to the left around a bend in the river and disappearing from their view. Boat traffic was only allowed to go north maybe another mile before they reached a sign that prohibited motored boats from going further upriver. Mac dialed Riley. “We’ve got them, Pat. They’re in a large express cruiser. They are about a half mile south of the train bridge. What’s your position?”

“We’re a half mile or so east of the river, about a mile southeast of you. Where do you think he’s going?”

That was a good question. He looked to Fornier. “What do you think?”

She bit her bottom lip, kneeled down, and pulled a map out of her backpack on the floor. She looked at the detailed layout of the river and then looked up at the shoreline. She pointed back down the east side of the river. “He can’t go much farther north, and there’s no place to beach on the west side. The cliffs go right into the water, no beach, no privacy. He’ll need those things.”

“Same on the east side,” Mac answered.

“True, except for here,” Fornier pointed to a small patch on the east side, just south of the train bridge. “The cliffs are still there, but there’s a beach back there, completely surrounded by trees. Coming in from the south, you have to wind your way in a little to get back there. He’ll have to be careful, and he’ll never get completely to shore, but heck, he wouldn’t want to. He’ll have to moor that sucker in the water, which will take him some time. But if you can get back there, there’s a place to camp. I did it once a few years ago.”

“How far back in on that little channel?” Mac said, pointing down to the map.

“A couple hundred yards,” Fornier answered. “But it’s isolated, away from the crowds, so if you think their intent is to…”

“Kill them,” Mac finished for her.

“Right. It would be a good spot. If anyone heard gunfire, they’d just assume it was fireworks, especially on the Fourth of July.”

“Of course, if we come from the same direction, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

“Maybe,” Fornier answered, looking at the map. “But if you come from the north instead…”

“You mean go past their position, up to the rail bridge…”

“Right,” Fornier nodded. “You have more of a straight show from there. You have to plane it out, trim it up pretty high, but this kind of boat…”

“Could do it,” Mac nodded, a plan coming together in his mind. He dialed Riley. “Pat, here’s what I need you to do.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Now! Now! Now!”

The chief felt the boat make a slow turn to the right, the throttle easing back and then into neutral before once again easing forward very slowly. The chief and Lyman both looked at their watches. They’d been traveling for maybe forty-five minutes to an hour.

“When they open that door, do we come charging out?” Hisle asked. “It might be our only shot.”

Flanagan held up his bound hands. “It’s our two to their four, and they all have guns. If we rush them, they’ll just shoot us.”

“So we just let them kill us?”

“I don’t know,” the chief replied. “I don’t like sitting back, going down without a fight. But there’s one thing to keep in mind. If we try something, they might not release Shannon and Carrie.”

“You think they will release them?”

“I have my doubts. But that’s our only play at this point.”

Hisle snorted and shook his head. “So to save the girls, we bite the bullet.”

“You lawyers are always good for the gallows humor,” the chief replied.

The boat came to a stop, and the two men shared a look. Whatever was to happen was going to happen soon.

“Well then,” Hisle said, “I guess this is the end of the line. A hell of a way to go, eh Charlie?” Lyman stuck out his hand, a wry smile on his face.

The chief grasped his hand and shook it. “It’s always been a pleasure, Lyman.”

• • • • •

Smith picked his way through the channel, but it was harder to maneuver in the dimming light. He beached prematurely, approximately one hundred feet from the shoreline. “Shit,” he said.

“Ah don’t worry about it, we just gotta walk a little farther,” Dean said. The Muellers both climbed over the sides to secure the boat and then sloshed to the shore. They started a fire on the beach to help create the camping illusion. The fire started and the boat secure, Dean and David climbed back aboard, and joined Smith and Monica down in the cabin.

Smith took his .45 off the table and nodded for Dean and David to do the same. “They might try to rush us,” Smith whispered and then nodded to Monica.

She undid the lock to the bathroom and yanked the door open. Flanagan and Hisle remained seated in the bathroom. Smith waved them out with the .45. Flanagan exited first, grimacing as he slid off the vanity. Hisle followed, lifting himself off the toilet seat. Neither man said a word. The lead kidnapper looked to David, who started up the companionway steps. “Follow him up the steps,” Smith ordered.

