ELECTING TO MURDER

McRyan Mystery Series

by

Roger Stelljes

ELECTING TO MURDER (McRyan Mystery Series)

By Roger Stelljes

Copyright 2013 Roger Stelljes. 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 e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book 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 not 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.

The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Published by: Roger Stelljes www.RogerStelljes.com

ISBN 978-0-9835758-4-9 (e-book)

E-book version 2013.3.1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A book never sees print without the help of others. Many thanks to my manuscript reading crew of Mike, Scott, Darrell and my wife. They’re undoubtedly my toughest audience. You the readers will benefit from their encouragement, feedback, criticism, insight and wisecracks. Their time, energy and feedback make for a better story and assure me that I’m on the right track.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my wife for her never ending support as I continue to pursue my writing dream. I simply couldn’t do this without her. To my kids, I appreciate your constant encouragement and letting Dad take the time to write.

Finally, I want to thank my readers. Your support and feedback make all the time and effort worth it.

DEDICATION

For my family

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

BOOKS BY ROGER STELLJES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

“What have we stumbled onto here?”

Wednesday, October 30th

Dara Wire sipped her coffee. The dashboard GPS on the Acadia said east bound on Interstate 24, now over twenty-five miles east of Paducah, Kentucky. The laptop powered up and glowing in the passenger seat displayed the motorcade of one limousine and two Chevy Suburbans a mile ahead. Wire had safely tucked the GPS tracking device, which was half the size of a dime, beneath the small rubber bumper affixed to the underside of the rear license plate of the limousine. The tracker allowed her to hold back at a safe distance. Nevertheless, she liked that as she looked up from the laptop and ahead through the light rain and windshield wipers, she could see the red string of taillights from the motorcade in the distance.

While unsure of all of the people in the vehicles ahead, Wire knew it at least consisted of Heath Connolly, the vice president’s campaign manager. She was surprised Connolly wasn’t riding with Donald Wellesley Jr., the vice president’s son. The two of them were thick as thieves, seemingly attached at the hip in running the Republican presidential campaign.

A source tipped Wire to the meeting late on Tuesday and the limousine service being used. Her contact claimed he didn’t know exactly what the meeting was about or who was going to be present beyond Heath Connolly. However, it was an unusual trip, one that piqued Wire’s interest. So she flew to Paducah early, planted the tracker on the limousine and patiently waited.

Six days, nearly five, before an election that would be extremely close, possibly Bush v. Gore close, the candidate’s campaign manager, his key political advisor, was a thousand miles from his candidate, taking a late meeting in the backwoods of Kentucky.

What was the purpose of the meeting? It wasn’t an official trip. Wire checked with her source in the vice president’s campaign travel office and the trip was not on anyone’s schedule and whatever arrangements had been made were not made through the travel office. This one was off the books.

There was no Secret Service detail either. Given how toxic his cutthroat approach to politics and campaigning was, Connolly received daily threats. For that reason, the political operative usually had one or two Secret Service men with him during the campaign, but not tonight. There was security, of course, but of the private kind, and it was riding in the Chevy Suburbans fronting and trailing the limousine. Wire could tell that the security was professional, most likely former military or intelligence based on the way they carried and conducted themselves. But the security wasn’t quite Secret Service quality. If it were, the tracking device would have been discovered. Nevertheless, Connolly must have thought the security was sufficient for what he was up to.

And he was up to something.

Wire could feel it in her bones, and so could the Judge.

Wire’s boss, Judge Dixon, was the campaign manager for Minnesota Governor James Thomson, the Democratic Party’s nominee for president of the United States. The Judge was a long-time political player, thoroughly acquainted with the vice president and his merry band of campaigners led by Heath Connolly.

Heath Connolly came off all aw shucks good ole’ boy on television, but he was a disciple of Karl Rove, all political hardball all the time. It didn’t matter how you won—as long as you got one more vote, no matter how you got it, you won. Connolly didn’t care about government or policy. He didn’t give a rip about the rules; losers played by the rules. He was the political equivalent of Al Davis—just win, baby. Connolly did whatever he had to do to win. The Judge wasn’t willing to go to the lengths Connolly would to win; his moral compass wouldn’t permit it. But that didn’t mean Dixon wouldn’t do whatever he could to stop Connolly.

The Judge called in a marker and Wire put her own private business on hold. For the past six months, she was Connolly’s shadow.

Wire reported to the Judge at least three times per day via a private cell phone that only she had the number to. She detailed who Connolly met with, where he went and what he appeared to be doing. That meant tracking him in and around DC as well as around the country, as Connolly liked to get out on the trail with his candidate. Wire collected enough frequent flyer miles in the last six months to last her ten years.

One such trip took her to northern Minnesota where she watched Connolly meet with what turned out to be a retired Minnesota Highway Trooper who’d pulled a young James Thomson over for drunk driving nearly thirty years ago, a violation that had long been buried. The day before the Wellesley campaign was going to spring the revelation, Thomson and the Judge defused it by leaking the arrest. The governor then held an hour-long news conference and answered any and all questions. Thomson stood before the press for an hour until they ran out of questions. The campaign took a hit, but only a little one, and certainly not as bad as if the Wellesley campaign, and Heath Connolly in particular, had controlled the story.

The motorcade’s taillights indicated they were leaving the interstate for Highway 124. The GPS system showed the motorcade turning east, which would take them towards the small town of Cadiz. Five minutes later, the motorcade was through Cadiz and a mile south of town, turned right onto Highway 274 and Wire started to wonder if they might be heading towards Lake Barkley.

It wouldn’t be the first time Wire trailed Connolly to water.

First there had been the Florida Keys.

Two months ago, Wire tailed Connolly and Wellesley Jr. to Florida, first to Clearwater Beach and a boat trip and then to the far western end of the Florida Keys. The two men took a boat to a small island that held an estate across a small bay. Wire set up shop on the opposite side of the bay at a small resort. It was Florida and she was in the Keys, so she took advantage of her tall, slender yet athletic look. She blended easily with the beautiful people and lounged on the beach in a series of string bikinis. While lying on the beach, she used a small high-test camera to snap photos and record video of Connolly and Wellesley Jr. as they partied on the estate across the bay. The pictures revealed the political operative and vice president’s son mingling with at least twenty other men, soaking up the sun, drinking cocktails and eating seafood while on the patio and decks of the mansion.

Each night, Wire uploaded the photos and video to the Judge. While the whole thing instinctively smelled to her, she wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking at.

The Judge took care of that.

The Judge knew exactly what he was looking at, knew each of the players and knew precisely what to do with it all.

The United States Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision had rewritten the country’s campaign finance laws, allowing citizens to contribute as much as they wanted to political action committees. The old contribution limits, such as those found in the McCain-Feingold law, were no more. The campaign contribution spigot had been turned on full throttle and the money flowed like a flooded river into Super PACs across the country supporting candidates of both parties, although Republicans had the clear advantage in the largesse of contributions to such PACs.

The only catch was that Super PACs are not permitted to coordinate directly with the candidate or candidates they seek to support.

Now, nobody in their right mind thought that candidates and Super PACs supportive of them wouldn’t indirectly coordinate their messages in some way, shape or form. Yet this is where Connolly’s hubris got him. What Wire stumbled across in those two days with her pictures and video was Connolly and Wellesley Jr. clearly, unequivocally and blatantly coordinating with the Super PACs. It had been reported that during the summer, the Republican Super PACs combined had raised nearly $700 million dollars for use primarily on the vice president’s campaign. A tiny fraction of it had been spent prior to the meeting in the Florida Keys. Wire caught Connolly and Wellesley Jr. meeting with the leaders of the Super PACs with the intent of mapping out spending the hundreds of millions of dollars over the final two months of the campaign. It was clear that Connolly was shooting not only for the White House but a Republican majority in the House and Senate as well. He was shooting, not just for a win, but for a political sea change.

The photos and video that Wire took gave the Judge all he needed to feed a weeks-long fundraising scandal for the Wellesley campaign that moved the poll numbers in the governor’s favor, a place they remained.

The scandal in the Florida Keys made Connolly a desperate and dangerous man.

He’d never lost an election—ever.

He bore watching.

The laptop beeped. There was another course change. The motorcade now turned right onto a road named Forest Circle. Wire was approximately a half mile back. When she reached Forest Circle, she turned in and immediately pulled over to the side of the road and killed her headlights. She observed the computer monitor as the motorcade proceeded ahead of her. The GPS showed that the motorcade turned right onto Elmwood Drive. The vehicles advanced to the end of the road and stopped.

Wire punched in a search on the address; Raymond Hitch came up. Wire opened up another program on her computer and searched for Hitch in Vice President Wellesley’s database of campaign supporters and a few seconds later, there he was. Hitch was known as a Lone Ranger. In Wellesley campaign parlance, that was a fundraiser who committed to raising ten million dollars for the candidate. You had Super PACs and then you had individual donors and the people that bundled them. No matter how long she was around politics, the sums of money spent on campaigns bewildered her. Ten million later on would get you access to the president, perhaps consideration for an ambassadorship or some other plumb reward. Hitch was from Nashville but it wouldn’t be surprising that he had a lake place up in Kentucky.

If you wanted a private late meeting, this would be an ideal place. Kentucky lake country was quiet and lightly populated in late October, especially on a Wednesday night. There would be the odd year-round cabin dwellers still at their lake places, usually retirees or perhaps folks who worked back in town another few miles up the road. However, if Wire had to bet, the meeting place would be one where there was no chance it would be seen by a stray neighbor. If you were going this far out of the way, it was guaranteed to be private. Besides, it was late now, approaching midnight, and the rain was intensifying from a light drizzle to a steady downpour.

Wire looked at the roads leading to the Hitch place. The road she was on would proceed to the south a quarter mile or so and then turn left for a few hundred feet as a road to a half dozen other cabins and then would loop back to the north, bringing her back to Elmwood and within a few hundred yards of the motorcade’s location. Wire left the car lights off and slipped on a pair of night vision glasses. She dropped the gear shift and slowly followed the road as it looped around and stopped two hundred yards from where the road would run back into Elmwood. To be safe, she backed up twenty feet and into a small private driveway for a cabin now dark for the season. She grabbed her backpack from the backseat and did a quick inventory of her equipment, which consisted of binoculars, two cameras, a small handheld video camera and a handheld GPS system to help her find the cottage and navigate her way back to the SUV if need be. Wire quickly slipped on black rain pants and zipped up her short black raincoat. She tightened her ponytail and then slid it through the hole in the back of her black Washington Nationals baseball cap. Wire then pulled the raincoat hood over her head, buttoning up tightly to keep the rain off of her body. She had no idea how long she would need to be outside and there was nothing worse than being cold and wet.

She slipped out of the car and pulled on her night vision glasses. She walked back up to the road, turning right and making her way along the side of the road, hugging the tree line. There was no street or cabin lighting. It was pitch black.

Fifty feet from where the roads merged, Wire glanced right and noticed another car parked as she had, twenty feet back into a small winding driveway. She quickly walked down the road, took the glove off her right hand and felt the hood. It was cold. The cabin at the end of the driveway was dark, no lights. However, with the night vision goggles she was able to see fresh footprints leading back to the road. She followed them and they led towards Hitch’s cabin.

Perhaps she wasn’t alone. Wire took a quick photo of the car and the license plate.

* * *

Adam Montgomery had been sitting in the woods for a little over half an hour and was now miserable. His partner, Jason Stroudt, was equally so. Neither man properly planned for the rain. Sure they had on raincoats, but no rain pants or hats, and without those, the chilling rain water easily found its way to their bodies. The two were going to be cold, but they hoped it would be worth it.

They’d managed to arrive ahead of the motorcade and were well positioned to the south of the Hitch cottage, kneeling behind a fallen tree, ten feet into dense woods. They were looking out over a large open yard that led to the cabin. Of course, the cabin wasn’t really a cabin, it was a small estate. The home was well over seven thousand square feet and a look inside revealed the finest of cottage furnishings and the layout was perfect, especially if you were looking in from the outside. The main level was large and open, with high ceilings and three different distinct seating areas. The seating area drawing their particular attention was in front of the massive stone fireplace. Over the fireplace was a sixty-inch flat-screen television which was currently rerunning that evening’s The O’Reilly Factor. The seating area directly in front of the massive stone fireplace contained comfortable dark plaid couches which were situated around a massive handmade coffee table on three sides. A fire was roaring, with plenty of extra logs to keep it going for hours. Best of all for Montgomery and Stroudt, the front and front sides of the cabin were all tall windows. While the windows undoubtedly provided a wonderful view out to Lake Barkley during the day, they allowed for Montgomery and Stroudt to easily see inside.

“It sure would be nice to be in there,” Montgomery whispered while he quietly fiddled with the lens on his camera, sliding on a telephoto one. They were two hundred feet away from the cabin but there were at least four people patrolling the grounds that they’d seen and they didn’t dare move any closer.

“I would agree,” Stroudt replied softly, wiping the rain drops off the front of his binoculars for what seemed like the tenth time. “There must be someone important coming to meet Checketts,” he added confidently.

“Why do you say that?”

“The Johnny Walker Blue. You don’t break out the Blue for just anybody.”

Montgomery looked inside and his partner was right. On the massive coffee table were a dozen glasses, two buckets of ice and four bottles of Johnny Walker Blue. “What’s the Blue go for these days?”

“My dad bought a bottle last Christmas. He said it ran just north of $200 a bottle.”

“Who are these other two guys?” There was another short, stout, older-looking man pacing around the room in a black suit and shirt, and with a black fedora pulled down tight on his head. He had said perhaps three words to Checketts and spent the remainder of his time either on or reading his smart phone. The third man sitting at the table was thin with blond hair and high cheekbones. He spent his time alternately on his laptop and looking at his phone. It did not appear that the three men necessarily knew one another.

“I don’t know, never seen them before. Checketts carried in a briefcase and the other two look empty handed.”

Just then lights appeared to their left. “Let’s see who else is coming to dinner,” Montgomery said quietly. The blogger put his camera up and zoomed in.

“So who do we have?” Stroudt asked, letting the binoculars hang around his shoulders, his vision partially blocked by trees.

“Looks like,” Montgomery moved slightly left and looked through the camera into the cabin and started snapping and then stopped, quietly uttering, “Oh my God!”

“What?” Stroudt asked urgently.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? Tell me,” Stroudt answered, sliding left as well, the binoculars coming to his eyes.

“It’s Heath Connolly,” Montgomery whispered excitedly.

“No way.”

Montgomery simply nodded.

“Checketts and these other two guys are meeting with Connolly? Five days before the election? Out here in backwater Kentucky?”

“What have we stumbled onto here?” Stroudt whispered excitedly.

Montgomery didn’t respond, he simply snapped photos.

* * *

Connolly was inside now, Wire thought as she settled into position behind the base of a massive fallen trunk of a large tree. The tree was one of four or five on the ground in her immediate vicinity. All appeared to have recently fallen, probably the result of a strong storm from the summer now long since passed. The position provided her a clear view of the circular drive to the back of the cottage which would allow for the taking of pictures as everyone departed. Two private security guards were standing on the back porch, both with Styrofoam cups in their hands. Wire put the camera to her eyes, zoomed in and took pictures of each. Another man stepped onto the back porch and gave orders, casually waving the men off the porch and walking around the cabin. Wire snapped two photos of the man, who appeared to be in charge of the security.

Instructions given to the worker bees, the man moved back inside the cabin. And what was going on inside is what interested Wire. However, to see she would need to move to the front of the cottage. She turned to her right, took one careful step and she saw them, perhaps sixty to seventy feet away, camped behind a similar log, already taking photos.

Wire was really good at this but she wouldn’t be able to get into position on this side of the cabin without being noticed by the two men. Even if she could, if they made a mistake, she’d be caught up in the wash. The car she’d seen in the driveway must belong to those two. They’d beat her to the scene.

So who were they? Who did they work for? How did they know about this meeting? Those were questions Wire wanted to ask, and would, but in a different and safer time and place. She had the license plate and would track them down. However, for now, unless all she wanted was pictures as the meeting participants walked in and then out the back door, she needed another option.

Wire turned her gaze to the property on the opposite side to the north of the cottage. The topography of the land was not promising as it ran down away from the cottage, although she could make out what looked like another cabin perhaps a hundred feet north of the Hitch place. She carefully moved back to her left ten feet to get a better look. The cabin was older and much smaller, but was two stories with a steep pitched roof. The peak of the roof looked to be just slightly above the height of the main level of Hitch’s. If she could get up on top of that roof, she might be able to see into the cabin from the other side. Wire slid the night vision glasses back on and started carefully moving back towards the road.

It took her ten minutes to pick her way over to the property north of Hitch’s cabin. She was now peaking around the corner of the three-car detached garage sitting twenty or so feet lower than Hitch’s place. The backyard of the cabin was open and cleared like a yard you would find in the city, with just a few trees interspersed through what would be a finely manicured yard in the summer. Fortunately, the cabin appeared to be buttoned up for the year and the floodlights on the garage were dark. Nevertheless, she stuck close to the northern edge of the property and the tree line and scooted to the cabin.

There was an old metal television antennae tower that hugged the north side of the cabin. Wire suspected this was left over from a bygone era before cable or satellite dishes became prevalent. She looked at the base, which had cement footings. The tower itself was secured to the house in two places by metal brackets. Best of all, it had foot rungs. It was sturdy and would easily hold her one hundred twenty-five pounds. She put her left foot into the first rung, when to her right she noticed another set of headlights approaching.

Wire stepped back down off the antennae and slithered back to the rear corner of the cabin and peered towards the driveway behind Hitch’s place. Another limousine had arrived. She slipped off her backpack and kneeled down and took out her camera. She snapped a photo of the license plate. A man providing security opened the rear passenger door.

* * *

“Someone else has arrived,” Stroudt stated, seeing the headlights appear. “Who do we have now?”

“I can’t tell,” Montgomery answered, starting to stand up. “Let me see if I can get in position to take a picture.”

“Can you get one?”

“I need a little better angle,” Montgomery answered as he stood up. He moved to his left five feet, not looking down, and stepped awkwardly onto a branch.

The crack was loud—too loud.

* * *

Wire had her camera trained on the newly arrived limousine. A foot appeared from the rear passenger door, a man ready to step out.