• • • • •

Mac stayed as far to the west side of the river as he could and cruised past the mouth of the cove that Brown’s boat had entered. He could see the large boat slowly working its way into the channel. Not wanting to draw attention, at least not yet, Mac continued a half mile farther north, passing beneath the hulking steel train bridge. Then he turned around and idled a few minutes in the river. Mac, Lich, Fornier, and the Stillwater chief all slipped on their vests and checked their weapons. Mac had his Sig-Sauer, Lich his Smith. Fornier and the Stillwater chief each had their sidearm. Fornier slid a new clip into hers.

“You always like a big gun?” Lich asked, cracking jokes even now.

“Yours isn’t big enough for me, I’m sure,” was the tart reply, and only Mac saw her smile. “You think these guys will throw down?” she asked Mac.

“I can’t believe they wouldn’t,” Mac answered. “They’ve come this far. They’re not going to stop without a fight.”

Everyone was locked and loaded. Mac started south, “Riles, are you in position?”

“Copy, Mac, we’re just west of you.”

Mac slammed down the throttle and raced back under the bridge, angling the bow to the left, toward the river’s east side. Everyone crouched down behind him and braced themselves. Five hundred yards from the mouth of the channel into the little bay, Mac gave the order.

“Now! Now! Now!”

• • • • •

Struggling through the knee-deep water, Smith pushed toward the shoreline with Flanagan in tow, followed by Monica and Hisle. The two Muellers were further back, still in waist-high water. The kidnappers each had a gun in hand and a nylon bag of ransom money over their shoulders.

The fireworks show had started in Stillwater, accompanied by the occasional smaller blast from campsites south of their position. Then there was a different thumping sound.

Smith looked up.

The chopper dropped out of nowhere, painting them with a blinding light.

“Get to shore! Get to shore!” Smith yelled, firing up at the chopper.

• • • • •

“Mac, veer right, veer right. They’re all out of the boat to the left side of the cove!” Riles screamed. “The chief and Hisle are second and fourth from the front!”

Mac could hear the gunfire as he buried the throttle. “A hundred yards, we’re coming in the right side,” he yelled. “Hang on. It’s gonna be rough!”

Mac ducked his head down just over the steering wheel. The boat planed on top of the water, the prop just under the surface as he exploded into the cove beneath the chopper. Brown’s boat bobbed forty-five degrees to the left. The Simon Says hit a sandbar just beneath the surface, skipping into the air. “Hold on!” Mac yelled as the boat bucked left and hit the water hard, mowing down one of the Mueller brothers just short of shore.

Mac pulled back on the throttle and pulled the wheel to the right just before the boat skidded hard into the shoreline, throwing everyone hard forward. The boat listed hard to the right, creating cover. Mac threw himself over the port side and scrambled to the bow as Lich and the Stillwater chief jumped out and worked their way to the stern of the boat. Fornier was right on Mac’s hip.

At the bow, Mac saw Brown moving to the right.

• • • • •

“Dean! Dean!” David wailed at his brother’s limp, floating corpse.

“Come on! Come on!” Smith yelled. Already on shore, he opened fire on the boat, trying to cover. He glanced right. Hisle and Flanagan were forty feet back in the water, hands still bound, but high-stepping toward the cigarette boat. Smith had pivoted slightly right to fire at Flanagan when his own body jerked hard to the left. He fell to the ground, a searing pain in his left upper arm.

• • • • •

Mac’s second shot hit Brown. He pushed himself under the bow and looked left. The chief and Hisle were running right at him. “Come on! Come on!” Mac yelled. He saw Monica nearly ashore, directly behind Flanagan and Hisle, firing. One shot caught Lyman in the back of his right leg, sending him face-first into the water.

Mac rolled once to his right and emptied his clip. One shot hit the woman in her right shoulder, knocking her back and exposing her whole body. Another shot hit her torso and blew her backward into the water. The chief stumbled past him, under the bow and to the cover of the other side of the boat.

“Go, Mac, I’ve got you covered,” Fornier yelled, firing.

Mac fished Lyman out of the water and dragged him the last twenty feet to the safety of the boat. Mac heard Lich yell, “He’s down! He’s down! They’re all down!”

The whole thing was over in less than twenty seconds.

“Mac!” the chief yelled. “The girls, we don’t know where the girls are.”

“Relax, Chief,” Mac replied with a broad small smile on his face as he leaned back against the boat. “We have them.”

“But…” the chief was astonished. “How? Boyo,” the chief started smiling, grabbing Mac by the scruff of his neck. “How in the hell did you do it?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Mac answered and then called Riles. “Pat?”

“Mac, everyone all right?”

“Yeah. Lyman’s hit in the back of his right leg. We’re going to need to get him out of here,” Mac reported. He pulled out a heavy-duty Swiss Army knife and cut the chief’s and Lyman’s hands loose. Then Mac rolled Lyman onto his stomach and cut his pant leg away to get a look at the wound. The hole was on the outside of the right thigh.

“How bad?” Lyman grunted, grimacing in pain.

“I’ve seen worse,” Mac answered as Lich handed him a hankie and he applied pressure. “We should get a tourniquet on this,” Mac said as he started to loosen his belt. “There should be a first aid kit in the boat,” he said to Fornier. “It’s down in the companionway. There should be towels down there as well, grab them.”

Fornier climbed into the boat.

“You’ve got help coming, be there any minute,” Riles reported and then said, “Wait a minute…” and then there was a pause. “Mac!”

“What?” Mac answered, tightening his belt around Hisle’s upper thigh.

“I don’t see Brown.”

“What?”

“Brown. I don’t see him. He went down by the woods, but now he’s gone.”

Chapter Forty

“Game. Set. Match.”

Mac crawled to the bow and peered around it. Smith Brown was indeed gone. He must have gone into the woods.

“I guess we’re not done yet.”

“What?” Lich asked. “I thought you hit him.”

“I did, damn it. I put him down. But now the fucker’s gone,” Mac answered. “Riles, paint the woods with the search light.”

The chopper turned its nose toward the woods on the other side of the clearing. “Riles, do you see anything?”

“Negative, Mac. We see nothing.”

Mac already decided his next move as he slipped a new clip into his Sig-Sauer.

“We’re all going,” Lich said, knowing his partner, grabbing additional shells for the shotgun out of his pocket, and pushing them in. Fornier checked her Glock 17 and the Stillwater chief his smaller Glock 9.

“Give me a gun,” the chief ordered. “I’m going with you.”

“You sure you’re up to it?” Lich asked.

“Fuck you. Give me your piece of shit backup piece,” the chief ordered.

“This?” Lich asked as he pulled up his pant leg to show an old Smith & Wesson six-shooter. The chief grabbed it from the ankle holster, popped open the cylinder, and checked it and then snapped his right wrist, which pulled the cylinder back in place.

“What about Hisle?” Fornier asked.

“I’m fine,” the lawyer answered, looking at his leg. “Help will be here soon enough. You go catch that bastard.”

Mac didn’t need to be told twice. He looked toward the group, “Ready?” Everyone nodded. Mac grabbed the radio. “Riles, we’re heading in.”

“Mac, wait ten seconds and you’ll have help from the Wisconsin side, the St. Croix County sheriff. His name is Kolls.” Mac looked back to his left, and three boats pulled into the small cove. The first one in the water was the sheriff himself. He was quickly followed by a crew of deputies. All had vests on and their weapons drawn.

Mac immediately went to the sheriff. “Sheriff Kolls, we have one on the move in the woods to the north. He was hit, left shoulder I think, and is injured.”

Kolls smiled and pointed to the cliffs. “Not to worry son. There’s no way out of here except through us or if he wants to swim.” The sheriff then looked to the rest of the men. “I want us in a line, moving straight north. Let’s flush him out.”

“The man’s name is Smith Brown. He is armed and dangerous,” Mac added. “He has a .45 and will use it. He just threw down on us.”

“So be careful,” the sheriff added.

The group moved into the woods in a line. Mac took the chief and moved to the far right of the skirmish line, working their way to the cliffs. Five minutes and one hundred yards into the woods, Mac started to wonder. “Chief, did you overhear anything from these guys as to what they were going to do after, you know…”

“They capped us,” the chief answered, a wry smile on his face. “They didn’t share anything with us if that’s what you’re asking. I assumed they would cap us and then take the boat back out.”