“There’s somebody up there!” she heard a security guard scream as she slipped safely back behind the cabin. “Up in the woods. Up there! Up there! On the south side! On the south side! Up there!”

The two men had been discovered. She was instantly relieved she’d had to change positions. The security man holding open the limousine door was animatedly talking to the man inside the limousine. Then the security man took two steps away from the limousine, quickly pivoted to the south and ordered: “Don’t let them get away.”

“There they are! There they are!” one of the guards yelled.

Then she heard it, an unmistakable sound.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three shots fired.

“What in the hell?” she muttered to herself.

Then she heard another series of gunshots.

The limousine that had just arrived peeled out of the driveway.

The meeting was over.

She sprinted back to the detached garage and took stock. With security focused on the south side of the Hitch cottage and away from her location to the north, Wire took a chance.

She jumped from behind the detached garage and bounded up the hill to the back of Hitch’s and knelt down in a small cluster of trees. She snapped photos of Connolly and others running out of the cabin, and into the waiting limousines and SUVs.

The motorcade quickly sped away.

Wire held her position for a few minutes in case she missed any straggling personnel hanging around. The cabin had gone quiet; most of the lights now out. Sure that it was now safe to move, she carefully moved back away from the cabin and up towards the road and picked her way back to the Acadia all the while wondering “What did those two see, anyway?”

CHAPTER TWO

“What would be the fun in that?”

Thursday, October 31st

The Snelling Motor Lodge was a two-story L-shaped motel from a bygone era, both in its shape and function. It was L-shaped to fit snuggly into a tight lot on the east side of Snelling Avenue near the Minnesota State Fairgrounds. In years gone by, its function would have been to host out-of-state families in the cities either visiting or working at the Minnesota State Fair or in town visiting their children attending Hamline University which was located just to its north.

However, what travelers needed from a hotel, matched with years of neglectful ownership, had allowed The Snelling to fall into a dilapidated state. The red paint was peeling away from its cedar siding and the years of harsh Minnesota winters and heavy snow had wreaked havoc on the faded black shingled roof, causing it to look as wavy as Lake Minnetonka. The cement parking lot was strewn with small pot holes and the sidewalks were chipped and cracked. People looking for a good night’s rest and some peace and quiet usually did not stay at The Snelling. People looking to engage in activities they didn’t want others to see did. Time and neglect turned The Snelling over to a poorer clientele, one that frequently included drug dealers, junkies and prostitutes. So it was no surprise to Detective Mac McRyan that at 5:30 p.m. he was turning into the parking lot of The Snelling, pulling up to yellow crime scene tape and parking next to the coroner’s wagon.

This wouldn’t be his first rodeo at The Snelling.

Mac put his new Yukon in park and took one last long sip of his Depth Charge Coffee from the Grand Brew. Thirty-three years old, he had four years as a detective. He was a fourth generation cop, with cousins and uncles scattered throughout the St. Paul Police Department. When you retired from the first family business, you went to work for the second family business, McRyan’s Pub, sitting on the southwest corner of downtown St. Paul on West Seventh Street.

While policing and owning a bar were the family businesses, Mac’s route to being a cop was far more circuitous than for the rest of his family. He’d been a hockey player at the University of Minnesota, captain his senior year. He was also a scholastic All-American. As a result, Mac McRyan had other options available to him. So while other McRyans of his generation stayed true to family form and went into policing, Mac went to law school with his college sweetheart, got married and appeared set for a long, lucrative and successful legal career. He had been hired by the biggest firm in town with a six-figure salary waiting. Then lightning struck two weeks after he passed the bar exam. His two cousins and best friends were killed in the line of duty and suddenly he felt the pull and obligation of the family business. Mac made detective by age twenty-nine, was divorced by age thirty and now at age thirty-three was the best detective on the force.

He grabbed his worn brown leather folder, pen and cell phone and rolled his athletic six-foot-one frame out of the warmth of the truck. There was a definite chill in the air. The temperature was dropping quickly from a noontime high of forty-eight and was now dipping into the mid-thirties, with a stiff northwest breeze adding to the chill, cold even for Minnesota in late October. Winter was still a ways away, but days like today made you realize it wasn’t that far away. Mac threw his black wool overcoat on over his suit coat and pulled a navy blue scarf around his neck and walked under the crime scene tape.

His cousin Shawn, a uniform cop, greeted him with a smile and: “Hey cuz. I didn’t think the chief would send the A-squad to The Snelling.”

“Just my luck, I guess,” Mac answered. “Hold this,” Mac said as he handed his cousin his brown leather folder and reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He took the folder back, “Lich will be along any minute.”

“So you think the governor will pull it out next Tuesday?”

“I sure hope so,” Mac answered, “if for no other reason than just to see Sally happy. Given all the work she’s put in the last couple of months, she’ll be absolutely devastated if he doesn’t.”

Sally was Sally Kennedy, Mac’s girlfriend. She had taken leave from her assistant Ramsey County attorney job to work on Minnesota Governor James Thomson’s presidential campaign. An old law school friend who was a close aide of the national campaign manager, a famous local political operative named Judge Dixon, recruited her back in mid-summer. She’d poured herself into the work and made a very favorable impression on the man known as “The Judge.” It would be good for her career since she had aspirations beyond the county attorney’s office. Judge Dixon was an excellent man to have for a reference.

“So what do we have, Shawney?” Mac asked, getting back on task. A dead body awaited his attention.

“Body is upstairs. I snuck a quick peek. You’ve got a white male, probably in his mid-thirties. Bloody as hell. The guy’s throat was cut nearly ear to ear, pretty gruesome. Given the location, I’d say it’s probably a drug-robbery-sex cocktail.”

Mac raised an eyebrow, “So I can just go home then?”

Shawn smiled, “I suspect the powers that be probably would like a detective, particularly one of your caliber, to sign off on the theory of a lowly patrolman.”

“Pity,” Mac replied. “Who discovered the body?”

“A Valeninos Pizza delivery driver, with an assist from the motel manager.”

“Valeninos?”

“Yeah. Apparently our vic upstairs ordered a pie. The driver knocks on the door and there’s no answer. He looked in the window, there was a sliver of a gap between the curtains and the window and he saw a leg on the floor and the guy wouldn’t get up no matter how long he knocked. Driver was smart enough to …”

“… realize where he was and went and got the manager,” Mac finished.

“That’s right. Manager came up, opened the door, saw what you’re going to see and called 911.”

“Do we have a name?”

“Yeah, Bob Smith.”

Mac gave his cousin a skeptical look, “Bob Smith? Seriously?”

“That’s what the motel manager said. At least that’s what the room register has his name as.”

“Let me guess. Neither identification nor a credit card were required to rent a room?”

“The Snelling rarely asks for such niceties from its clientele these days,” Shawn answered. “Not good for their customer retention program, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t imagine it is,” Mac sighed as he strode over to the open-air concrete stairs and made his way up the steps to the second level and strolled along the balcony to room 211. He carefully stepped inside the doorway. Like all rooms at The Snelling, this one was cramped. To his immediate right was a cheap small square table with two extremely weathered navy blue fabric chairs. An unopened Valeninos’ pizza box sat on the table. Farther inside and to the right were two twin-size beds. The bedspread of the closest bed was slightly disturbed and the two pillows were stacked on the left side near the nightstand. A cheap oak dresser and old-school box television on a stand were to his left. The bathroom and a door-less closet containing two stray metal hangers on the clothes rod were to the back.

The body was laying face down, less than ten feet inside the door. There was a line of blood splatter on the left wall running above the dresser and across the mirror. The coroner was crouched down, examining the body, careful to keep her feet out of the pool of blood. She looked up to see Mac and smiled. “Detective McRyan, how nice to see you.”

“And you, Doctor. What can you tell me about our boy Bob Smith here? Like, for example, do we know if that’s actually his real name?”

“We don’t. No wallet on the body or in the room,” the coroner answered. “There are markings on his left wrist suggesting he wore a watch but there isn’t one to be found.”

“You’ll take prints off the vic, of course?”

“You bet, Mac. We’ll run them and see if we get a hit. Given we’re at The Snelling, odds are in our favor.”

Mac looked back to a uniform cop standing just outside the door. “Did you guys find any luggage? Duffel bag? Backpack? Anything like that?”

The uniform shook his head.

Mac turned back to the coroner, “How long has Bobby here been dead?”

“No rigor, so I’d say he hasn’t been dead more than two to three hours tops. Cause of death looks pretty obvious, knife, right across the throat.”

“I assume he was grabbed from behind?” Mac asked, as he jotted down notes.

The coroner nodded.

“And he’s facing the left wall here when he cuts him across the throat. Look at the blood splatter. See how it runs across the wall and thins out left to right? That would suggest to me the killer used his right hand.”

“As would the wound, from what I can tell,” the coroner replied. “The guy is damn near decapitated.”

“So how does our killer get in here and get the jump on the guy?” Mac asked and then looked down to his right at the table. “The pizza perhaps?”

“Maybe. The vic makes a call for a pie,” the coroner says. “Pizza guy gets in the room and then takes the knife to our guy.”

“Valeninos will love that,” Mac answered, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t really add up, does it? I mean, the Valeninos guy found our body to start with.” Mac flipped up the top to the pizza box. The box was empty.

“Interesting. No pizza in the pizza box.” Mac turned to the uniform cop. “Is the Valeninos guy still hanging around?”

“Yes.”

“Confirm with him that he still has the pizza that was ordered.”

The uniform ran off. Mac turned back to the room, “So between whenever he made his order and the time they found him, someone got in here, dressed as a delivery man, and decapitates our guy. But why? For what reason? Why is Bob, or whatever his name really is, so important? So important that someone would, in broad daylight no less, get in here, to The Snelling, to kill him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to take a standard run of the mill drug or sex related murder here at The Snelling and turn it into something complicated,” moaned McRyan’s partner Richard Lich, a/k/a Dick Lick, as he stepped carefully into the room. Attired in one of his trademark shit-brown suits, striped tie and scuffed loafer ensembles that was topped off with a black fedora covering his bald dome, Lich carefully maneuvered his heavyset body around the deceased. “Why, for once, can’t it just be easy?”

“What would be the fun in that,” Mac replied with a wry smile. “Besides, the case is more interesting when you add into this the question of how our killer knows the guy ordered from Valeninos?”

Lich shrugged his shoulders.

Mac’s cousin had an answer, “Valeninos is the only shop that will deliver here.”

“Fine,” Mac responded, but then asked, “how did the killer know he ordered a pizza?”

“Hmpf,” Lich snorted. Dick walked over to the hotel phone, picked it up and took a quick look around and didn’t see an obvious listening device. “We should have crime scene take the phone and examine it,” he said. “That’s a good question, Mac. Could have just been standing outside the door and heard it and thought it’s a good way to get in.”

Mac chewed on that as he walked back over to the victim and ran his small pen-sized flashlight over the exposed arms of the victim. “Doc, you see any evidence of drug use on the vic?”

“No needle marks that I saw on his arms,” the coroner answered as she pulled off the victim’s socks and examined between the toes. “I don’t see any needle marks between the toes along the feet, so he looks clean. I can tell you for sure once I examine him at the morgue and run a tox screen. However, he doesn’t have the drug user look to him.”

Mac nodded as he looked the victim over. He had an expensive haircut with maybe one or two day’s stylish razor stubble. The victim’s clothes were a little dirty but were quality, Levi’s, nylon Nautica zip-up black pullover, top-of-the-line hiking boots. “Is it me or does this guy not fit the common demographic for clientele here at The Snelling, or at least the clientele that fractures the occasional law while here?”

“You mean, say, a strung out drug addled sex fiend?” Lich asked.

“Yeah, something like that,” Mac answered nodding.

“Then that’s a negative. He looks pretty clean cut for The Snelling.”

“Is Bob even from these parts?” Mac asked.

“No ID. No wallet. No luggage, so who knows?” Lich answered. “Maybe he’s a student from Hamline University who wandered down the street into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“He’s older than a Hamline student,” Mac answered. “This guy is in his thirties, I’d say.”

“Maybe a law student?” Lich questioned. Hamline had a law school.

“William Mitchell usually would have the law students in their thirties, going to the night school, not Hamline.” Mac answered, a William Mitchell graduate in his own right. He stood up and walked over to the bed where the victim appeared to have been sitting.

“What are you thinking, Mac?” Lich asked.

“Our guy was sitting here on the bed, watching television perhaps, maybe the news.”

“The news? At The Snelling?” Lich replied skeptically. “Porn seems more likely.”

“Speaking from experience,” Mac replied, which drew a one-finger solute response from Lich. “Whatever he was watching, our guy is sitting here, right?”

“Yeah. He hears a knock on the door,” Lich adds. “Thinking his Valeninos’ Deluxe Supreme has arrived.”

“Right, he looks through the peephole and the guy is holding a pizza or at least a pizza box.”

“So he lets the killer in. The killer walks in, puts the pizza box on the table.”

“Bob here is relaxed and perhaps reaches for his wallet. Figuring he’ll pay for the pizza quick and …”

“The killer sees this and jumps him from behind, cuts his throat and leaves with his wallet, watch and apparently anything else our guy came with,” Mac finished as he pulled the pillows up and looked down. Between the mattress and the wall, just under the headboard, he saw a piece of paper. He unfolded it.

“I don’t think Bob is from around here.”

“What do you have?”

“A boarding pass, interestingly enough. Delta flight from St. Louis to Minneapolis dated today. And it’s not for a Bob Smith, but for a Jason Stroudt.”

“Case just got a little more interesting,” Lich said.

“Perhaps,” Mac answered. “I mean, it seems to me it would be pretty unusual for someone to fly up from St. Louis and then come here?”

“Unless he was coming up here to get a little somethin’ somethin’, a girl maybe,” Lich answered. “Or maybe he’s going to make some sort of drug deal.”

“Where is the evidence of that? The coroner says there is no outward evidence of drugs on the victim.”

“Maybe the tox screen will prove otherwise, Mac. Maybe he’s not a user but a dealer meeting a supplier, who knows. Smart drug dealers are ones who don’t use their own product.”

“That’s true. To figure this out we have to start putting this guy’s life together, at least the last few hours of it, to see what’s what,” Mac declared. “Let’s go down and talk to the manager and see if he can give us anything.”

The long-time manager of The Snelling was Tony Seville. Seville was a slight and grungy man whose eyes were constantly shifting left to right. He never looked anyone in the eye, which was advisable given where he worked. Seville was fully aware of the activities that took place at the motel he managed. Vice thought he probably got a little piece of the action from time to time from some of his regular clientele and was accomplished at turning a blind eye. Consequently, he knew little and was evasive in providing what he did know. He reported that Bob Smith checked in mid-afternoon. After some further questioning, he pegged the time at a shade after 2:00 p.m. Seville was even evasive about how Smith reserved the room. After pestering from McRyan and Lich, it turns out that there was no reservation for a room. He paid cash for one night, scribbled his name on the register and was handed a room key. The only other contact with the guest was when he called down for a pizza delivery number.

“I gave him Valeninos.”

“Any particular reason?” Lich asked.

“They’re the only ones that will still deliver here and even then only while the sun is still up,” Seville answered.

“What time was that at?” Mac asked. “That he called down for the pizza number.”

“I couldn’t say for sure,” Seville answered quietly, slippery as ever.

Mac finally snapped. “Damn it, Tony! All I asked was what time he called down for a fucking pizza, so enough of this shit. You know I’m not a vice or dope cop. I don’t care about what you have going on the side here. But if you don’t start answering my questions the first time, I’ll have vice and dope in here within the hour and they will care about your side action. Hell, they’ll come down here just for the practice.”

Seville held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Detective, I’m pretty sure he called down to me between 2:45 and 3:00.”

“What time did the driver stop in here asking for you to come up to the room?”

“Right around 4:00 p.m.”

Mac looked to Lich. “That gives us 2:45–3:00 to 4:00 as the kill zone.”

Lich nodded, jotting down notes.

“Did you see anyone approach his room?”

“I didn’t, but …” Seville shrugged his shoulders.

“What?” Lich said.

“You make it a practice to turn a blind eye unless you absolutely have to?” Mac surmised.

“Occupational requirement,” Seville answered.

“Economic necessity,” Lich quipped. Seville just shrugged.

Mac continued: “So when he checked in, did he have any luggage, anything like that with him?”

“Not that I really recall,” Seville answered and then thought for a moment. “He had a backpack, I think, over his left shoulder, but no suitcase or anything like that.”

Mac jotted that down. “How did he get here?”

“I think he drove,” Seville answered. “I did watch him when he walked out. There are the curtains on the bottom of the window, but when he walked out, I could see the top of a car door that opened, he dropped down and into the car. I assumed he drove it down closer to the steps at the end of his wing of the building and went up.”

“What kind of car?” Lich asked.

“I didn’t look. Like I said, I saw the very top of the door swing open, darker color I think, but I didn’t watch him drive away.”

Mac looked out the window and given that the victim’s motel room was to the right, Seville wouldn’t have been able to see the car. It would have been blocked by the half-curtains for the window.

“And he gave you the name Bob Smith?”

Seville nodded.

“Did you look at his identification at all? Perhaps his driver’s license?”

“No,” Seville responded. “The only time I do that is if someone tries to pay with credit, then I might give that a look because I don’t want to get stiffed, but people usually don’t flash the plastic here, almost always cash. If they pay cash, I don’t really care what their name is. Joe Schmo, Bob Smith, Little Richard, I don’t care what name they use as long as we get paid.”

“How about the name Jason Stroudt?” Lich asked. “That name mean anything to you?”

Seville shook his head.

“Was Bob Smith the only person you rented that room to today?” Mac followed.

Seville nodded.

“Anything else, Tony?” Mac asked skeptically. “Anything you’ve purposefully neglected to tell me?”

The Snelling manager shook his head. “You know what I know, Detectives.”

Mac and Lich stared him down.

“Honest.”

Mac and Lich walked out of the manager’s office. There wasn’t a car parked in the vicinity of the victim’s room.

“So where’s the car?” Lich asked.

“We have two things to track down, our victim and his car,” Mac said, scribbling down some to do’s. “I’m going to call Delta and see if Bob Smith is really Jason Stroudt. From there, maybe we can track the car.”