“Right,” Mac answered, moving forward. The brush was getting thicker, with logs and branches strewn on the ground. Despite the flashlight in the chief’s hand and others close by, the woods were getting darker and darker. Mac had trouble seeing more than a few feet in front. He stepped onto a large log and jumped off and hit a tree in front of him.

“Ow. Shit that hurts.”

He banged into a thorny tree branch that dug into his left thigh. Looking down he could see blood coming through a hole ripped in his khakis.

“Let me see,” the chief said, bending down to look at the leg, putting his flashlight on the hole. “Hmmm. That’s a nasty gash you’ve got there, boyo.”

Sheriff Kolls approached and inspected the thigh. “Stitches for sure. There’s a first aid kit back in the boats. You should go get that taken care of.”

“I want to finish this,” Mac protested.

Kolls shook his head. “We’ve got this. It’s just a matter of time, trust me.”

Mac and the chief hung back as Kolls and the rest of the skirmish line moved forward.

“It felt like a knife going into my leg,” Mac said, flexing his leg.

“I imagine it did.”

The two slowly walked back toward the campsite and boats.

“It’s hard to maneuver in here with no light, these trees, logs, and bushes all around,” Mac said. “I can’t imagine Brown doing it, wounded in the shoulder, that black… bag… over… his… holy shit. How did I miss that?”

“Miss what?”

“I must be really tired.”

“Miss what, boyo? Spit it out.”

“Chief, they had the bags of money with them, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“They weren’t going back to the boats.”

The chief got it. “They had a different out.”

“Yes, they did, you know what Monica Reynolds bought at that hardware store in Wyoming?”

“What?”

“An extension ladder. An extremely long extension ladder,” Mac answered, already moving back toward the camp site. “I’m betting Brown went up. They had that extension ladder. It’s probably not far from the campsite.”

With their flashlights lighting the way, Mac and the chief picked their way back toward the campsite. Fifty feet short, Mac’s light flashed across it. He stopped and moved closer and there it was: a streak of blood at shoulder level. Mac moved his light further left and noted two more streaks of blood. The chief saw them as well.

Mac pushed that direction. It was fifty or so feet to the base of the cliff. He looked up.

“Look there, boyo,” the chief said, pointing to the right into the soft sand at the base of the cliff. “Those prints look fresh.”

“That they do. He doubled back on us,” Mac answered already making his way back south, toward the camp. He went twenty feet or so and the prints turned left into a narrow crevice, perhaps ten feet wide, which carved its way deep into the cliff face. Mac and the chief, weapons drawn, slowly moved into the crevice, which curved slowly to the left. Fifty feet in, they found the extension ladder. Fully extended, the ladder reached nearly thirty feet up to a ledge.

“Cover me,” Mac said as he stuffed his Sig in his pants and climbed the ladder, his left thigh burning with each bend of his leg and push up off a ladder step. At the top, Mac saw a narrow path that weaved its way further up into the cliffs. Mac waved the chief up.

Once the chief reached the top, Mac radioed Riley.

“Riles, do you copy?”

“Go, Mac.”

“Brown doubled back. I’ve just climbed an extension ladder and I’m on a ledge some thirty or forty feet up into the cliff. You won’t be able to see me. The chief and I are going to work our way up to the top. Get up top with the chopper, see if you can see Brown. He’s either out or will be coming out up there somewhere. Also, radio the sheriff and clue him in. Brown must have a vehicle waiting up there. We’re going to need ground troops and vehicles up there.”

“Copy, Mac.”

• • • • •

Brown had managed to put the duffel bag of money over his right shoulder and let the strap run diagonally across his body so that the bulk of the bag rested on his left hip. Nonetheless, it was a struggle to make his way up with only one arm. The pain shot through his left shoulder with every step up the narrow path. The shoulder would require attention soon. The wound was a through and through. He had a handkerchief stuffed in the front wound but he could feel the blood seeping into his shirt from the exit wound in the back.

He could hear the sound of the chopper flying overhead. He looked up and saw the search light sweeping up toward the top. The police must have realized he doubled back on them. He needed to get to the top.

He was at an optional point in the path. There was straight ahead or a steeper and narrower path to the left. David and Dean had gone straight ahead two days ago while he and Monica had gone left. Either way would get him to the top of the cliff and to the waiting pickup truck. The left path was longer but offered more cover at the top as the path exited into the dense woods. To the right, the path was shorter but the opening at the top was exposed and he would have to run some twenty or thirty yards to reach the cover of the trees.

• • • • •

Mac took the point, with the chief following. Every so often, along the narrow cliff walls, Mac noted a blood smear.

“You must have hit him good,” the chief said. “He’s draining a lot of blood.”

Mac and the chief approached a fork in the path. They both knelt down and each scanned with their flashlights. There were footprints in either direction.

“Riles, have you seen anything at the top?” Mac asked.

“Negative, Mac. Nothing yet.”

“How about a vehicle? Truck? Car? Anything?”

“Negative. There’s a small clearing up here but the woods are really dense, Mac. We’ve swept them, but we can’t really see down to the bottom in most places. Brown could be going through there, and I don’t think we could see him.”

Mac looked to the chief. “Are you alright with splitting up?”

“Yes,” the chief answered.

“Okay, I’m betting he went straight,” Mac said. “That looks flatter and that would be easier with his shoulder and carrying that bag. Besides, my Sig is better than that antique you’re carrying.”

“Fair enough,” the chief answered. “Remember though, the son of a bitch has that .45. He has nothing to lose at this point. He will not hesitate.”

“Neither will I.”

• • • • •

Smith reached the top of the path. He’d made the right choice. Through the dense woods he could see the searchlight of the chopper, maybe one hundred yards to his right, scanning the area where the other path reached the top. All he had left was a narrow path, perhaps one hundred yards long to the pickup truck, which was covered with a camouflage tarp.

He started down the path, jogged thirty yards, glanced back and saw him.

• • • • •

The chief reached the top of the path and met Brown’s eyes, and the barrel of the .45. He raised the Smith.

• • • • •

The end of the path emerged into a clearing on the top of the cliffs. Mac looked up to the chopper.

“Shit.”

Brown went the other way. There’s no way Riley would have missed him. He immediately turned back to his left where the chief’s path would have come out of the cliff. The exit of the chief’s path would have been into the dense forest. Then he saw the muzzle flashes.

“Riles, shots fired at ten o’clock! Shots fired at ten o’clock!” Mac yelled as he ran into the dense woods and toward the muzzle flashes.

• • • • •

The chief got two off before he ducked for cover, as Brown unloaded his .45 causing shards from the trees to rain down upon him. The shots stopped, and the chief looked to see Brown was running down the path. The chief pushed himself up and gave chase, firing.

• • • • •

The chopper was overhead scanning the path as Smith ran as hard as he could, even as one, two, and then three shots went by. The chopper must have seen the muzzle flashes for Flanagan’s shots as the light was behind him now. The truck was within reach, another thirty yards. But he needed to stop Flanagan first or he wouldn’t be able to get the tarp off and get away.

• • • • •

The chief was shooting on the fly. Then he saw Brown turning around with the .45, standing in the middle of the path, exposed. The chief set his feet.

• • • • •

Smith’s leg buckled as Flanagan’s shot grazed his right leg. He was hit, but it didn’t put him down. It was nothing like the wound in his left shoulder. Flanagan was trying to fire again, but nothing was coming out of the gun. He was out of bullets. Slowly Flanagan’s arm dropped to his side and a resigned look appeared on his face.

“Flanagan, that must be an old Smith you’re holding there and you’ve had your six. You’re finished,” Brown yelled as he raised the .45.

“But I’m not!” a voice yelled from behind him.

Smith turned around to see Mac McRyan, with bloody arms and face, feet set, gun pointed right at him.

“Put it down, Brown!”

Brown started to raise the .45.

Mac didn’t hesitate.

He hit center mass three times.

Smith Brown was blown flat on his back.

The chief walked up to Brown and kicked the .45 away. Brown spit blood out of his mouth, laboring to breathe, laboring to speak.

“You… may have… got me. But you won’t… find… the girls.”

A blood-filled smile crossed his face.

“I lost my daughter… because of… you. Now you… will know… how it feels.”

The chief kneeled down and looked Brown in the face and smiled.

“My boys, they found the girls.”

Brown’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“No… it’s not… it’s not possible. You’re lying,” Brown said, spitting more blood.