* * *

Heath Connolly stood off to the side of the dais reading e-mails from his campaign staff while Vice President Wellesley delivered his second speech of the day in Cincinnati. The campaign manager tried to focus on the flurry of e-mail clogging his smart phone. One e-mail wanted approval of Friday and Saturday’s travel schedule. Another e-mail inquired about Connolly’s availability to appear on the Sunday morning political shows and This Week was making a particular push which made Connolly wince. He always tried to avoid This Week, if for no other reason than the Washington Post’s George Will always seemed to twist him in knots. Another e-mail provided him with an update on Super PAC advertising in Iowa, Wisconsin, Virginia and Ohio, the key battleground states. However, he was having trouble focusing, the hairy events of the night before still fresh and swirling around in his mind.

He’d held many a late night meeting at Hitch’s place in the past without a problem and it had seemed like a completely safe and out of the way place for last night’s meeting to see the demonstration of The Plan in its ultimate form. Unfortunately, that demonstration was delayed several hours and only then provided in the hanger at the airport in Princeton, Kentucky, once completely secured. From what Connolly had seen, the plan would work. He just needed to keep the election tight and the plan from being exposed.

The former was looking easier than the latter when there was a buzz in his left suit pant pocket.

He casually put his campaign phone inside the breast pocket for his suit coat and reached into his left pant pocket and pulled out his other phone, which displayed a new text message. The message read: ‘One down, one to go.’

Connolly casually elbowed Donald Wellesley Jr. standing just to his right and handed him the phone. Wellesley Jr. knew fully the events of the night before even though he’d not attended them. He handed the phone back to Connolly and whispered, “Any idea where they are on the other?”

“No.”

“Breathe easy, Heath,” Wellesley said casually. “It’s only a matter of time before Kristoff and his merry band of men track him down and then this thing will be in the bag, like it always should have been.”

Connolly snorted, “I won’t breathe easy until this is over.”

“Fine,” Wellesley replied nonplused, “but we keep the pressure on in Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia and we’re golden, my friend. Thomson won’t know what hit him.”

* * *

Kristoff watched the scene unfold at The Snelling from across Snelling Avenue, sitting in a black Chrysler minivan. To his right was his long-time friend and business partner Francois Foche. Both were taking in the murder scene of Jason Stroudt with binoculars.

Once again they were cleaning up a mess. They’d cleaned one up in Milwaukee last night only to get the call that they had a new one requiring their attention.

Jason Stroudt was one half of their problem, which meant that one half of their newest problem was now solved. Stroudt, and his partner, somehow knew about the meeting at Hitch’s cabin. In the chase through the woods from Hitch’s cabin, one man managed to get a partial plate on a Ford Taurus as it sped away. The partial plate led to Stroudt.

Kristoff and Foche tracked Stroudt to the Twin Cities via his credit card and flight. They’d tracked him from the airport to The Snelling. The rest, while not hard, was constructed on the fly. In his experience, when you had to make such a move on the fly, something invariably was missed.

Having taken care of Stroudt, Kristoff and Foche reviewed what the blogger had in his backpack. Stroudt and his partner saw too much in Kentucky. What had Kristoff worried was that whoever was with Stroudt in Kentucky probably possessed the same information and photos that Stroudt did. Kristoff knew what the election plan was and if someone knew what they were looking at in the photos and put the pieces together, the fallout would be massive.

Kristoff and Foche had to tie off the loose end from Kentucky.

So who was with Stroudt last night?

Kristoff was certain it was Stroudt’s blogging partner Adam Montgomery. The two of them flew together to Nashville and stayed at the same hotel. For now, it appeared that Montgomery had fallen off the grid, exercising far more caution than that exhibited by his now late business partner. Montgomery’s cell phone was turned off, there was no credit card activity and they had been unable to track his whereabouts since Kentucky. He did not make his Nashville flight nor had he taken any other flight, unlike his business partner. Kristoff had a team conduct a search of Stroudt’s home and office in the early morning hours. The team was still reviewing everything from the search but thus far they had no leads on how the two bloggers knew of Kentucky.

Montgomery would surface eventually. Kristoff’s men were tracking Montgomery’s cell phone, e-mail, Facebook, Twitter, website, credit cards and cash card. Sooner or later he would show up on the electronic grid, they always did. Kristoff just needed Montgomery to come out of hiding in or near a place where he had assets available to be deployed.

In the meantime, Kristoff and Foche decided to monitor the Stroudt crime scene. They’d been watching The Snelling for a half hour when the Black Yukon arrived bringing the first suit to the scene. “Younger guy,” Foche said hopefully.

“Do St. Paul cops drive high-end Yukons?” Kristoff wondered out loud as he picked up his cell phone and made a call. “I need you to run a Minnesota plate.”

Fifteen minutes later he had the rundown on the Yukon on his phone. “This could have gone better,” he muttered.

“Why?” Foche asked.

“The Yukon is not department issue but the personal vehicle of Michael McKenzie McRyan. He’s a detective and from the look of things, a fine one. Magna Cum Laude graduate from the University of Minnesota and William Mitchell College of Law. He joined the police department after law school and has some rather impressive police work to his name.”

“Guy with that background becomes a cop for a very specific if not personal reason,” Foche said with some insight. “Something must have happened to him or a family member to make him become a cop.”

“You may be right. Part of the answer may be that police work is something of the family business. Apparently there are many a McRyan in the St. Paul Police Department. His late father was Simon McRyan, a detective of some regard years ago. Perhaps young Michael McKenzie here simply followed the calling to the family business.”

“What has he done that means we should hold him in such high esteem?” Foche asked.

“You remember hearing about that shoot-out in St. Paul with some professionals who worked with the military contractor PTA?”

“I do,” Foche answered, sitting up in his passenger seat and dropping the binoculars from his eyes to look at Kristoff. “I knew the man with PTA. His name was Webb Alt. I worked with him two different times when he was CIA, they called him Viper. He was very good.”

“While at PTA, this Alt got into some off-the-books arms sales business that this McRyan discovered. McRyan took him down. There was a chase through downtown St. Paul and McRyan got the drop on Alt and shot him in a parking ramp. Then summer before last there was a kidnapping case, where the St. Paul police chief’s and a prominent lawyer’s daughters were kidnapped. It was a national story over the 4th of July. There was significant media coverage.”

“McRyan had that one as well?” Foche asked.

“He did. Apparently, against orders, he went rogue with a couple of other detectives. He brought both women home and took down all the kidnappers, even the FBI agent working it from the inside.”

Foche was mildly concerned. “I seriously doubt McRyan will find much at the scene that will trace this back to us, but we handled Stroudt without much preparation.”

“So?”

“We should keep a little eye on this McRyan. He obviously has some ability.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Virginia? Really?”

Sebastian McCormick slumped his angular six-foot-two frame into a soft conference table chair and put his Budweiser to his lips as he looked out the windows of the twenty-second-floor conference room of the Thomson Campaign Headquarters in downtown St. Paul. At thirty-six, he was hitting his stride as a master political operator. Although he’d worked one previous presidential campaign, most of his experience was with Minnesota state politics. But this go around he’d hitched his wagon fully to the Judge, who was the master, and McCormick was soaking up every last bit of knowledge he could from Dixon and had impressed all in the Democratic Party in the process. He now knew every power player in the party, had them on his cell phone and now they all took his calls. In four years he expected to either be running the re-election campaign of President James Thomson or that of whomever the Democratic Party ran. His star had shot that high, with no small thanks owed to the Judge.

He’d just run the gauntlet of the evening political shows with tonight being his FOX News night with The O’Reilly Factor and Hannity. Earlier in the day he taped an interview with Rachel Maddow for her show. It was non-stop now, day after day, interviews during the day, for the network nightly news and the political talk-show gauntlet at night. Tomorrow morning he would do Morning Joe. Such was the life of the deputy campaign director. While there were numerous deputy directors, there was no doubt who was second in command and it was McCormick. The Budweiser was a way to decompress, blow off a little steam before he put another few hours in on his cell phone and laptop and then he might even think about letting his head hit the pillow. With less than a week to go, he’d be lucky to get three or four hours before he had to get going again. But he didn’t care. He was made for this game, he loved it, thrived on it; it provided him energy, it was his passion. Sebastian lived, ate and breathed politics.

His passion for politics was shared by the lovely Kate Shelby, also a deputy campaign manager and these days, his frequent bedmate. Sleep was all the shorter in supply with Kate and her five-foot-nine model figure to distract him. Before he could get his three or four hours of sleep, he liked to take a tour of Kate and she of him. He figured they were both feeding off the adrenaline of the campaign. On occasion in the last few months, he wondered what things would be like between them when the momentum slowed, when life returned to a more normal pattern or at least what passed for normal in politics. Would there be something there for the two of them then? He hoped to start finding out in a week.

Tonight, Kate was his savior for another reason. She and her assistant, Sally Kennedy, were carrying in two full bags of Chinese food from Orachon’s. Chinese food, pizza, beer, sub sandwiches, coffee and donuts were the key components of the diet of a political operative.

“How’d it go tonight?” Kate asked, having done the political show tour a few nights lately herself.

“I taped with Maddow earlier. She was fine, although there’s always an undercurrent of ‘we’re not liberal enough’ from her,” Sebastian replied, opening a box of sweet and sour chicken. “O’Reilly wasn’t bad, some really good back and forth amongst the bluster. You can tell when he respects you.”

“How so?” Kate asked.

“He actually lets you answer. I did Hannity tonight as well.”

“Hannity? Really? What’s next, Glen Beck?” Sally Kennedy asked. What self-respecting Democrat would even consider going on Hannity since Colmes left?

“Yeah, I’ve sat in with Sean a few times and he didn’t disappoint,” McCormick smiled. “He was a tool as usual. He’s so used to guests that turn his show into an echo chamber that he’s not used to handling someone who can push back and tell him he’s full of shit. He doesn’t know what to do. If you get him just a little off track the whole thing turns into a train wreck for him.”

“I heard he had a bunch of Republican Super PAC guys on tonight,” Shelby stated.

“Indeed,” Sebastian answered. “He had on that casino mogul Osmundson who’s ponied up something like $50 million dollars, the banking guy—Torgerson—and then Christian Pope.”

“The Pope Oil & Gas Christian Pope? That Christian Pope?” Sally asked. “He’s kind of a recluse, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know about recluse. I think he just prefers his privacy,” Sebastian answered. “I actually chatted with him for a few minutes before he went on. He was a little shy but very engaging. The guy wasn’t bad to deal with and I watched the segment of the show he was on and he played it pretty straight, or at least straighter. Torgerson and Osmundson acted as if the world will end if the governor is elected, which of course Sean loved. They even went down the road of accusing the governor of waiving the work requirements for welfare.”

“That old saw?” Shelby replied astonished. “I thought that one was dead by now. The governor wanted a waiver to experiment.”

“Exactly, and to his credit, that’s exactly what Christian Pope said,” Sebastian answered, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Pope even gave the governor credit for the economy here in Minnesota. Of course, that was before he listed Thomson’s many other sins against the Free Enterprise System, so I don’t expect a campaign donation from the man, but he was a far cry from the other two; they’re just crazy irrational delusional.”

Sally’s cell phone went off. She pulled it from her purse and pushed her long red hair behind her right ear so she could read the display, a small smile creasing her lips.

“Mac?” Kate asked.

“Yes. I haven’t talked to him all day so I need to take this. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Say hi from me,” Shelby replied as Sally walked to the far corner of the conference room, placing her back to them. Then to McCormick she said quietly, “It’s her boyfriend, Mac.”

“McRyan? The St. Paul Detective?” McCormick asked through a mouth full of fried rice.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you, Sebastian, she’s loved working on the campaign these last few months, but I gotta tell you, it’s kinda cute how she misses him so much. Those two really have a connection.”

“Like us?” Sebastian asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Kate smiled back, “We’ll have to see, won’t we.”

* * *

Joyce Dixon had a middle initial of J. The J stood for Judge and that was a good thing. ‘Joyce’ simply didn’t fit for the mass of a man that was the Judge. The Judge was six foot four and pushed three hundred pounds, an impressive man in size and appearance. All of his suits were worn with suspenders to hoist his finely tailored dress pants over the girth of his stomach. His custom dress shirts always contained three things: a plain white collar regardless of the shirt color, his initials on the left cuff and two or three cigars in the chest pocket. The cigars were rarely lit during business hours, although the Judge could easily do so if he wanted as he constantly fiddled with a red, white and blue Zippo lighter in his fingers. While the Judge was now in his mid-sixties, his hair remained jet black, a large mane combed back and for the last ten years, a Fu Manchu mustache defining the mouth that produced a deep and booming voice.

Forty years ago, the Judge was an imposing starting defensive tackle for the Minnesota Gophers. From there he became an imposing federal prosecutor and US Attorney. His success as a prosecutor led him into politics, but not as a candidate. The Judge loved the conquests of politics, the competition, the thrill of victory, but not necessarily the governance. He never wanted to be a representative or a senator. Making the trains run on time was not his thing. He preferred the combat of lawyering or campaigning. He excelled at the process and sixteen years ago grabbed the brass ring, running the campaign that elected a junior senator from Tennessee to the presidency of the United States. At that point, the Judge figured he was done with political campaigns and took his just reward, attorney general of the United States. He served for eight years, amassing an impressive record as the nation’s top lawyer, despite the fact that he served in an administration that had its fair share of missteps and minor political scandals. When the eight years were up, the Judge, his reputation fully intact, became the man you went to if you were a Democrat and wanted to run for the Senate or consider a run for the presidency. He was the ultimate party player, broker and elder, and many a politician with national aspirations made the trek to St. Paul to get the blessing and guidance of the Judge.

While Judge Dixon liked his role as party elder, he didn’t like his party losing the last two presidential elections and, lo and behold, one of the best possible candidates for this go around was sitting in his own backyard. So he came out of his informal retirement and talked his good friend, Minnesota Governor James Thomson, into running for president. Getting the governor elected would be the cherry on the top of a brilliant legal and political career.

Other than running national political campaigns, another thing the Judge liked was mentoring bright young people. His newest students were Sebastian McCormick and, as of late, Kate Shelby. McCormick ran the governor’s last reelection campaign and had done so flawlessly. After Thomson’s reelection, the Judge reached out to McCormick and offered to serve as a sort of mentor. McCormick eagerly accepted. The Judge watched and mentored as McCormick successfully engineered Minnesota Senate and House campaigns for the party. It was clear to the Judge, perhaps as good a judge of political talent as anyone, that McCormick was a very skilled fish in the small Minnesota political pond. He needed a bigger body of water to play in and the Judge was only too happy to provide it when he coaxed Thomson into running for president.

Shelby was working for the governor when the Judge started coaxing Thomson to run. Thomson spoke highly of her and the Judge quickly came to agree with the governor’s assessment. Despite a lack of political experience on the national stage, he made her a deputy campaign manager working under McCormick. The Judge had come to learn that “under McCormick” meant something else the last few months, but he didn’t mind. The two of them together created an impressive political machine. If McCormick was the Judge’s right-hand man, Shelby was clearly number three in the campaign hierarchy.

However, it wasn’t just James Thomson that brought the Judge and McCormick together. A mutual friend also played a role in that merger. McCormick went to college at Virginia with a bright young woman named Dara Wire. The two briefly dated but in the end they became good friends with interests in politics and the law. While McCormick went to law school and then into politics, Wire was induced to skip law school as she was recruited into the FBI. In the FBI, as a very young agent, she caught the eye of Judge Dixon while he finished his time as attorney general. At a young age, Wire went undercover with the bureau working against organized crime along the east coast. It was work that led to her needing the help of McCormick and the Judge years later. It was that help that now led to her service to the Thomson presidential campaign. A topic the Judge was now discussing with her.

Wire called the Judge in the morning about what she witnessed in Kentucky. His radar immediately went off when told the details, particularly the shots fired. There was something going on at that meeting, something related to the election and something Heath Connolly couldn’t allow to get into the open. Ever since the campaign finance scandal two months ago, the Judge had worried that Connolly would go even blacker in trying to win the election. Kentucky made him worry he was right.

“Did you track down the rental car?” the Judge asked.

“Yeah, your Justice Department guy helped me out—car was rented to a Jason Stroudt of Alexandria, Virginia. Does his name ring a bell?”

The Judge leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. After a minute, he said, “Kinda. It’s a name I know I’ve heard before for some reason.”

“I figured you might have. Stroudt, along with Adam Montgomery run …”

The Judge snapped his fingers: “… The Congressional Page. I know Montgomery’s name. He’s a writer for some of the political publications that interest the ‘inside the beltway crowd.’ I guess Stroudt probably does some of that as well, but I’ve heard of Montgomery more. They probably run the blog as another form of business.”

“Looks like it,” Wire answered, “at least based on my research today.”

“Montgomery, he’s had some articles show up on RealClearPolitics from time to time, lately commentary on campaign finance, Citizens United and Super PACs. Historically, the blog tended to mostly cover congressional issues, the progress of bills in the House and Senate, committee issues, real inside baseball kind of stuff with a focus on good government. They tend to lean a little right politically, David Brooks Republicans as opposed to the Tea Party types. I’ve seen Montgomery interviewed a few times on C-SPAN. He’s not a real dynamic personality. He’s more or less a grinder who works Capitol Hill.”

“If you say so, Judge,” Wire replied. “The blog page is down today. I haven’t been able to pull it up and I’ve gone back to it several times. No go. Calls to their offices are just rolling to voice mail, nobody is picking up. So I did some further Internet research on them. I noted the inside politics stuff as, well, pretty bland, I could use it to cure my insomnia.” She flipped through her notes. “However, if you go back far enough, they appear to have another pet issue.”

“Which is?”

“Voter and election fraud.” Wire handed over copies of the articles printed off the web.

“Voter suppression and voter ID issues?” the Judge inquired.

“No, more like actual fraud in elections,” Wire answered, handing printouts of the articles to Dixon.

The Judge took a quick scan of the articles. The first one by Montgomery involved a review of the voting irregularities in Florida post 2000. In Montgomery’s view, despite efforts in some counties, many areas in Florida remained susceptible to voting issues because modernized voting machines had not been put in place. Two other articles authored by Montgomery reviewed voting irregularities in Ohio in 2004.