“No we’re not,” Mac answered, standing over him now, blood streaming down his left cheek, the duffel bag of ransom money in his left hand. “We dug them out of the ground at O’Brien State Park a couple of hours ago.”

“They’re alive,” the chief stated. “You failed.”

“And we know about Burton,” Mac added. “He sold you out. He broke in two minutes.”

Brown’s shook his head, “N… N… No,” he said, the blood running out of his mouth. Death was seconds away. Mac held up the duffel bag, smiled and uttered the last words Smith Brown would ever hear.

“Game. Set. Match.”

Chapter Forty-One

“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

JULY 5th

4:48 a.m.

It took a little over two hours, and he was dead tired, but Mac gave Heather Foxx everything, or just about everything.

He looked like hell, like death warmed over he said later. Sally, watching from behind the camera, remarked that he looked ten years older.

“But that’s fine,” Heather said. “It makes the story that much more dramatic. People will see what you put into it, how hard you went after it. The big scar on your face. The whole ‘never say die’ and ‘against all odds’ thing. It’ll be great.”

“If you say so.” Mac hated interviews. But in this case, it was the least he could do. Heather had saved the chief and kept her word, kept the story close until it was done. She had lost the story of the girls’ rescue to another station—that broke while she was interviewing Mac. But she was the first with the whole story, and she had it in time for the morning news program. By the end of the day, her face—and Mac’s—would be on stations across the country, she predicted.

“Sorry Mac, the story is just that good.”

“Great,” was his wry reply. “But I’m done, right? I don’t have to do any more of this?”

“Not with me. I imagine many of my brethren will be seeking your time.”

“Not if I can help it,” Mac answered, yawning. He could barely stay awake; his body was shutting down.

The bureau was none too happy, not that he cared at this point. They weren’t happy that one of their men had been the mole, although that wasn’t out as of yet. Heather held back that element of the story, at least for now. The FBI seemed even more aggravated about the interrogation technique used on Burton. The director was flying in to town to personally meet with the mayor, as well as the chief and Peters, blustering about an explanation and investigation. Peters said he and the chief weren’t worried about it.

“Fuck the FBI,” Peters snorted. “Besides,” he added, “if the almighty director makes a big stink, we’ll have Heather go with the whole story.”

“She’ll play ball?” Mac asked.

“Hell yes,” Peters responded smiling. “She feels like she’s one of us now, a ‘copper.’ She’d like nothing more than to go with it, but we’re willing to work with the bureau on it. But if the Fibbies make a lot of noise and don’t play ball, we’ll cut Heather loose. She’ll have a field day.”

“How’s Duffy doing?”

“We’re covering for him. The company line is, he had no idea what we were doing.” Peters whistled. “Man, he is pissed about Burton. Ed Duffy is a company man. He believes in the bureau. He’d have joined in on Riles and Rock’s fun with Burton if he could have.”

Mac needed sleep and he had a hospital bed at North Memorial. The hospital bed wasn’t provided as a courtesy. To get to Smith Brown he had run through thick woods, low branches, and thorny bushes. As a result, he was full of deep scrapes and bruises. He required stitches in five places, particularly for the fleshy rip in his left thigh and a gash along his left cheek. The cheek scar, depending upon how it healed, might require some plastic surgery. The thigh wound was thick enough that the emergency room doctor was worried about infection. He wanted Mac to stay in the hospital for a few hours to monitor his recovery. Until the leg wound healed, he would have to walk with a cane.

The emergency room doctors also checked for wood ticks. He’d been in the woods a lot, and the last thing he wanted was Lyme disease. However, a little bull’s-eye bite was nowhere to be found on his body.

Mac cleaned up, put on some clean clothes, and jumped into bed and crashed. Sally woke him with a kiss a little after 10:00 a.m. It took a few minutes to shake the cobwebs loose, but the smell of eggs, bacon, and toast, even if it was hospital eggs, bacon, and toast, brought him back to life. He skipped the coffee—he had lived on it for the last four days—and instead gulped down refreshing glasses of ice water and orange juice.

Halfway through his breakfast, the doctor checked in. There was no sign of infection in the thigh wound. However, the face wound was another story.

“You’ll have to give that one a week or so to see how it heals. Ten stitches tend to leave a mark. You might need a little clean up on that.”