“So our boys are interested in campaign finance and voter fraud, they show up last night in Kentucky and Connolly’s boys are shooting at them when they’re discovered.” The Judge raised an eyebrow. “So what the hell did they see?”

“I didn’t get a chance to see myself, Judge,” Wire answered. “I didn’t have a chance to get into position before all hell broke loose. All I have is the photos. I can easily identify Connolly but the rest will take a while. Sorry, I wish I had more.”

The Judge took out one of his cigars and lit it, not caring about the fact the building was no smoking. He was the Judge, who was going to stop him. He took a deep drag on the cigar and blew smoke into the air. He shook his head: “Fucking Connolly, what is he up to now?”

Wire shook his head. “He’s a snake.”

“He’d fuck one if you held it straight,” Dixon railed as he took a drag on his cigar. “However, we know why you were in Kentucky last night, but we need to figure out what drew Montgomery and Stroudt there, what they saw and what Connolly was up to. Maybe its election fraud or maybe it’s something else. Whatever it was it was enough for the security people to open fire.”

“And those two were not a safety concern,” Wire replied.

“That’s right, Dara,” the Judge replied, gesturing with his cigar. “They saw something, something not meant to be seen and we need to find out what that was and right quick, kiddo.”

“I’m on it,” Wire answered as she pushed herself up out of the guest chair.

“What’s your next step?” the Judge asked.

“Fly back to Washington and see if I can track either Stroudt or Montgomery down there. See if either of them went back home. I have a 6:08 a.m. flight to DC to find out.”

The Judge picked up his phone, “Not soon enough, Dara. I want you starting at 6:00 a.m. there, not here. I’m going to get you back there tonight.”

* * *

McRyan and Lich were back at the St. Paul Department of Public Safety and Mac’s first order of business once he reached his desk was to call Delta Airlines regarding the boarding pass.

“I’ll call if I need anything further,” Mac said politely. “Yes, I have your direct number. Thanks much.”

Mac moved his mouse and opened up an e-mail. He clicked print twice and walked over to the printer. “So our Delta passenger is in fact Jason Stroudt and he hails from Alexandria.” Mac took a print-off of Stroudt’s flight information and handed it to Lich.

“Alexandria. So he’s from lake country. That makes him somewhat local then,” Lich said.

“Negative, Ghostrider,” Mac answered as he walked back to the printer. “His current address is Alexandria, in the great Commonwealth of Virginia.” Mac took off another copy, this time of Stroudt’s Virginia driver’s license.

“Virginia? Really?” Lich said, looking at the document quizzically. “What the hell is a guy from Alexandria, Virginia, doing at The Snelling?”

“The better question is: what is a guy who lives in Virginia, but flew in this morning from St. Louis, now doing dead at The Snelling in St. Paul?” Mac asked as he walked over to his chair and plumped himself down, exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is something a little different than the usual from The Snelling.”

“When did he get to St. Louis?”

“Good question, Dicky Boy,” Mac answered, turning to his computer. “I asked Delta about that but Stroudt hadn’t been on another Delta flight in two years. So he got to St. Louis by some means other than Delta. We have to look into that to see if we can construct a timeline for his last couple of days.”

“What does Mr. Stroudt do for a living?” Lich asked.

“I don’t know yet. The contact at Delta sent me an e-mail with payment information for Stroudt.” Mac opened the e-mail and scanned the information. “He booked his flight under a corporate credit card for a TCP Enterprises with a Washington DC address. You take this information and start looking into that. See if he rented a car and perhaps track it down.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out when Mr. Stroudt left Virginia and went to St. Louis. Maybe we can find out what he was doing down there and it could shed some light on what he was doing here in Minnesota.”

* * *

“I still don’t get how Wisconsin is close,” Kate Shelby said as she looked at her laptop, once again culling through polling data, their nightly ritual. The Chinese food boxes were now empty yet littered across the conference table.

“It is, Kate, it just is,” Sally responded.

“It should be ours. The governor is from the neighboring state. He’s worked well with their governors over the years. He provided help with the flooding a few years back. Thomson went to DC and worked with the Wisconsin and Illinois governors on the high-speed rail line, of course, until Walker killed it. He’s been visible, yet here we are.”

“We’ve been over it time and again,” McCormick replied. “Wisconsin has shifted a little right the last couple of years. Not completely to the right but enough that it’s in play. No doubt about it. It’s been a struggle this election cycle and probably will be for years to come. They elected Walker governor and he’s a Tea Party guy, so there is a definite conservative streak over there and we’re seeing it in this race.”

“I still can’t believe, even to this day, that they elected that guy two years ago,” Shelby muttered.

“But they did, and to a certain degree, the electorate, other than the Tea Party and hard righties, has probably regretted it, but that’s what happens in wave elections,” McCormick replied, looking at his own set of Wisconsin data.

“Man, Walker has been hard on us, especially the last two weeks,” Shelby continued with concern. He has me worried, the way the numbers started sliding.”

“We’re gonna win it, Kate,” Sally replied. “I think it tightened because Republicans on the fence went home. Some Republicans were sitting on the fence, thinking about voting for the Democratic governor of the next door neighbor, but then decided to go back home and vote red. That explains the recent drop. Now the numbers are holding around three to four points to the good in Sconi. If the status quo holds and nothing crazy happens, I think we’re going to win it. I can feel it.”

At least Sally sounded confident. McCormick and Shelby were not but they were seasoned political professionals. Politics could change on a dime and five days was plenty of time for something to happen. Wisconsin needed to stay in the governor’s column. Shelby and McCormick had to watch the entirety of the campaign. They had tasked Sally with keeping a close eye on Wisconsin. They didn’t have an electoral vote to spare. The campaign had put Governor Thomson in the state eight times in the last month, along with the copious amounts of time he was spending in Iowa, Ohio and Virginia. Surrogates galore flooded into Wisconsin, senators, governors, the governor’s running mate, the senior senator from North Carolina, not to mention two former presidents. The effort seemed to pay off. The numbers had stopped dropping and Thomson might have even picked up a point. The extra attention paid by the governor and the campaign seemed to be paying off, at least for now.

Ohio, on the other hand, was dead even, as it had been since the summer. Shelby, Kennedy and McCormick all stared at computer screens and ran through Ohio polling data when there was a knock on the door. It was the Judge, with four beers in his hands. “I see three weary workers in need of a bump.”

The beers were gratefully accepted and all three took long drinks. It was after 10:00 p.m.

“So, team, do we remain at a three-point lead?” the Judge asked. He knew the answer but wanted to get the conversation started.

“Appears so, Judge,” McCormick responded.

“And what of Ohio?”

“Same. Dead heat any way you slice it. Unless something seismic happens in the next five days, that state will go until late into the night on Tuesday.”

“That’s no surprise,” the Judge replied with a rueful smile. “As my good buddy Timmy Russert used to say, it’s all about Ohio, Ohio, Ohio.”

“Looks like that’s the way this thing will break,” Sebastian said. “We were just discussing the schedule for the governor and we think we need to get him into Ohio at least three more times before the election. We need to get every last voter we can to the polls there.”

“Let’s hope that’s all we have to worry about in Ohio.” The Judge couldn’t help but think that whatever was going on in Kentucky last night would have something to do with Ohio.

“You think something else is up in Ohio, Judge?” Kennedy asked.

“Don’t know, my dear, but let’s just say I’m not leaving that to chance,” the Judge answered, looking at McCormick, who knew about Wire and the events in Kentucky the prior evening.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Speculation is my middle name.”

Mac hung up the phone and walked over to Lich’s desk. The two of them had spent the better part of three hours on the phone tracking down the movements of Jason Stroudt and by necessity his business partner Adam Montgomery. They obviously knew Stroudt’s final destination. They were unable to get in contact with Montgomery as of yet. They had his cell phone number and Mac had placed three calls now. The phone was going unanswered and it appeared that it was turned off.

“Seem odd to you that we can’t get this Montgomery on the horn?” Mac asked.

“Perhaps, but do you always answer your phone if you don’t recognize the caller?” Lich asked back.

Mac shrugged his shoulders and had to agree, “No, you’re right but I’ve left two voice mails and nada.”

“Heard you boys picked up a body at The Snelling?”

Mac turned to see Detectives Pat Riley and Bobby Rockford approaching, dropping some paperwork off on their desks.

“You know what’s coming,” Mac said to Lich. “Just say no.”

Riles and Rock were partners and, along with Mac and Lich, they would work bigger cases together. As a group, they were unofficially known as The Chief’s Boys. Riley and Rock were a startling pair. Both were massive men, well over six feet tall, the only difference being that Riley was white and Rockford was blacker than the night. Riley, despite being Irish, looked like an Italian mobster, jowly face, heavy five o’clock shadow at all times of the day, jet black hair slicked back and a pin stripe suit, colorful tie and matching pocket square always hanging comfortably on his burly body. Rock, on the other hand, had been a Division II college defensive tackle. His shoulders, arms and hands were massive and when he smiled, the gap between his two front teeth made him look like Laurence Fishburne. The two together were as intimidating a pair as you could find. During an interrogation, Mac would often sit across the table and have Rock stand and lean on the table on one side and Riley on the other. Suspects generally cut to the chase. Riley had been something of a mentor to Mac, having been his father Simon’s partner at the time of his death. Mac had known Rock for years, having grown up playing city league football together. They were his good friends. The two of them also got more hall passes than any ten married men combined.

“We’re off to the pub, boys, care to refresh with us?” Riles asked.

“First rounds on me,” Rock added, probably as an inducement to tip Lich over to going; the man rarely turned down a free round, or a free anything for that matter.

“Can’t,” Lich answered before Mac, but only to get in a verbal dig. “Boy wonder here is all hot to trot on this one.”

“On a body at The Snelling? Seriously?” Rock inquired skeptically. “Case like that? That one can wait.”

“Normally you’d be right and I’d be following you out the door,” Mac answered. “But this one might be a little different.” McRyan gave Rock and Riles the two-minute rundown on their case. They read Mac. The boys picked up the scent, but while mildly intrigued by the case, they were not interested enough to break off their plans. There was beer to be drunk, stories to tell and perhaps a skirt or two to be chased.

“Well, if you boys change your mind, you know where to find us.” The two would be holding court at the far end of the bar at McRyan’s Pub. The Boys left with a wave and smile and strolled out, grabbing a couple extra people to join them along the way. Such was the case with Rock and Riles—always a party to be had. It was a miracle they both remained married.

After Riles and Rock’s departure, Mac and Lich got back to work and talked through their notes for a few minutes and realized that they needed to put together a timeline. Mac rolled a whiteboard into a vacant office, grabbed some dry erase markers and went to work laying out the timeline in black along the top of the board.

“Okay, so let’s see if we can put together the last two days for these guys,” Mac looked down at his notepad. “Stroudt and Montgomery flew out of Washington DC on Tuesday afternoon at 12:34 eastern time, direct to Nashville, arriving at 1:23 p.m. central time.” Mac jotted the times down on the board.

“Upon arrival in Music City,” Lich said, “Stroudt’s and Montgomery’s credit cards tell us that they checked into the airport DoubleTree Hotel.” Mac jotted that down on the whiteboard in green.

“Green for dollars?” Lich asked.

“Intuitive, isn’t it?” Mac quipped. “What did they do once they were in Nashville?”

“It looks like they go out to dinner at Cash’s Steakhouse on Tuesday night. They spend $249 on dinner, have themselves a couple of steaks, maybe a nice bottle of wine and then go back to the hotel.”

“How do you know they went back to the hotel?”

“Hotel bill shows two rounds of drinks later on Tuesday night at the hotel bar,” Lich responded, holding up a copy of the bill.

Mac jotted that on the board. “Okay, so they return to the hotel and presumably spend the night there.”

“They do,” Lich answered. “They get a late checkout of one o’clock from the hotel. Hotel bill shows they had breakfast at the hotel coffee shop. From there,” Lich flipped over the pages on his notebook, “they travel north into Kentucky and stop at an Erma Lou’s, which, based upon a little map search, is near Oak Grove, Kentucky. They spend $28.77, presumably on a meal. The credit card is closed out at 4:47 p.m.”

Mac jotted that on the timeline.

“Then an hour later Adam Montgomery uses his credit card at a gas station in Cadiz, Kentucky.”

“Where is Cadiz, Kentucky?” Mac asked.

“I haven’t found that yet,” Lich said.

Mac sat down at his computer and did a Google Map search for Cadiz. It was a town in southwest Kentucky, ninety miles northwest of Nashville. Mac printed off the map and taped it on the board.

“So these two fly into Nashville and drive up to Cadiz on Wednesday, which is here,” Mac pointed to Cadiz on the Kentucky map. “So after they stop in Cadiz, Kentucky, around 6:00 p.m., the next time we get a scent of these guys is this morning, fourteen hours later, in St. Louis when Stroudt jumps on a plane to get here.”

“No hotel anywhere?” Lich asked.

“No credit card record of one,” Mac answered, flipping through his notes. He shrugged, “They could have paid cash for one, like Stroudt did this afternoon at The Snelling.”

“Possible, I suppose,” Lich replied. “So the next hit we get is this morning in St. Louis.” “That’s right,” Mac answered jotting it down on the timeline. “Stroudt takes the flight out of St. Louis this morning and comes here.”

“And Montgomery probably drops off the rental car about the same time and there is no other credit card activity for him,” Lich noted and Mac added it to the timeline.

“Stroudt arrives here 10:00 a.m. from St. Louis and checks into The Snelling at 2:00 p.m.,” Mac used the black dry erase marker and extended the black line further right, with a few more hash marks, “2:45–3:00 p.m. Stroudt calls for a pizza and …”

“… he is killed sometime between then and 4:00 p.m.”

They stood and looked at the whiteboard in silence for a few minutes. Mac, arms folded, stared quizzically at the whiteboard, lightly shaking his head.

Lich knew the look; he’d seen it a thousand times before. “Spit it out.”

“So these guys fly into Nashville on Tuesday night. They have a casual steak dinner, go back to the hotel and have a couple of drinks. Then the next day they get up and start heading up into Kentucky, towards Cadiz. So far, it’s your standard business trip, right?”

Lich nodded.

“So what happens on Wednesday night that causes these guys to all of the sudden drive to St. Louis this morning?”

“Did they have return flights to Washington out of Nashville?”

“Yes,” Mac answered. “They were scheduled to fly out this morning at 10:22, both of them. They would have been back in DC in a little under two hours. We know where Stroudt ended up going. He purchases a plane ticket this morning to come up to the Twin Cities. Montgomery did not make that flight in Nashville and I haven’t tracked him down to any other flight. So again, what happens last night that causes them to change their plans?” Mac flipped through several pages of his notes. He stopped on a page. “Hmpf.”

“Hmpf what?”

“You know what these guys do?”

Lich shook his head.

“They’re political writers.”

“Reporters?”

“Kind of. I traced the corporate name on the credit card used for the flight to Nashville to their business which is TCP Enterprises. TCP stands for The Congressional Page. That’s a political blog that Stroudt and Montgomery operate. They write some articles, a few of which I found with an Internet search. It’s mostly on stuff happening on Capitol Hill and some campaign finance reform stuff.”

“Interesting,” Lich said. “Given we’re in the height of the silly season.”

“Exactly,” Mac answered, walking up to the board, looking at the timeline. “So these guys are into politics and a week before the election they are flying into Nashville and the next night they’re driving through the Kentucky countryside and this morning they split up, one comes up here and the other one makes like a submarine and runs silent and deep.”

“When did they purchase the tickets to Nashville to begin with?”

“That’s not a bad question, partner,” Mac responded and flipped through his notes. “The tickets to Nashville were purchased on …” McRyan’s eyes lit up, “Tuesday morning.”

“So in other words,” Lich speculated, “If I’m catching your drift, you’re thinking that these guys might have got onto something.”

“Might have,” Mac nodded. “It’s at least a theory that would explain the timeline and behavior. It’s a normal trip until last night and then something suddenly causes them to change their itinerary. The original plan was not to end up in St. Louis this morning. They had tickets back to DC. Another thing that’s odd, if you decide you need to fly up here to the Twin Cities, why not just go back to Nashville and see if you could change the ticket?”

“Maybe there wasn’t a flight here from Nashville as quickly as they wanted and there was from St. Louis.”

“That’s possible,” Mac answered. “We should check that out. Of course, another possibility might be they were trying to avoid someone.”

“That’s a bit of an intuitive leap, don’t you think?” Lich said skeptically.

“I have Stroudt’s dead body that says otherwise,” Mac retorted. “And why is Montgomery so hard to find now? His cell phone isn’t turned on or he certainly isn’t answering it. He wasn’t on the flight back from Nashville. No record of him being on a flight anywhere and he dumped the rental car in St. Louis. It’s as if he literally disappeared.”

“Or given how you’re suddenly thinking,” Lich replied, “he figuratively disappeared. Maybe he’s dead too?”

Mac raised his eyebrow. “Might explain why he’s not reachable. Why we can’t get a sniff of this guy. Or …”

“Or …”

“Montgomery is scared of what they saw last night and he’s hiding. If Stroudt gets to St. Louis to take the flight, chances are Montgomery is the one who got him there. Then Montgomery goes into …”

“… hiding.”

“Yeah. It’s an alternative explanation. He splits up from Stroudt, sending him up here to the cities. He goes into hiding and is not interested in coming out—at least not yet.”

Lich sighed and shook his head. “I know you like to see conspiracies everywhere and the good Lord knows you’ve been right a few times, but come on, Mac. I mean, if these guys are worried about someone tracking them, then why would Stroudt use a credit card to buy a flight to the Twin Cities? Why use a credit card to rent a car? You are not exactly hiding when you do that.”

Mac sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Agreed. But then why pay cash for a trashy hotel?” Mac asked. “It’s like he wasn’t hiding and then all of a sudden decides to hide. Why else go to The Snelling?”

“Usual reasons. Drugs. Sex.”

“I look for conspiracies, you always look for sex.”

“I obviously have my priorities in order.”

“No,” Mac answered chuckling, “I just think with my upper unit and you with your lower unit.”

“Whatever,” Lich answered dismissively.

“But seriously, Dicky Boy,” Mac pressed, “it’s as if sometime between when he landed and then checking into The Snelling, he changed what he was doing. He landed around 10:00 a.m. and gets to The Snelling sometime after 2:00 p.m. That’s four hours. Where are Stroudt’s cell phone records?”

Lich grabbed them off his desk and handed them to Mac. Mac picked up the cell phone record he’d printed off for Montgomery. “There, those two spoke to each other for five minutes from 12:08 to 12:13 p.m.,” Mac said, jotting it down on the whiteboard as he said it. “So he speaks with Montgomery and he says we have to ‘go to ground’ but Stroudt acts too late. Whoever is tracking him is already on him, sees his opportunity at The Snelling and now we have a dead body.”

Lich shrugged. “Pure speculation.”

“Speculation is my middle name,” was Mac’s ready reply. “We need to find us some facts, but it’s not a bad theory.”

“If you do say so yourself.”

“I do.”

Lich’s phone rang. “Yes, this is Detective Lich. Okay, how do I get into the system?” Lich wrote feverishly into his notebook. “Right, thanks.” Dick finished writing.

“So what was that?”

“Stroudt rented a car when he got to town today.”

Mac picked up right away, “But it wasn’t at The Snelling.”

“Exactly. It was moved.”

“And you know this how?”

“GPS tracking in the car.”

“Where did the car end up?”

“Parking lot outside the Penalty Box in Roseville.” The Penalty Box was a sports bar that was just a few miles north of The Snelling, located across the street from Rosedale Mall.

“He rented it at the airport, right?”

“Yes.”

“And we have our four-hour gap between when he landed and he got to the hotel. Will the GPS tell us everywhere he went?”

“It will.”

* * *

Heath Connolly sat in his plane seat, sipped his martini and looked over the polling data spread across his lap. On paper, the situation was under control.

The vice president was feeling good about his chances. He said he could feel it in the crowds, the surge of momentum. He said it repeatedly, “I can feel the surge out there. The momentum is with us.”

And the vice president wasn’t necessarily wrong. He was closing really well in the light red states like Missouri, New Mexico and West Virginia, all states Vice President Wellesley would need to win. There was momentum there and further visits wouldn’t be necessary. Of course, those were states Connolly fully expected to win in the end.

There was also some small momentum in Iowa, Wisconsin, Ohio and Virginia, the states where the election would ultimately be won or lost. The Super PAC advertising was a non-stop barrage that the Thomson campaign simply couldn’t match. Yet despite the vice president’s feeling of momentum, they still trailed and Connolly’s own internal polls showed that.

But they were close enough. The plan was coming together.

The Plan.

It made him think of one of his political heroes—Joe Kennedy.

Joe Kennedy was an odd political hero for Heath Connolly. He hated the Kennedys, hated what they had stood for, hated their politics, hated their self-righteousness, hated their sense of entitlement, hated their status as political royalty, but he admired the hell out of the family’s patriarch Joe Kennedy.

When it came to politics, when it came to winning, Joe Kennedy would leave nothing to chance. He would spend whatever it took to win an election. He would look for every advantage possible to win an election and he wouldn’t just exploit it, he’d drive a semi-truck through it and then put the truck in reverse and back over it. Joe Kennedy once got another Joe Russo on the ballot in John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s first congressional race in 1946. Why? To split the vote with the Joe Russo his son was already running against. The voters were confused about which Russo to vote for and the vote split allowed JFK to sneak through and win his first election. It was low, it was dirty, it was brilliant, it was Joe Kennedy at his conniving best and Connolly loved it.

That set the stage for 1960. Kennedy v. Nixon was dead even going into the last week, akin to the current Thomson v. Wellesley. Much has been made of the televised 1960 presidential debate and how Kennedy looked so youthful and good on television and that Nixon looked and sounded so bad on television and that this played the pivotal role in the election. It may have played a role, but what Connolly admired and what he believed in is what Joe Kennedy did.

The story was that Joe Kennedy made a deal with the Chicago mob and Sam Giancana in particular, to turn the vote in Chicago in Senator Kennedy’s favor. Frank Sinatra served as a go between, brokering the deal. Joe Kennedy denied it and historians have never been sure if a deal was struck. Joe Kennedy admitted he met with Giancana, but that was it and he claimed he never asked Sinatra to do it, but Connolly didn’t buy it.

Joe Kennedy made that deal.

That deal won the election.

John F. Kennedy became president.

What Connolly admired and learned from that little piece of history was that in a close election, you had to do whatever you could to win.

He was doing the same.

Kristoff and Foche just needed to finish their job and the rest would take care of itself.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Why did you come to the Twin Cities?”

Mac took a look at his watch: 11:28 p.m. He mixed some sugar into his oversized maroon University of Minnesota coffee cup, took a sip, and winced at the taste. The coffee the break room had to offer at midnight was less than stellar and Mac was a bit of a coffee snob. He opened the refrigerator and rummaged around and found some half-and-half. He screwed off the cap, smelled the creamer once, smelled it again, and decided it was good enough. He added it to the coffee and attempted to kill its battery-acid-like taste.

Mac possessed a minority ownership stake in a coffee chain called the Grand Brew and it was about to change his life. The business had exploded in the last two years. The chain was now up to nearly two hundred coffee shops spread across Minnesota, Wisconsin and Iowa, with plans for more expansion on the board.

The Grand Brew was started by two of Mac’s childhood friends. They needed $10,000 to get over the financing finish line for their first coffee house. Mac’s father had set up a college fund for him. But when Mac turned into a star high school athlete and went to the University of Minnesota on a hockey scholarship, the $57,408 Simon McRyan saved for his son’s college education wasn’t needed, at least for tuition, books or lodging. Mac accessed the fund from time to time in college for some spare money when needed and he also accessed it to pay for some of his law school tuition. However, when he graduated law school, the fund still had a little over $23,000 sitting in it. When his two buddies needed the extra ten grand, Mac agreed to provide it in return for fifteen percent of the business.

It was a good deal.

Each year, Mac received a dividend from the business. In the last three years, the dividend made his detective’s salary look like an allowance. Two large food corporations had been sniffing around looking to buy Grand Brew Enterprises. Both had now put legitimate offers on the table. Just before Mac arrived at The Snelling, he’d been meeting with his two friends. They told him that by this time tomorrow, he would be a multi-millionaire, all on a little $10,000 investment to help two buddies he’d known since he was six years old when they all walked to their first-grade class together. It would be a life altering event and his mind had wandered a bit in the last six hours thinking about it, wondering how much longer he would be a cop if it were to happen. If his friends were right, after tomorrow, he could do whatever he wanted with the rest of his life. What would that be? He liked what he did. It was rewarding work and it was the family business, but would he want to continue it going forward? Would he have the same passion, urgency, angst and commitment the job required? Would he need something else?

Mac shook his head. This could all wait. He refocused on the matter at hand and rolled his desk chair up to his desktop computer.

Lich was exhausted and went home. The case could wait, he said. He was probably right, but with Sally working late into the night, and Mac being a night owl anyway, he decided to keep working the case for a while longer. The case piqued his interest more than normal. On a case like this, he was less an investigator and more of a hunter, and the hunt was on. The game was afoot, as Sherlock Holmes would say.

The squad room was quiet, with only a few night shift cops hanging around. A television in the corner was tuned to CNN. The volume was loud enough for Mac to hear a replay of the day’s political conversation. The presidential election was essentially down to four states based on current polling, the same four states that Sally had spent the last three months talking about. For the last month, Sally was working around the clock and he’d barely seen her. She had a passion for the politics that he hadn’t seen before and suspected this wouldn’t be her last foray into the political arena.

He’d been married once as had Sally. Meredith, his ex, never liked his sudden turn to policing; it didn’t fit with her life plan. Not long after Mac made detective, he found Meredith having an affair with a partner in her law firm. A year after he discovered the affair, the divorce was finalized. Shortly thereafter, he started dating Sally. They were acquaintances of a sort, having gone to law school together, but not really knowing each other. Both of them were married at the time and did not run in similar law school social circles. When they met up years after law school while working a case together, Mac was immediately attracted to her beauty, intelligence and feistiness.

Sally and Mac had been together going on two years now, living together, and spending their lives together. They loved each other. Yet despite their love for one another, marriage was something they rarely, if ever, discussed. If the word came up, things always got a little awkward as if neither of them really knew how to talk about it. Their divorces left them both scarred and fearful of marriage, but not of commitment. They loved each other and that was enough for now. They were still young, in their early thirties, with no children. Marriage could wait for the right time.

Sally’s last text indicated she would be getting home around 1:00. Mac decided to work the case for another hour or so and could be up when she got home. They could have a little time together before they both collapsed.

Mac leaned back in his chair and soaked in the whiteboard. This was how he often solved cases. He would mind map and put everything down on paper, his computer or when he really needed to spread out, on a whiteboard. Then he would sit back and absorb the case into his mind and let it percolate. The case wouldn’t be solved in one sitting, but look at the board enough, put enough evidence and information up, and eventually the answer emerged. In this case, it was not ready to jump out at him.

The rental car was a disappointment. Mac and Lich tracked it down to the Penalty Box. Forensics opened it up at the bar but there was nothing inside. No luggage, no backpack, no cell phone and no evidence that Stroudt had been in it. The car was clean, too clean. The crime scene tech on the scene said it looked as if the car had been wiped down. Forensics hauled the car back to the county lab and would process it overnight. If they got lucky, they might find a hair, a fiber or a print from the killer. Mac doubted they would get lucky in that regard, but it was worth the effort. The GPS was more likely to provide help.

Mac looked over Lich’s notes. With some keystrokes and a password, he worked his way into the GPS system for A-1 Rent-A-Car. Stroudt rented a silver Ford 500 at 10:40 at the airport.

Stroudt left the airport and drove east into St. Paul and spent nearly an hour driving around the city. He made one stop at a bookstore on Ford Parkway in the Highland Park area. The car was parked at the bookstore for twenty minutes before Stroudt left. From the bookstore, he drove two miles to a Grand Brew Coffee House, the actual original Grand Brew, on the corner of Grand and Snelling Avenues.

From 12:02 p.m. until 2:09 p.m., Stroudt remained at the Grand Brew. The coffee house would have been crowded at that time of day with college students as the coffee shop sat across the street from Macalester College. It made some sense if he wanted to be around people interested in politics. Macalaster was a politically active small liberal arts college with a decidedly Democratic bent. If you were a Governor Thomson supporter, you would be in good company.

“So you sit at the Grand Brew for two hours doing what?” Mac mused out loud to nobody in particular. “Doing what?”

Mac suspected he might have spent some time on a computer. The coffee shop offered free Wi-Fi. On the right side of the whiteboard he had a heading titled Tasks. Under Tasks, he made a note to go to the coffee shop and look at the surveillance video to see if they could get anything from it.

Stroudt left the Grand Brew at 2:09 and drove north on Snelling Avenue. He actually drove past The Snelling and continued north another two miles before he did a U-turn and then came back to The Snelling. “Looking for an out-of-the-way place perhaps?” Mac thought to himself. He wondered if Stroudt knew how truly disreputable The Snelling was.

The car remained parked at The Snelling until 4:05 p.m. and then started moving again, driven away by the killers. “So that gives me time of death,” Mac muttered as he jotted that down in his notebook.

After leaving The Snelling, the car was driven around for twenty minutes and was then left at the Penalty Box. Given the track the car followed around the Rosedale Mall before settling at the Penalty Box, perhaps some surveillance from parking lot cameras or businesses would catch the rental on film. He made a note to look into that.

Mac scrolled the GPS tracking back to The Snelling and thought about the difference between how Stroudt acted before and after he left the Grand Brew. Before he got to the Grand Brew, he was using his credit card to pay for a flight and to rent a car. After he left the Grand Brew, he’s suddenly cruising Snelling Avenue, perhaps looking for a place to stay out of sight, and checks into The Snelling, paying cash for a room. The Snelling would take credit, it was just rare that anyone would actually use credit there.

Mac walked over to the whiteboard and looked at the timeline.

Why would Stroudt want to stay out of sight?

Mac kept running it through his head. On Tuesday night, he and Montgomery are using credit cards to stay at a DoubleTree Hotel and buying an expensive steak dinner. The next day they’re still using credit cards in Kentucky for gas and meals like normal business travelers. But then something happens that starts changing their behavior. He made himself a note to see if the car they rented in Nashville had GPS. Perhaps he could get some insight if the GPS told him where the car traveled.

That was for tomorrow. As for now, Mac stood up and walked to the whiteboard and wrote above the timeline “What Happened” between the last credit card expenditure on Monday night and 7:00 a.m. Tuesday morning in St. Louis. He then wrote the same thing for the time period between Stroudt’s arrival and his check-in at The Snelling. Then Mac went back and added one more thing in blue at the St. Louis notation—”Why come to Twin Cities?”

Mac sat back and looked at the board and muttered: “Why did you come to the Twin Cities?”

Political bloggers fly from Washington to Nashville seven days before the election. They drive into the Kentucky countryside and suddenly change plans, skipping their return flights from Nashville to DC and instead splitting up in St. Louis. One disappears and the other flies to the Twin Cities.

Why come to the Twin Cities?

Mac’s cell phone started ringing.

It was Sally and he suddenly had a thought.

A half hour later, Mac pushed through the back door into his house and he could hear the shower running upstairs. He made his way upstairs and up to their bedroom. He quietly put his Sig Sauer, badge and wallet in his nightstand drawer and slipped out of his work clothes.

He walked into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain, climbed into the large cast iron bathtub and joined Sally, hugging her from behind. She turned and kissed him twice lightly on the lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he replied.

She was a beautiful woman with long red hair, a gorgeous smile and a wonderful thin figure.

In law school he’d noticed her once or twice, thought her quite attractive from a distance, but hadn’t given her much thought beyond that and wasn’t even sure he’d actually formally met her. He was married at the time, clerked for a law firm during the day and went to class at night. Most of his free time was spent buried in the corner of the law library studying or with his wife. As a result, he’d never really gotten into the William Mitchell social scene and, in retrospect, made but a few close friends in those three years. Sally, on the other hand, while also married at the time, didn’t work much, attended class during the day, hung around the William Mitchell campus all the time and had numerous friends with whom she was still close.

After graduation, the next time he saw her was in the days following the finalizing of his divorce, when she’d just started as an assistant county attorney with Ramsey County and had been assigned to a case he was working. He was immediately attracted to her. She was newly divorced at the time as well and the two just seemed to find each other and fit together at the right time. They’d been inseparable since.

“So I have a favor to ask,” he said as he squirted body wash onto his hands and softly washed her arms and shoulders.

“Which is what, pray tell?”

“I need to speak to people at your campaign,” Mac related the death of Stroudt. He figured he was in town for some political reason and Sally’s campaign was the biggest game in town.

“He could have been interested in any number of the federal campaigns going on, Mac,” Sally answered, guarded.

“And Dick and I plan on talking to all of them,” Mac replied easily as he washed her lower back, softly working his hands around her hips and stomach. “But I imagine I would have the most trouble getting into yours. I was thinking you might be able to pave the way for me.”

“Oh did you now?” Sally replied skeptically, but leaned back into him and looked up into his eyes.

“There is always an easy and a hard way to do things,” he replied casually. “I figured …”

“… That given where we are in the campaign season …”

“… The easier way seems the better approach for both you and I. Win, win.”

Sally turned around to face him and curled her arms up around his neck, running her hands through his wet hair. “It’ll cost you,” she said as she leaned up and kissed him lightly.

“Hmmm. What is the price this time?” Mac answered as his hands softly followed the contours of her body, his left hand lightly caressing her buttocks while his right hand gently cupped her breast.

“One I’m sure you’ll most happily pay,” she purred as she kissed him again, this time, a long, slow, wet kiss as the water cascaded around their bodies.

“Perhaps you’d like to move this to the next room over,” Mac suggested quietly after a minute.

“I think I might,” she answered before kissing him softly again. “I think I just might.”

CHAPTER SIX

“How good, Judge?”

Friday, November 1st

Wire watched as her coffee maker dripped with the last of her cup to go. She had a long day planned and needed the caffeine to get started. After she deplaned at Reagan National at 1:30 a.m. from the private jet the Judge arranged, she retrieved her Land Rover from long-term parking and drove straight to her Arlington townhouse. Wire could never really sleep on a plane, even a private one that had a very comfortable leather couch with pillow and blankets, and even when she’d been on the go for nearly thirty-six hours straight. She rested her eyes but never really drifted off to restful REM sleep, she just couldn’t make it happen on a plane. Once she got home, she went right to bed and set the alarm for 7:00 a.m. When the alarm went off she reluctantly pushed herself out of bed, put on her sweats and running shoes and took a quick three-mile jog to get her body and mind going.

In the solitude of the early morning run, she developed her plan for the day. She would start at Stroudt’s place if for no other reason he lived in Alexandria and his condominium was just minutes away from her Arlington home. Stroudt wasn’t answering his cell or home phone, although she wondered if that was intentional. Her number was not one he would have recognized and she did not leave a message. Her next stop would be the offices of The Congressional Page, which were located in a small office space in Georgetown in DC. She was familiar with the building, which was located just across the street from the Georgetown University campus. The phones were going unanswered at The Congressional Page and the blog had posted nothing new since early on Tuesday, which was unusual as there were usually blog updates throughout the day. The last stop would be Montgomery’s home in Bethesda, Maryland. He too was out of communication. For Wire, the silence was deafening and that told her something was up.

She hoped she would find one of them somewhere along the way and begin to get some answers as to what either or both of the political bloggers saw that caused the security around the cabin to go ballistic. It ate at her that she’d not gotten more information for the Judge from the Kentucky meeting. She felt like she’d failed him. He didn’t seem to share the same view. “Dara, kid, what could you have or should you have done differently? You couldn’t have gotten to the meeting any earlier because you didn’t know where it was so you followed and did what you are supposed to have done, try to get into position to take pictures and video. What if you hadn’t worked your mole inside Wellesley’s campaign? What if you hadn’t tracked Connolly to Kentucky? What if you didn’t get pictures of him at this meeting? Where would we be then? We will identify these people and we will piece it together. We know they’re up to something and that is a good thing.”

“But Judge, there isn’t a lot of time. The election is days away and what if we don’t find the answers or don’t get them in time?”

“We’ll deal with what if, if and when ‘what if’ comes,” the Judge replied calmly, as good a crisis manager as there was. “You are not the only one on this now, I’m in on this and I’ve got people I can and will reach out to. We will get answers, kiddo. We will.”