The doc left and Mac resumed eating his hospital breakfast. As he finished the last of the eggs, there was another knock on the door. Mayor Olson stuck his head in.

“Detective McRyan, was wondering if I might have a moment with you and Ms. Kennedy?” he asked politely. He was by himself. No staff.

Mac looked at Sally who shrugged her shoulders.

“Sure. Why not.”

The mayor slowly walked over to the bed. The smugness and arrogance of the past few days, in reality the past several months, was gone. The man looked tired, with razor stubble and dark circles around his eyes. Not only that, he looked a way Mac had never seen him look—humble. Hizzoner stuck out his hand.

“Well done, Detective, well done. Thank you.”

Mac was surprised, and it must have showed. He slowly extended his hand to the mayor’s.

“I suspected you might feel that way,” the mayor said, giving Mac a firm handshake. “Given how I’ve treated you and your cohorts the last while here, I owe you an apology.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mac replied, stunned at what he was hearing. “Why the change of heart?”

“Lots of reasons,” the mayor said as he sat down in a chair by the bed. “You certainly bailed me out. I put Burton in charge of the investigation. I walked the chief and Hisle right into the trap. I would have had their blood on my hands. You saved my ass.”

“Bailing you out is not why we did what we did.”

“Oh, I know that. It was just a byproduct,” the mayor replied. “I’m probably the last person you were worried about. However, what I realized is that by putting Burton in charge and creating this level of distrust between the department and me, that made what you had to do that much harder. I’m sure that if we trusted one another, that if we had a better working relationship, I wouldn’t have been putting up road blocks to prevent you from doing what you do so well. Instead of keeping things from me, you could have come to me with your concerns about someone working this thing from the inside. I could have helped. I could have provided resources. But you didn’t trust me, did you?”

Mac shook his head.

“Well that’s on me,” the mayor said quietly. “That’s all on me.”

“You can understand I’m a little surprised to be hearing this,” Mac said.

“I imagine you are. Unfortunately, it took something like this to happen to make me see the light. It didn’t hurt that the chief and I had a good heart to heart a couple of hours ago. He lit me up pretty good about my office’s relations with the force, and he was one hundred percent right. I haven’t been supportive. I’ve been anything but. Well, that’s going to change. It’ll start at a press conference in a couple of hours. Peters and I will be handling it. I will be offering my praise and thanks for a job well done.”

“I think I can speak for Riles, Rock, Lich, and everyone else. We will appreciate it.”

“Good,” the mayor said. “Of course, once all the euphoria from this dies down, we’re going to have to deal with some stuff.”

“Such as?” Mac asked, a little wearily.

“Burton and the FBI for all the obvious reasons. Burton has already hired a lawyer, and the bureau is squawking about how we accessed various records.”

“I’ve got some ideas on how to deal with all that,” Mac responded.

“The chief thought you might and I was hoping you would,” the mayor answered with a tired smile. “I’m all ears.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Mac said confidently. “We have Burton and the bureau by the short hairs. I think we’ll be able to make them see that.”

The mayor smiled. “Good. We’ve been on opposite sides long enough. I’d like to see us on the same side.”

“Let’s get together in the next day or two and talk that through.”

“Fair enough,” the mayor answered, pushing himself out of the chair. Once again he extended his hand, which Mac took without hesitation. He walked over to Sally and extended a hand to her as well. “Ms. Kennedy, I know you helped out quite a bit as well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Help this guy get better,” the mayor said, pointing at Mac. “We’re going to need him.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The mayor looked back at Mac, smiled one more time and walked out of the room.

“Well, how about that?” Sally said, shocked. “Do you think he meant it?”

“We’ll see,” Mac answered, always more interested in action than words. “He’s a politician, so I take anything a politician says with a grain of salt. But he seemed genuinely contrite and his apology seemed heartfelt. Time will tell.”

Sally came over to the side of his bed and sat down and looked him in the eye.

“What?”

“I want to say something,” Sally said smiling and then she pecked him on the lips.

“What?”

“I loved watching you in action the last twenty-four hours. You’re gifted, honey. You really are. You would have been a great attorney, the way you see and perceive things. You’d have been a great trial lawyer. But as a cop, as a detective, you’re doing what you were born to do. You’re doing what you should be doing. I wouldn’t want you to do anything else.”