Wire wasn’t convinced but the Judge pumped her up.

“Listen, Dara, we’re where we are in large part because of the boost we got out of the Florida Keys and that was all you, honey. That was all you. And knowing about Kentucky now is all you. So what you need to do now is stay on it, work it and see where it leads.”

Wire had no idea where it led.

It was time to find out.

She finished her run, quickly showered, put on fresh clothes, ate two pieces of wheat toast, threw a few more additional sets of clothes in a duffel bag, grabbed her coffee tumbler and jumped into the Land Rover. Stroudt’s address was plugged into the GPS and she pulled away for a ten-minute drive.

As she reflected on where her latest investigation stood, she took stock of what she did have. She had good video and photos of Connolly and she had the cabin owner’s name and would look into him further. However, what gnawed at her was that there were three and maybe four other key people at the meeting they had yet to identify. She had clear pictures of two of the men who were in the cabin. However, one of them had proven particularly elusive and she only had a couple partials of his face. Then there was the limousine that had arrived but the man, other than his leg, never got out. Who was he? The pictures she did have were being showed discretely around the campaign to see if any of the faces rang a bell, but there was nothing so far.

This made connecting with either Stroudt or Montgomery all the more necessary. Wire knew that Stroudt and Montgomery had cameras and were taking pictures, so she was hoping that she would be able to perhaps exchange information with the two of them.

Wire turned onto the street for Stroudt’s condominium and stopped. Three patrol units were parked in front of the condominium development along with an unmarked squad car and a Chevy Suburban with Fairfax County Crime Scene stenciled on it. Wire pulled over to the curb, turned off the engine and took in the scene. There was no ambulance or coroner’s wagon, so perhaps there wasn’t a dead body inside. Maybe it wasn’t even related to Stroudt’s place, although she didn’t believe in coincidences. She pulled out her regular cell phone and hit the directory for E and scrolled down to Alex Esposito. Esposito, the Alexandria police chief, was an old acquaintance from her FBI days. She placed a call.

“Espo, it’s Wire.”

“Blast from the past. Dara, how are you?”

“I am well, Alex. How are Jan and the kids?”

“They are doing great, thanks for asking. Is this a social call?”

“Sadly it is not. I’m sitting outside of the Sumner Lofts, looking to go inside and speak to someone and there are three Alexandria patrol cars and an unmarked out front. Do you know what’s going on?”

“In fact I do. I got a call from St. Paul, Minnesota, homicide about an hour ago that they found one of the occupants of that development dead in a hotel in their fair city and wanted us to check the decedent’s home out.”

“Who is the decedent?” Wire asked, fearing the answer.

“A man named Jason Stroudt.”

Wire slumped in her seat and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“D, do you know the guy?” Esposito asked, the light-hearted tone gone.

“Not personally, Alex. I was hoping to run him down on something I’ve been working on for a client of mine. Do you know what happened?”

“I had a chat with a Detective McRyan from St. Paul. He said Stroudt was found dead in a motel room. His throat was slashed and he bled out.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

Wire wanted to get inside Stroudt’s place for a look. “Listen, Alex, I know this is unusual, but could you arrange for me to get into Stroudt’s place and have a look around?”

“What are you looking for, Dara?” Esposito asked seriously.

“I don’t really know,” was her honest reply. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Who’s your client?” Esposito pushed.

“I can’t tell you that, at least not right now, Alex. I can tell you that it is someone who would really appreciate the assist and could prove helpful somewhere down the road for you if you ever needed a political favor.” That is, if you considered the possible next president of the United States or his most important political advisor good people to be indebted to you, Wire thought. “You know me, Alex, I don’t bullshit and I only work for legitimate people.”

There was a few moments of silence and then Esposito exhaled. “Okay, Dara. Let me call my detective on scene. Give me ten minutes.” Esposito hung up.

“What in the hell did those two see?” Wire muttered to herself. Connolly was no holds barred politically, but she had never envisioned him as a murderer, but it sure was starting to look like he’d graduated to it. She placed a call to the Judge. It took several rings for him to answer.

“Sorry it took me a while, I needed to get away from the dais where the governor is speaking. What’s up?”

“Stroudt is dead. He was killed in a St. Paul hotel yesterday.” Wire relayed her conversation with Esposito. “I’m awaiting the green light to get into Stroudt’s place and look around.”

“Did this Esposito have any information on how Stroudt was killed?”

“Alex said all he knew was that Stroudt’s throat was slashed. Beyond that I didn’t get much.” Wire had another thought. “Judge, your gut on this, do you think Connolly is capable of murder?”

The Judge paused on the other end of the line and then exhaled. “Pulling the trigger? No, I don’t think he could do that,” the Judge answered. “However, could he sanction it? Go along with it? Turn a blind eye to it? Tell somebody, do what you have to do but I don’t want to know about it? I think he’s enough of a sociopath to do that, I really do. As long as he didn’t have to get his own hands dirty, I put nothing by him.”

“Well, if he had Stroudt killed, then Montgomery, if he isn’t already dead, is sure to be next. And Judge, I have one other thought.”

“Which is?”

“If St. Paul does their work on this, they’re likely going to want to talk to the campaign at some point. A Washington DC political blogger ends up dead in St. Paul days before the election. I would think the police would make their way to the political campaigns to see if anyone knows why he was in St. Paul. Your campaign is the biggest game in town and you are the biggest political operator. The police will want to talk to you and Sebastian.”

“Let me guess, the St. Paul Cop who called your friend was named McRyan.”

“How did you know that, Judge?” The man always was one step ahead.

“You know Sally Kennedy, right?”

“Isn’t she the one helping Kate Shelby out?”

“Yes. She also happens to be the girlfriend of one Mac McRyan. Sebastian just called to let me know that Mac McRyan wants to meet with him. Sally is serving as an intermediary so that Mac didn’t come in all cop like and cause people to start asking questions. I am going to be on a call with Sebastian and McRyan within the hour.”

“Do you know McRyan at all?”

“I do. Charlie Flanagan, the chief in St. Paul, has his best on the case,” the Judge replied with a tone of respect she didn’t often hear. “I knew his late father well and I know his uncle Seamus McRyan real well. Both detectives, both good and in Simon McRyan’s case, exceptional. As for Mac, the apple has not fallen far from the tree. In time, he will be better than both of them.”

“How good, Judge?”

“Google McRyan and you’ll see. In my book, he’s right there with you. Hang on a second.” There were muffled sounds on the other end of the line and then the Judge came back on: “The governor just finished and we’re making our way out to the motorcade. I have to run for now. I will call Sebastian and update him. I will call you after we talk to McRyan.” The Judge hung up.

Wire put the cell phone for the Judge back in her pocket and her regular cell started buzzing; it was Esposito. “Dara, you’re good to go. The detective in charge on scene is Carl Court, in his early fifties, shaved head, probably in a blue sport jacket, tan slacks and light blue dress shirt. That’s kind of his uniform. He’ll be coming down to meet you.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Wire jumped out of her Land Rover and walked up to the crime scene tape and waited. She assessed the scene and wondered why, with no dead body inside, were county crime scene people present. Something was going on inside and she was glad she would be able to get a look. Just then the glass front door of the condo opened and Detective Court, dressed as described, walked out the front door, stopped, looked around and then walked right up to Wire.

“The chief said look for a pretty brunette with her hair in a ponytail wearing blue jeans and sunglasses. Ms. Wire, I presume.”

Wire smiled at Alex’s perfect description of her. “Yes.” The two shook hands. “Thank you for letting me in to have a look, Detective Court.”

“Call me Carl. Perhaps you can make sense of all this,” Court said as he opened the door for Wire.

“Not sure I can, Detective. But let me ask, if there is no dead body, why are the crime scene techs here?”

“Good question.” Court led Wire into the elevator and pressed three and then answered. “Mr. Stroudt is of interest to someone, because his condo has been completely ransacked.”

The two stepped off the elevator onto the third floor, turned left and walked thirty feet to the front door of Stroudt’s condo. Once inside, Wire understood what Detective Court was talking about. There was debris lying everywhere. To her left was the main living area which opened into a kitchen with a center island. To her right was a hallway that led to a bedroom, an office and the bathroom. A cursory look down the hall showed each room ripped apart.

She started with the main living area which had a matched burgundy sofa, love seat and chair combination, with an antique trunk coffee table all facing a wall of built-in shelves formed around an opening for a flat-screen television. The shelves, once full of books, knickknacks and photos, were now thrown about the room. It looked as if whoever ransacked the room went through every CD case and video box. Magazines were scattered over the entire room and everything had been emptied from the cabinets from the lower part of the built-in entertainment unit. Wire gave it all a cursory glance and moved through the eating area and into the kitchen where all the plates, glasses, silverware and the like had been emptied from the cupboards.

Wire moved back down the hall to the bedroom. All of the clothes were pulled out of the dresser and closet. The shoes were tossed about, as were the sheets and blankets from the bed. The master bathroom was equally disheveled, all drawers emptied and the toiletries lying in the bathtub.

She next moved to her primary target, the office. Most people figured if you hide things in places like the kitchen or bathroom, nobody will find them when in fact, for someone who is looking for something that is hidden, they would go there first. Wire always did in her prior life and most cops would as well. However, what happened in Kentucky had not left Stroudt the opportunity to hide anything nor was it likely he felt a need to prior to his departure. So in that case, the place to look was the office.

The office was approximately twelve by twelve. There was a large U-shaped desk that ate up the left half of the room. There were normally two guest chairs in front of the desk, now lying sideways on the floor. In Wire’s judgment, the rest of the apartment had been wildly ransacked, almost for show. The office, on the other hand, felt as if it had been more surgically searched. The front part of the desk was open with only a small middle drawer for pens, paperclips and the like. On the backside were two long file drawers.

The papers were all pulled from the file cabinet but instead of being wildly thrown about the office, they were in piles, as if whoever went through the file drawer read each sheet and then dropped them into a pile on the floor. Upon further inspection, it struck her that there should have been more paper and hanging folders for the drawers.

Court had been following Wire from room to room saying nothing until they reached the office. “I would have thought there would be more papers scattered about given the size of the two file drawers.”

“Whoever was here took most of the files with them,” Wire replied, giving some information. Court was seeing what she was seeing. He was fishing for more. “Those are two three-foot-wide file drawers, yet there are only what, twenty hanging folders around the room. Whoever was here, they took files with them, along with the computer hard drive.” It was obvious so she shared the observation.

“Do you have any idea who that someone would be?”

Wire lied: “I don’t … at least not yet.”

“I take it then you’ll be doing some more investigating on your own on this?” Court queried.

Wire nodded and decided she needed all the immediate help she could get. “I will be and if you’re open to it, I have a couple of places I think would be worth checking.”

* * *

Kostelecky sat slumped down in the front seat of the silver Ford 500 a block to the north of Stroudt’s apartment, resting on an incline that let him look down the hill at the scene in the rearview mirror. Spevacek, his partner, was in the backseat with the Nikon DP camera and telephoto lens, snapping pictures of people around the scene of Stroudt’s apartment building. They had been on the scene for over an hour, after having worked their way through the apartment overnight.

“You missed that woman when she went in with the detective,” Kostelecky said. “You didn’t get a good shot of her on the way in.”

“The one with the ponytail?”

“Yes. Snap pictures of her.”

“You know, she’s kind of attractive. She has nice eyes,” Spevacek said as he snapped several pictures. He watched as she shook hands with the detective and walked back under the crime scene tape and slipped on her sunglasses. Spevacek dropped the camera down and let it hang around his neck. “I could snap some more pictures of her.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Nice, Mac.”

Mac considered it a miracle that he ever convinced Lich to try sushi, a man who hadn’t changed his suit color from brown in twenty years and rarely ventured beyond burgers, steaks, pork chops and cold beer for his diet. For two years Mac worked him over every time they passed Sakamura’s, Mac’s favorite Japanese restaurant, located on St. Peter Street in downtown St. Paul. “Trust me, Dicky Boy, you’ll love it, you just have to try it.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll buy.”

“Don’t care.”

One day several months ago, Mac upped the stakes. “I’ll always buy.”

That caused Lich, a man who watched every penny after two divorces cleaned him out, to raise his eyebrows. A free meal was a free meal so he contemplated the offer for a few minutes. Then a dirty smile crept across his face. Mac instinctively knew what was coming.

“Do you have a picture of Sally in a bikini on your phone?” Lich always egged Mac on about Sally’s figure, which was fantastic and which usually pissed Mac off. He constantly begged for an invite to Mac’s boat on the St. Croix so he could see her in a two-piece.

“Pictures? Of her individually in a two-piece? No. There are a few of her and I together and she’s in a two-piece.”

“Show me and I’ll try sushi.”

Mac contemplated Lich’s counter for a few minutes. Then he gave in, but with an added condition: “You’ll eat sushi and you’ll do it with chopsticks. And partner, if you ever tell Sally I showed you these pictures, I swear to God I will put the entire clip from my Sig in your ass.”

“Deal.”

For the last six months, every Friday Mac bought sushi for lunch at Sakamura’s. And for the last six months there had been nothing funnier in Mac’s life than watching Dick Lick try to eat sushi with chopsticks. No matter how many times he showed Dick the technique with his thumb and index finger, and his partner, to his credit, tried every single time, the man simply lacked the dexterity.

Mac put the last of his six pieces in his mouth and pulled out his American Express card while Lich chewed on his last piece. “Six months, Dicky Boy, and you keep coming back.”

Lich liked the place so much he and his lady friend Dot were now coming twice a week. “Mac, I love this stuff and I’m even losing some weight.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” Mac deadpanned. Lich, with a well-developed beer gut, looked as round as ever.

“Asshole.”

“That’s Mr. Asshole Sir who pays for this spread every week.”

“Thanks, Mr. Asshole Sir.”

Lunch at Sakamura’s made particular sense this day because it was located across the street from their next stop. Mac signed the receipt, slipped his credit card back in his wallet and he and his partner pushed themselves away from the lunch bar and stepped out into the cool autumn air. The sky was overcast and a cool northerly breeze threaded its way through the office towers of downtown St. Paul. Mac checked his smart phone and clicked on the weather icon which informed him the temperature was a brisk forty-six degrees. “This weather reminds me of high school football weather,” Mac said, thinking back to his days quarterbacking at Cretin Derham-Hall High.

“Friday night lights,” Lich responded. “Will you be going to the Cretin playoff game tomorrow?”

“I’m planning on it. They’ve got the Stillwater Ponies.”

The dark green glass façade of the Landmark Tower rose twenty-five stories in front of Mac and Lich as they crossed St. Peter Street. Mac opened the glass door and let Lich walk through as they entered the lobby for the Landmark Tower.

“This is a rough day for you,” Lich mentioned lightly.

“How so?” Mac asked, not picking up on his partner’s comment.

“Not only did you have to buy me lunch, but now we have to meet with a bunch of political operators. Sucks to be you.”

Mac exhaled, and uttered, “A politician will never …”

“… Find a better job,” Lich finished. They must have said it to each other a thousand times.

Mac didn’t care for politicians or their aides. In most cases, he could barely conceal his disdain for them. It didn’t matter the political party, Democrat or Republican, most of them failed in his eyes. There was the occasional politician he ran across who seemed more interested in getting something done than fighting political battles. Mac usually voted for those politicians, regardless of party. Those types of politicians weren’t overly liberal or conservative. Sure they were on one side or the other, but they were pragmatic, willing to compromise, make a deal and solve a problem. Those politicians got Mac’s support because that’s the way he looked at problems. In fact, that’s the way most people looked at problems. Find a solution and get it done. To McRyan, it didn’t matter if it was his solution or someone else’s, if it would work, do it. That’s what the best and the brightest did, whether it was politics, business or education. The best saw a problem, evaluated the possible solutions, picked what they thought was the best one and went with it.

Unfortunately, the best and the brightest rarely ran for public office in these polarized political times and the country ultimately suffered for it. Sally, the love of Mac’s life, a top notch county prosecutor, was still idealistic enough to believe in the political process. She’d readily jumped at the chance to work with her old college friend Kate Shelby on Governor James Thomson’s campaign for president. That experience had given Sally an up close and personal view of why great people, brilliant minds, the best and the brightest, avoided politics.

“Mac, you wouldn’t believe the scrutiny Thomson is under, the questions that are asked, the parts of his life he has to expose. The microscope he is under. It is all so intrusive. Basically his life is an open book. I can understand why so few good people are willing to subject themselves to it. This country needs the best and the brightest, but why, if you’re worth millions, would you put yourself through all of this?”

So the government ended up with extremely liberal and conservative politicians more interested in ideological purity than getting anything accomplished. All around them Rome was burning, yet the politicians spent all their time fighting each other, constantly jockeying for political position for the next election, all the while problem after problem, whether it was health care, Social Security, Medicare, the tax code, the environment, infrastructure, the budget deficit or the national debt, went unaddressed.

The only thing that gave Mac some solace was that Governor James Thomson was one of the few politicians he admired and Judge Dixon was as good a man as there was. Those two men gave Mac a modicum of hope. He knew his vote on Tuesday would be for a good man.

James Thomson was a Democrat but for eight years he’d run the state of Minnesota in a pragmatic and practical fashion. The state had its share of problems like the rest of the country, but he had success bringing people together across the aisle to get things done and was smart enough to let all share in the credit. Minnesota had universal health care, a balanced budget and the third lowest unemployment rate in the country. The state’s economic growth rate far exceeded the national average and Minnesota was one of the few Midwestern states to come through the recession in good shape. It was that level of success that allowed a governor, little known outside his own state eighteen months ago, to capture the nomination. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Judge Dixon was running his campaign, not a, but the master political operative.

“So you think these guys will have heard of Stroudt?” Lich asked as they waited for the elevator to open.

“Probably,” Mac answered. “Collins and Brach up in the sixth were familiar with him from his writings, particularly Brach, since Stroudt has written thoroughly …”

“ … and negatively she added …”

“… on the Republican Super PACs,” Mac finished. “But they didn’t know him or why he’d be here.”

They’d spent the morning following up on Mac’s to do list items and had struck out. Mac had Paddy McRyan review the surveillance cameras from the Grand Brew on Snelling. The footage showed Stroudt sitting at a table for two hours, using his laptop and making one phone call. There was nothing otherwise remarkable on the surveillance footage. Strike one. The GPS for Stroudt’s rental car that was rented in Nashville and returned in St. Louis showed they traveled to Lake Barkley in western Kentucky. The car stopped for a little over an hour in a driveway for a cabin owned by Hugh and Mabel Curran. The Curran’s were unfamiliar with either Stroudt or Montgomery, had no idea why they would park in their driveway and the elderly couple hadn’t been to their cabin since Labor Day, having moved early down to Fort Myers, Florida, for the winter. Strike two. Finally, a review of the security cameras around the Rosedale Mall failed to pick up Stroudt’s rental car prior to its being dropped at the Penalty Box. Strike three. In addition, Mac and Lich went up to the campaign headquarters for the candidates in the Sixth Congressional District, a hotly contested election involving a firebrand Republican congresswoman, and neither her campaign nor that of her opponent were familiar with Stroudt or Montgomery. All in all, the morning was a bust. Mac hoped their visit to the Thomson campaign would prove more helpful.

Mac and Lich walked off the elevator on the fifteenth floor for the Becker, Marino and Oliphant law firm. Sally was waiting for them in the lobby of the thirty-two-attorney law firm that had been an early legal home for Judge Dixon. The Thomson Campaign Headquarters were five floors above. However, with the election less than a week away and the razor thin lead, having a locally recognizable homicide detective walking through the campaign offices and meeting with campaign staffers would raise questions, even if there was no reason that it should.

“Hey there,” Sally said, walking up and giving Mac a soft kiss on the lips.

“Hey yourself,” Mac answered, smiling as Sally wiped some of her lipstick from his lips. They smiled longingly at each other.

Lich rolled his eyes. “After two years I would have thought the PDAs would have stopped.”

“It feels like two years since we saw each other,” Sally retorted, last night notwithstanding.

“Just a few more days,” Mac added, “and maybe we can get back to normal.” Then Mac got things on track. “So where are we meeting, the conference room?” He pointed to the ornate conference room with black leather chairs, dark paneled walls and the majestic view out over the Mississippi River.

“No, we’re going to a back conference room,” Sally said as she laced her fingers through Mac’s and led them back. “One that people can’t see into.”

As they scrambled in the kitchen this morning, Mac told Sally what he knew about Stroudt. She didn’t know who Stroudt was but thought Sebastian McCormick or Kate Shelby might know him or have some idea as to why he would be in town. That had been Mac’s hope in planting the seed with Sally. He figured she could get him in to ask questions quicker than if he contacted the campaign on his own and had to wade through fifteen layers of bureaucracy to get to the top.

Sally opened the door into the conference room and led them in. Kate Shelby was standing just inside the door. “Hey Mac,” she said as she gave him a quick hug.

“Kate, this is my partner Richard Lich,” Shelby extended her hand to Lich. Sally was an attractive woman but Shelby looked like a lingerie model. Mac smirked as Lich tried not to drool.

Sally guided Mac to the other side of the conference table, “Mac, this is Sebastian McCormick, our deputy campaign manager,” Mac recognized him from television, having seen him on Meet the Press two weeks ago. The two men shook hands. Then a deep voice came booming out of the telephone on the conference table.

“Michael MacKenzie McRyan, is that you, son?” Judge Dixon’s unmistakable voice came over the conference call phone in the middle of the table.

Mac went on alert. He didn’t expect Judge Dixon. “Judge, where are you calling in from?”

“Ohio, my boy. The only place to be during election season.”

“How are you, sir? It’s been a long time.”

“I’m fine, young man, and you’re right, it has been a while.” The Judge and Mac chatted for a minute or two about friends and acquaintances with the Judge finishing by asking about Mac’s mom and talking up Sally. “Thank you for loaning us Sally these last three months,” Dixon said. “She’s really doing a phenomenal job for us, just phenomenal, a real natural.” Mac looked over to Sally who beamed.

“I’m not sure I was left much of a choice, Judge,” Mac replied smiling back at her. “But my better half is scary smart, isn’t she?”

“Indeed, son, indeed.” Mac and Lich took a seat on one side of the large table, and Shelby and McCormick on the other. Sally sat on the end to Mac’s right. “So what can we do for the St. Paul Police Department?” Dixon asked.

“Judge, I’m working a murder that happened yesterday at The Snelling and I’m wondering if you or the campaign can help me. The reason I’m asking you about it is the victim was Jason Stroudt.” Mac spent a minute giving the ten-thousand-foot version of what they knew about Stroudt and his trip to the Twin Cities. “So do any of you know Mr. Stroudt?” Mac looked to Shelby first.

“I know of him but I don’t know him, Mac,” Kate replied. “I’ve read some of his articles but other than that, I don’t know him.”

“I know Jason, or should I say I knew him,” McCormick volunteered. “I went to law school with him.”

Mac’s eyebrow shot up. He didn’t know McCormick well and hadn’t done any research on him, although he had on Stroudt. “So you went to the University of Virginia Law School then?”

“Yes.”

“How well did you know him, Mr. McCormick? Was he in your class? Your law school section? Did you graduate together?”

“All of those.”

“Really? Was he a friend?”

“I would say he was. Not a real close one but we certainly knew each other and ran in similar circles.”

“Did you stay close after law school?”

“No, we really didn’t,” McCormick answered, shaking his head. “I moved back here and got into state politics and he stayed out east, moving up to DC.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It was a couple of years ago. It was at a UVA law school reunion back in Charlottesville. I saw him then, chatted for a bit, talked some politics and that was that.” Mac noted the matter-of-fact nature of the response from McCormick, as if he had planned for it and knew the question would be coming. And there was no emotion. The political operative leaned back in the leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. There was no shock at the death of a friend. Even if he hadn’t seen the friend in two years, even if it wasn’t that close a friend, he should have registered some emotion. Instead, Mac saw nothing but ice.

“Have you seen or spoke with him since?”

“I haven’t.”

“He was here in St. Paul, Mr. McCormick, and you didn’t hear from him? I find that kind of hard to believe.”

“He didn’t call me and I didn’t see him, Detective,” McCormick answered casually.

“Can you think of any reason why he might have come here to town?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Really, I mean, you’re running a campaign for president of the United States,” Mac replied skeptically. “Don’t you think it could have had something to do with that given Mr. Stroudt is involved in politics?”

“Maybe,” McCormick conceded. “But I don’t really know because he never contacted me, Detective. I don’t know why he was in the Twin Cities.”

“Do you think he would have intended to contact you if he’d had the chance?”

McCormick shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe, Detective, maybe. But again, he never did call, so I don’t know. I can’t be the only person he knows here in the Twin Cities.”

“How about an e-mail or a text anything like that?” Lich asked.

“No, nothing.”

“Do you know why he would have been killed?” It was a sneaky question.

“Umm …” McCormick hesitated, just a second, but just enough that Mac noticed and enough that McCormick knew he noticed before he could recover. “I don’t … know why he was killed,” the deputy campaign manager answered haltingly.

Mac stared at McCormick for a minute and glanced to his right for a second to Sally who saw the hesitation too. The deputy campaign manager knew more than he was letting on. Mac wasn’t getting the vibe that McCormick had anything to do with the murder but he knew something about what Stroudt was doing or might have been doing. He wanted to dig into that more but needed a moment to think about how best to do that. So he did what he always did when he needed a minute, he wrote on his notepad. As he did so, he looked up from time to time at McCormick and then over to Kate Shelby as well. The political operatives were stoic, trying to look relaxed but they were a little uncomfortable now. Mac started thinking about his next series of questions when Lich jumped in, as if on cue.

“Judge Dixon, sir, how about you? Did you know Jason Stroudt?” Lich asked.

“I knew of him, Detective. He wrote fairly prolifically with his blog site, The Congressional Page, so that is what I know him from.” The Judge went on for about five minutes about what he knew of Stroudt’s writing and political commentary. It was a filibuster, a combination of the Judge pontificating and giving his political operative time to recover from McRyan’s questioning.

“Did you know him personally, Judge?” Mac inquired, jumping back in.

“I don’t think I do, Mac,” the Judge responded, his deep voice booming over the phone. “And I know that sounds like an odd answer but intentionally so. I have a good memory of whether I’ve ever met someone. I don’t believe I ever met Mr. Stroudt but I am familiar with him and his work.”

Mac had a thought and asked, “Judge, how about Adam Montgomery?”

“His business partner?” the Judge asked.

“Yes, what do you know about him?”

“About the same as I know about Stroudt,” Dixon answered, and proceeded to give a shorter but similar answer as before regarding Stroudt, The Congressional Page and articles on campaign finance reform and Super PACs. “Why do you ask about Montgomery, Mac?”

“We can’t find him,” Mac answered and was looking right at McCormick and Shelby when he said it. Neither of them was surprised. No raised eyebrows, no frowns, just stoic, as if they knew that to be the case. Judge Dixon was silent as well. Mac just let the statement dangle in the air for a minute and let the unease build.

From Ohio, the Judge must have sensed the discomfort as well and asked a question of his own. “Detective McRyan, may I ask a question?”

“Sure, Judge, go ahead.”

“Have you found anything in your investigation that would suggest why Mr. Stroudt came here to town? If we knew that, maybe we could be of some help.”

McRyan smiled inwardly. They did know something and now the Judge was fishing. Mac decided to play along. “I can tell you, Judge, that as of now, there was nothing we found in his hotel room that told us why he came here.” Mac emphasized the why intentionally. The Judge took the bait.

“But you found something?”

Mac shot a glance over to Lich who shrugged his shoulders as if to say “why not.” “Judge, we’ve reconstructed his last couple of days as best we could. Stroudt and Montgomery flew into Nashville on Tuesday, had dinner, drinks and stayed overnight. On Wednesday they rented a car and it looks as if they drove into Kentucky as we have a credit card receipt for a gas station in Cadiz, Kentucky. Do you know where that is?”

“Southwestern part of the state, lake country I think,” McCormick replied quickly, too quickly.

“How do you know that?” Mac asked suspiciously.

McCormick snorted, “Detective, my job requires me to know where the votes are. I know every county in every state of the country and Cadiz is the county seat for Trigg County.”

“Really,” Mac replied skeptically, his bullshit detector on full alert. “So you’re familiar with a little town of 2,700 people in western Kentucky?”

McCormick shrugged, “What can I say, that’s the job.”

“In a state you have no shot of winning,” Mac retorted and then added, “last I saw on Real Clear Politics you guys were down over twenty points in Kentucky. I bet you haven’t run an ad in that state, in the primary or the general.”

Mac and McCormick stared at one another, smirking, while everyone else sat silently.

The Judge broke the silence, “Where did he go from Kentucky, Mac?”

McRyan just glared at the political operative, so Lich answered. “Our next hit is that he bought a plane ticket in St. Louis and flew up here to the Twin Cities yesterday morning. So he was driving through Kentucky, Wednesday afternoon, and then ends up in St. Louis yesterday. I would note that he had a return flight to DC booked out of Nashville for yesterday morning but obviously didn’t make that flight. Neither did Montgomery. Stroudt arrived here from St. Louis at 10:00 a.m. and checked into The Snelling sometime around 2:45–3:00 p.m. We put time of death around 4:00 p.m.”

“The old prosecutor in me is curious, how was he killed?”

“Slashed across the neck, damn near decapitated,” Dick answered.

“And all you found in the room was a boarding pass?” the Judge asked, still fishing.

“That’s it, Judge. No luggage or carry-on bags. No toiletries, nothing. Odd, don’t you think?”

“I do, Detective. I do. Whatever he had with him the killer must have taken.”

“That’s what we think as well. So let me ask everyone a question. Where were all of you at 4:00 p.m. yesterday?” Mac asked, not looking up from his notepad, pen at the ready.

The Judge laughed through the phone, “Nice, Mac,” he added in a tone that indicated he was starting to tire of the questioning. “To answer an unserious question seriously, we were all on a conference call at that point yesterday in our campaign offices talking to the governor.”

“I can vouch on that,” Sally added with a tone that suggested Mac was pushing it, if not with the Judge, certainly with her.

Mac could see she was uncomfortable and to a certain degree he was now just having fun pushing McCormick’s buttons. He steered back to more probative territory. “Okay,” Mac started, “let me ask a couple more questions. Judge, did you know why Stroudt was in Kentucky?”

“I don’t.”

“How about you, Kate?”

“No idea. I don’t know either Stroudt or Montgomery.”

“How about you, Mr. McCormick?”

“No idea.”

Mac asked a different question of McCormick, sensing he was still on edge, “Did you know he was in Kentucky?”

“Umm … No, I didn’t.” The hesitation gave him away again, even if the answer didn’t. He knew Stroudt was there.

The Judge came to McCormick’s rescue, “Detectives, we all have a conference call we need to get on for the campaign. I’m sure you understand.” And the tone said, even if Mac didn’t, the interview was over.

“No problem, Judge. We appreciate your assistance.” Mac and Lich pushed themselves up from the table and Sally led them out of the room.

Sally walked them to the elevator and then couldn’t contain herself. “You don’t honestly think they had anything to do with this, do you?”

“Nah,” Mac answered for himself as well as Lich. “McCormick, however, would make a lousy poker player. He and the Judge know more than they’re letting on. I know it and …”

“…I know it too,” Sally finished his sentence for him, kissed him on the lips and then stroked his suit coat lapel with her right thumb. “Just proceed carefully. There may be more at play here than a simple murder investigation.”

Mac sensed Sally was right. “Maybe you could find some time tonight for a little dinner and you could warn me some more?” he asked and then with a mischievous smile, added: “Besides, if I get the right phone call later, I may have some really good news to share.”

Sally’s eyebrows shot up, picking up his tone? Mac hadn’t told her about the imminent sale of the Grand Brew. “I might be able to arrange that, the Judge is talking about giving us the night off after eight p.m.,” she answered, and then gave Mac a kiss good-bye.

* * *

“I’m starting to think you’re melting under the pressure, Sebastian,” the Judge said lightheartedly. “Mac raked you over the coals pretty good there. After a while he was doing it for fun.”

“He doesn’t actually think we had anything to do with this, does he?” McCormick asked anxiously, still recovering from McRyan’s inquisition.

“No, he doesn’t, he asked those questions because he knew he was making you squirm. He did that for sport,” the Judge answered. “And it worked. But what was most important to him is he knows that we know more than we let on.”

“So he’ll probably be back,” Shelby anticipated. “That can’t be a good thing.”

“Media will be all over us if we have a homicide detective poking around the campaign the last few days before the election,” McCormick added. “Hell, he could fuel that on his own.”

“He won’t do that,” the Judge answered.

“Why not?” McCormick replied.

“Because Mac McRyan detests the media almost as much as he detests politicians,” the Judge answered and then told them the good news, at least in his mind. “Listen, gang, McRyan knows what is at stake politically and he’s too smart to do anything that would harm us in that fashion. I don’t need to tell him that, and if it does need to be said, Sally will take care of that and I guarantee you Mac will listen to her. I’m not worried about that. McRyan will be discreet. The more interesting development in my mind is that a very savvy, methodical and determined detective is on this case and I can tell he is thinking about the case in the right way.”

“You think he understands that Stroudt’s killing is not some random murder in a local hotel?” Shelby asked.

“Exactly, Kate. McRyan smells that Stroudt saw or did something between Nashville and St. Louis and that’s what got him killed. We know that to be the case and he’s pretty far down the road thinking that as well. If we give him time, I bet he pieces it together and if his history is any guide, he will not stop until he gets answers and the answers he wants are the same ones we want.”

“You think we should help him then?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Kristoff, he’s coming to you.”

One fifty-three p.m. Foche yawned and then sipped his now lukewarm twenty-four-ounce Super America coffee as he watched the main entrance to the Landmark Towers. Coldplay’s “Paradise” purred out of the car radio on Cities 97 as the engine hummed and the heater kept the vehicle temperature at 68 degrees. On the other side of the street his second unit watched the front of the building as well, having been stationed there since morning. They had people staked out at numerous locations now, including Montgomery’s home in Maryland and his parents’ home in Delaware, as well as at The Congressional Page offices.

Foche arrived on the scene as part of following McRyan, something he’d been doing since sunrise. There were stops at the Department of Public Safety, both campaigns for Minnesota’s hotly contested Sixth District and now the national headquarters of the James Thomson Campaign for President.

Foche was on his own for now. Kristoff was now directing his full attention to tracking down Montgomery and applying all of his technical resources to that problem. Kristoff had immense technical resources at his disposal to throw at problems and the full fusillade was being applied to this one. Kristoff’s last text a half hour ago indicated there were some potential developments on that front. They didn’t have Montgomery yet but new avenues for finding him were emerging. It would just take a little time. In the meantime, they needed to make sure McRyan and his partner didn’t find him first.

The security specialist, Foche preferred that term to describe what he did as opposed to mercenary or merc, had spent the morning trailing the two St. Paul homicide detectives. His tablet sat on the passenger seat to his right. Kristoff had forwarded him the full profile on McRyan and Lich, the two men he was tailing.

Detective Richard Lich made for interesting reading. To say the man had a colorful personal history would be putting it mildly. His professional history, however, was fairly pedestrian—a functional cop with many years on the job.

Mac McRyan, on the other hand was an entirely different story. He did not fit the profile in any way, shape or form for a cop. Summa Cum Laude from the University of Minnesota and William Mitchell College of Law. His test scores, all the way back to his nearly perfect SAT in high school, revealed a brilliant mind. His record on the force revealed an unusually high closure rate on his cases and a dogged approach to his investigations. As he read through the profile, what jumped out at Foche most was the detective’s relentless nature. It oozed out of the background information he was reading. And what this little trip to the Thomson campaign, as well as the others McRyan took this morning told him, were that the detectives weren’t buying that Stroudt’s death was a random drug buy gone bad. They were rightly thinking that it was what Stroudt did professionally that led to his death. He and Kristoff thought a killing at a seedy hotel would be met with bland indifference. Clearly this was not the case.

McRyan was, if not on the right track, at least was looking in the right direction. Providence had not smiled on them either. With McRyan’s live-in girlfriend working high up in the Thomson campaign, he was able to get quick access to the top of the Thomson campaign. After killing Stroudt, they learned that he went to law school with McCormick. It wasn’t a huge leap of logic to think Stroudt would be looking up his old law school classmate when he came to the Twin Cities instead of trying to head back to Washington DC. Thus far, based on a review of cell phone records, it did not appear that before his death, Stroudt had actually contacted McCormick.