Mac returned the smile now. It always hurt him that his ex-wife thought what he did was beneath him and most certainly her. She never appreciated the sacrifice of the job or the ability required to do it. But now he was with someone who loved him and was proud of him. It felt good, as good as anything he’d done over the last four days. He pushed himself up and kissed her on the lips and hugged her.

“God, I need a vacation.”

“Now would be a good time,” she answered quietly, her head buried in his chest.

The door to his hospital room blew open and the boys, Uncle Shamus, Peters, Summer Plantagenate, the chief, and Lyman all came barreling in. Lich, of course, didn’t miss a beat.

“God, it looks like the fuckin’ Hallmark Channel in here. You two arm in arm, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. I think I’m going to get all teary eyed,” his partner said as he pulled out a hankie and mockingly dabbed at his eyes.

Mac pushed himself out of bed. The chief came up and gave Mac a big bear hug, “Well done, boyo. Well done.”

“I’ve told this to all of these guys,” Lyman said, waving his cane toward Lich, Riles, and Rock. “Anything you ever need. Anything, you just tell me. It’s yours.” The lawyer pumped Mac’s arm vehemently in a handshake. “I mean it. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Michael.”

“Well Lyman, let me tell you about my boat.” Everyone burst out in laughter.

“Done!” Lyman exclaimed.

Mac turned serious. “How’s Shannon doing?”

“I think she’ll be okay. You boys got to her just in time.”

“Can she have visitors?” Lich asked.

“She’s pretty beat. I think she’ll be able to handle visitors tomorrow, and I want all you boys here. I know she’ll want to thank you.”

“How’s Carrie, Chief?” Mac asked.

“Fine, just fine, Mac. She asked me to bring you up, all of you up.”

“Let’s go then.”

Carrie Flanagan indeed looked fine, at least physically. It would be the mental part that would be the problem. No doubt she’d have nightmares for a while. Two days in the coffin—the term she used for it—would do that. She was already talking about the need for counseling as if she was looking forward to it, ready to put the whole thing behind her. After half an hour, she started to look tired, so everyone began to file out. She asked Mac to stay behind.

“I told Shannon you’d be coming,” Carrie said.

Mac just nodded.

“I told her you and the boys would never give up. You’d keep looking until you found us, that you would do anything to find us.”

“That’s right.”

“And you did.”

“We all did.”

“Will there be trouble? I heard something about the FBI guy.”

“That’s nothing for you to worry about, honey,” Mac said, smiling, and then converting it to an evil grin. “We’ve got the bureau by the short hairs.”

“Thanks,” Carrie said, sitting up to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”

Mac smiled as she lay back down. He pushed her hair away from her eyes. “You get some rest. I’ll come by and see you again tomorrow.”

Carrie nodded and rested her head back on her pillow.

Mac grabbed his cane and limped out of the room to find the whole crew waiting in the hallway. “So, what’s next?” he asked, a huge grin on his face.

“Is it too early to celebrate?” Lich asked.

“I tell you what it’s too early for!” Riles answered.

“What’s that?”

“Stupid questions,” Riles answered as he smacked Lich in the back of the head. “Is it too early to celebrate? Cripes, what’s a matter with you?”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Mac exclaimed. “I say we go to the Pub.”

“Who’s buying?” Rock asked.

“Lyman,” Mac answered smiling, putting his arm around Hisle. “You just said anything we need right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well right now, my friend, I need a bloody mary.”

About the Author

Roger Stelljes is the bestselling author of the McRyan Mystery Series. He has been the recipient of several awards including: the Midwest Book Awards - Genre Fiction, a Merit Award Winner for Commercial Fiction (MIPA), as well as a Minnesota Book Awards Nominee.

Author website: www.RogerStelljes.com

For book updates on twitter at: RogerStelljes

Copyright 2012 Roger Stelljes. Kindle Edition. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of the author’s experience and opinion. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

First Case copyright 2012 Roger Stelljes

The St. Paul Conspiracy copyright 2006 Roger Stelljes

Deadly Stillwater copyright 2010 Roger Stelljes

Box set ebook version 2012.11.27

The publisher and author does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Published by: Roger Stelljes www.RogerStelljes.com

ISBN 978-0-9835758-4-9