The green glass doors burst open and McRyan and Lich strolled out the front door with smiles on their faces. Foche’s heart skipped a beat for a minute but as he assessed their demeanor he determined that the looks were more of laughter than of satisfaction. They were reliving an event as they walked to the parking ramp across St. Peter Street.

Foche waited until McRyan exited the parking ramp and pulled out onto St. Peter to follow while placing a call to Kristoff.

* * *

Henri Gerstner sat on the metal folding chair in the dank crumbling warehouse in Landover, Maryland. Behind him rested the panel van from which he and others were pulling their haul from the home of Jason Stroudt and the offices of The Congressional Page.

The expert thief was a long way from the comforts of his Zurich apartment, the warmth of the fireplace, female companionship and a bottle of red wine. The comforts of life he so enjoyed resulting from his prolific success. When he wanted, there was little in the world he couldn’t steal. All he needed was time and the tools of his trade. Twenty years of world travel stealing jewels, paintings and information left him wealthy and quite comfortable. He now only worked when he was motivated to do so, or when Kristoff called.

When Kristoff called, he answered, he always answered, for two reasons. First and foremost, he owed his life to Kristoff from long back in the day when both men were in the employ of the General Directorate for External Security for France. Second, Kristoff paid well, very well, for Gerstner’s unique services and no matter how much money he had put away, he was never one to turn down easy money. Accessing Stroudt’s condominium and the offices of The Congressional Page was extremely easy money.

Adam Montgomery’s place, however, was entirely another matter. A quick look at the condominium complex in Bethesda told him he needed some time to work his way in, it was not a one-hour take a look and then go in like the other two. He would need a few days to properly plan for that. Kristoff told him to wait until dark and then he could start his planning, which would include reconnaissance.

For now, Gerstner sat with three of Kristoff’s other men at a long metal banquet table in the largely empty warehouse. One man was working through the computer hard drives and e-mail. Gerstner and the other two men worked through the documents they’d taken from Stroudt’s home and The Congressional Page offices.

Kristoff instructed them to look for two things. First, any manner in which they could track down Montgomery and second, any information on how it was Stroudt and Montgomery knew of the Kentucky meeting. All of the information that was gleaned was being uploaded to Kristoff’s technical people, who were sifting through every component of those two men’s lives. Gerstner knew what happened to Stroudt in St. Paul and fully knew what his friend had in store for Montgomery.

When doing research on a mark, if he could, Gerstner always liked to look at whatever billing information he could get his hands on. Billing and financial information told you much about a person. From that information Gerstner learned a great deal about those he was targeting. The thief could determine what security company someone may employ, what security system they had and what features it included. Insurance information could tell him what or how much in valuables someone insured. Billing and financial information told you what kind of safe a person had, what type of computer or Internet provider a person used. With all of this information, he could determine how to best approach a particular job. Not once in twenty years had he ever been questioned by the police.

So when the men sat down to look through the papers, Gerstner gravitated towards the financials. He already went through Stroudt’s and was now looking through the payables for the business. There was rent, office supplies, office equipment, insurance, health insurance, retirement plan and computers. Back in March, the business purchased new Dell laptops through their outside technical support vendor. However, it was what was purchased along with the laptops that caught Gerstner’s attention. The thief reached for his cell phone and dialed Kristoff, who answered on the first ring.

“Henri.”

“My friend, I might have something for your technical people. Are you familiar with the term LoJack?”

* * *

Wire stirred cream into her coffee and picked with her fork at a piece of apple pie as the late afternoon sun began its rapid descent in the crystal clear western sky, contemplating her next possible move. She occupied a window booth at Boo’s Coffee Shop which sat kitty-corner opposite of Montgomery’s five-story condominium building. The booth gave her an unobstructed view of the front of the building as well as the entrance to the underground parking ramp on the south side. She was also well positioned to take in the two men in the navy blue Dodge minivan parked on the opposite side of the street from the parking garage entrance. The van had been parked for fifteen minutes. It was the second time in the last two hours that this specific van pulled up along the south side of the building. As she watched, she thought there was another silver Ford sedan further up the block to the north that was unnaturally in that position for over an hour.

It had been a long day.

It would have been an even longer day were it not for Detective Court. When she was walking out of Stroudt’s condo this morning, she suggested to Court that his next investigative step should be to check out the offices of The Congressional Page. The Alexandria detective readily agreed.

The Congressional Page’s offices were located on the second floor of an aged three-story red brick and white trim office building in Georgetown. The building itself was occupied by small businesses, including a two-lawyer law practice, an accountant, an interior decorator and a temporary staffing firm. Stroudt and Montgomery’s offices consisted of a small reception area, a galley kitchen just wide enough for a small refrigerator, coffee maker and sink, and two reasonably sized offices.

The Congressional Page offices were not ransacked to the degree of Stroudt’s home. However, they had been broken into. The computer hard drives were missing as were the contents of filing cabinets in the two offices. In fact, the tops of the desks were cleaned, which the building manager claimed was highly unusual. He was in the offices at least two or three times per week checking on things and when he would check on his tenants, their desks were always cluttered with paper. “To be honest with you, I didn’t know that the desk tops had glass,” he said.

A simple key card system, easily defeated by a professional with the right tools, served as the buildings security system. A regular key was all that was needed to enter the office, the lock for which had been easily defeated by a simple bump key. A canvas of the other office suites revealed no evidence that anyone had been in the building overnight and nobody recalled seeing anyone suspicious.

With The Congressional Page having been broken into, Wire didn’t have a hard time getting Court to make a call to Bethesda police to arrange entry into Montgomery’s condo. Montgomery’s condominium building had much better security, with a twenty-four-hour guard and video surveillance at the entrances. As a result, it did not appear that Montgomery’s spacious condo was breached prior to their entry. There was no evidence that his place had been searched in any way. There was no computer hard drive or any evidence of one in his office, but Wire thought that was because he probably just used a laptop. Montgomery appeared to keep a very neat home. The condo was a dead end. Court said he would put out an APB on Montgomery and would let Wire know if anything turned up.

As they were leaving the condo, Wire noticed a set of BMW keys sitting in a basket by the door. The building superintendant confirmed that Montgomery drove a white BMW 335i sedan, which was not in the parking garage. Ten minutes ago, Court called to tell her that Montgomery’s car was found in a parking garage at Reagan National. It had been parked since Tuesday.

She contemplated calling Court about the two vehicles that appeared to be watching the condo, but she wasn’t completely sure that’s what they were doing. She had the plate number for the minivan and was contemplating a drive-by of the silver sedan to get that plate as well. Wire wanted to watch a little longer and see if they stayed. If they did, then she would make a call.

Her cell phone for the Judge buzzed. She answered on the second ring, “Hello, Judge.” She could hear cheering in the deep background. “Where are you, sir?”

“I’m in the bowels of Quicken Loans Arena here in Cleveland. The governor is speaking to a packed house of over 22,000.” There was a loud roar in the background. “That must be the governor’s line about a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work.” Then the Judge got down to business. “So have you found out anything more since you left Stroudt’s place this morning?” Dixon asked.

Wire related the result of the search at The Congressional Page and Montgomery’s condo and the rest of her day.

“I’m not sure, Judge, if these vehicles are watching the condo or not.”

“Gut?”

“They are.”

Just then the van started and quickly pulled away, turning south and driving rapidly away from the building. “Wait a second, Judge.”

Wire looked to the north for the silver sedan. “Judge, the minivan just left in a big hurry and turned south away from the building. Every other time they moved, they turned left and went north as if they circled the block slowly and then came back.” Wire focused on the silver sedan. The driver looked down and then put his cell phone to his ear. There was a short conversation and then the silver Ford 500 immediately pulled away from the curb, drove south, right by the restaurant in the same direction that the minivan went. Wire had the feeling that the surveillance detail was over. “Judge, I have a weird feeling here that something just happened.”

“That they found Montgomery?”

“I don’t know what it is,” Wire thought for a moment. “Something feels off.”

“Dara, I think it’s time you come back to Minnesota,” Dixon ordered. “The jet is at Reagan National. I will call and have it ready to go within the hour. You are going to pick me up here in Cleveland and we’re going to head back to the Twin Cities. There is someone I think we should have you talk to.”

“Who?”

“Mac McRyan.”

* * *

6:07 p.m. Kristoff repeatedly and gently dropped the tea bag into his cup as he looked out the tenth floor window of his suite at the St. Paul Hotel, conveniently located across the street from the Landmark Towers. He turned around and leaned against the window sill and watched his people work their laptops at the large conference table. There had been a working group in St. Paul the entire campaign season tracking the Thomson campaign and its personnel, looking for any potential way into the campaign. While they found a few people to feed them tidbits of information, the working group was never able to get deep into the campaign structure in any meaningful way. Governor Thomson’s, meaning Judge Dixon’s people, were loyal and committed. However, while that effort largely failed, with Stroudt coming to town, the suite had proven advantageous. It gave Kristoff a command post from which to operate.

Kristoff’s technical people had worked backward on Stroudt to St. Louis. Airport security video revealed that Stroudt arrived at the airport in St. Louis on Thursday at 7:15 a.m., dropped off by Montgomery in the same rental car that the two political bloggers rented back in Nashville. After dropping Stroudt off at the Delta departure door, the airport video feed showed Montgomery turning in the rental car at the National Rent-A-Car lot at the airport.

From there, Montgomery grabbed a cab. The GPS tracking system in the cab revealed that Montgomery was driven back into downtown St. Louis. Downtown traffic cameras were accessed and the group was able to follow Montgomery walking for a few blocks but then lost him near Busch Stadium. From that point in time, Montgomery had fallen off the grid. There was no credit card or cell phone activity. It obviously occurred to Montgomery sooner than it did to his business partner that he needed to lay low.

Kristoff wondered why the two of them had chosen St. Louis. They could have gone back to Nashville, driven to Louisville or down to Memphis among other big cities, so why go to St. Louis? There had to be a reason. Stroudt’s history revealed no ties to St. Louis in any way shape or form. As best the working group could tell, he may have never even been to the city before Thursday morning. However, a deeper search into Montgomery’s past revealed he had a second cousin named David Reeves that lived in St. Louis.

Montgomery and Reeves were close as kids, when they were growing up in Charlotte, North Carolina. There were two Reeves boys, David and Michael, who were the same age as Montgomery. However, it was David with whom Montgomery had been in contact with recently and who lived in St. Louis. The second cousin came up through a search of Montgomery’s e-mail history and there were four cell phone calls in the last three months. The only reason the connection wasn’t made sooner was that the second cousin only moved to St. Louis in the last three months yet still had his cell phone with the Houston, Texas, area code.

Reeves lived in the Kingsway East neighborhood in St. Louis. The Reeves family owned three vehicles, a Chevy Suburban, a Toyota Camry and a white 2001 Honda Accord, which looked to be the vehicle for the Reeves’ seventeen year-old daughter. The Suburban and Camry were tracked via their GPS systems and were located at home and at David Reeves’s workplace. The Accord was not at home or at the high school. In looking at the GPS system for the Suburban, it appeared that Reeves drove into St. Louis yesterday morning to a location one block from Busch Stadium, presumably to pick up his second cousin. Kristoff was making an educated guess, but thought Montgomery borrowed the Accord from Reeves. As a 2001 model, it did not contain a GPS system and thus there was no way to track the vehicle to know for sure.

But now they caught a break thanks to Gerstner.

LoJack.

LoJack, as a tracking system, came to fame as an aftermarket vehicle tracking system that allowed vehicles to be tracked by police with the aim being to recover the vehicle after a theft. After its beginnings in the prevention of car theft, LoJack evolved into a tracking system for trucks, construction equipment, motorcycles and now laptop computers. The Congressional Page had a LoJack system loaded onto their new laptops. The LoJack system was installed by TRP, which stood for Technical Recovery Professionals, a component business of their outside computer support company, Technical Office Professionals or TOP.

Ginger, one of Kristoff’s technical people, was now accessing the TRP system to track the laptop. Kristoff was anxious and therefore impatient for results. “How much longer, Ginger?”

“Relax. I’m working it,” she replied tersely.

Kristoff hovered as Ginger’s fingers worked frantically over her keyboard. After five minutes, he was impatient. “Damn it, do you have anything or not, Ginger?”

“Almost there. I just need to get through one more layer of the system here, hold on …” There were more blinding fast keystrokes, followed by some play-by-play from Ginger which consisted of “no, no, yes, I got you, no I don’t, there, there it is, yes, yes, YES!”

“I’m in, now I’m just waiting for the map to pull up. Should be just a few seconds … Whoa!”

“What?”

“I found it.”

“Where?”

Ginger turned her laptop around for Kristoff to see, “Montgomery and the laptop are moving north on Interstate 35W, just south of Minneapolis. Kristoff, your boy is coming to you.”

CHAPTER NINE

“He’s natural police.”

Wire took in the lights of downtown Cleveland as her Learjet made its final descent to Burke Lakefront Airport. Governor Thomson thoroughly worked the state of Ohio all day. He started the day in Cincinnati and then worked his way northeast through the state, with stops in Dayton, at Ohio State University in Columbus, Akron and now Cleveland where he was making three different appearances. The campaign would then spend the night in Cleveland before leaving first thing in the morning for a day of campaigning in Iowa and then back to Wisconsin.

Wire spent the hour and a half flight from DC jotting notes down on her tablet on the day’s events.

Question: What have I learned?

Answer: Very little.

She made no progress in tracking down Montgomery other than to confirm that it was highly unlikely that he was in the Washington DC area. While Montgomery’s home did not appear to have been searched, Stroudt’s home and The Congressional Page had and there was little if anything left behind for her to work with. Detective Court thought they might find something in the forensics reports for the two crime scenes but she wasn’t holding her breath. She was up against professionals. It was highly unlikely that they would leave something behind. Nonetheless, the crime scene techs worked through both scenes and Court said he would call if anything jumped out at him and would be sure to get her a copy of the report.

Before she got on the plane, she’d given the Judge the license plate numbers for the blue minivan and the silver Ford sedan she saw hovering around Montgomery’s condominium in the afternoon. She hoped those plates might give them some idea of who they were dealing with.

The jet landed and taxied to the side of the runway where the Judge’s limousine was waiting. When the plane came to a stop, the copilot emerged from the cockpit and opened the plane door and eased the drop down steps to the tarmac. The Judge exited his limousine with an unlit cigar in his mouth, a beige trench coat draped over his right arm and his old tan weathered lawyer briefcase in his left hand. An aide grabbed the Judge’s luggage from the trunk and walked it over to the copilot who took care of storing it. Dixon climbed up the steps and onto the plane. He nodded to Wire as he dropped his coat and briefcase on an open seat opposite of her, loosened his tie and walked over to the galley and mixed himself a drink. He looked back to Wire who nodded her approval and he brought over two bourbons.

The Judge took his seat, buckled himself in and said, “We’re good to go,” to the copilot who simply nodded, ducked back into the cockpit and a moment later the jet eased forward, heading towards the runway.

“So how was your day, dear?” the Judge asked whimsically.

“Felt unproductive. And yours, darling?”

“Not too bad, not too bad at all. Huge crowds, lots of enthusiasm and the governor was really quite good. He’s not the most scintillating speaker but he has found another gear here the last few weeks and has turned into a helluva candidate. I think he’s starting to feel it.”

“How about the polling, at least your internal polling, what is that telling you today?”

The Judge leaned over and opened the latch on his briefcase, pulled it open and pulled out a report with polling data for the key states. “We picked up a point in Wisconsin and Iowa yesterday and we hit both those states tomorrow to cement those gains. So on the straight politics front, I feel pretty good.” Dixon said, “As to what our opponents are up to …” The Judge shook his head and took a long sip from his drink.

Wire sighed her own disappointment, “I don’t have much, Judge. Did those license plates tell us anything?”

“Yes, but mostly no,” Dixon replied, pulling a sheet of paper out of his suit coat pocket and handing it to Wire. “The plates are legitimate. The minivan and sedan were rented in DC from Budget. They were rented by an Ed Jones and John Brown …”

“Of course they were,” Wire leaned back in her seat and shook her head at the bland names, certain they were cover IDs. “Let me guess, their addresses are PO Boxes somewhere.”

The Judge pointed to his nose, “Exactly, the two men rented them under corporate credit cards for a Black Knight Enterprises. Unfortunately, Black Knight Enterprises is a PO Box in the Cayman Islands and my contact at the bureau didn’t have any more for me, at least at this point. I may reach out to some NSA or CIA people I know to see if they can find anything for me. But if I don’t know any better, they sound like …”

“Mercs,” Wire finished. “It would require two things to figure out who they are really working for. Time and resources, neither of which we have.”

“What does this all tell you?” the Judge asked.

“That maybe more than just politics were going on down in the Florida Keys,” Wire answered. She took a sip of her drink. “Connolly arranged access to some serious professional help. There was good security on that island. I couldn’t have gotten over there even if I’d wanted to. Heck, I needed to be careful across the bay as it was. The security personnel were constantly looking out over the water at the beach I was sitting on.”

The Judge sat back and played with his small beard, pulling at the hairs on his chin. “So how does Heath Connolly coordinate with these people? You ever see anything like that?”

“Not that I recall, or not that I have recognized thus far,” Wire answered. “So I don’t know, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but did he slip away another time that we missed?”

Wire shrugged her shoulders, “He could have. I’ve stayed on him as best I can but ever since Florida, I’ve put him to bed and gotten up with him, literally, every day. I’ve flown all over the country, followed buses, stayed in hotels, tracked him in cars and run up one hell of a travel bill for the campaign. He’s rarely been out of my sight for more than a few hours. Other than Kentucky, I’ve seen nothing but familiar faces.”

“But you’re not with him all the time.”

“No I’m not. I’m not on the plane with him, I’m not in his hotel room and I’m not in his condo at the Watergate. There are times I do not have him under surveillance.”

“He must be communicating with them.”

“I’m sure he is,” Dara answered. “But I don’t see them hanging around, if that’s what you’re asking. Like I said, other than Kentucky, there’s been nothing but familiar faces. I’m sure he communicates with them but I don’t have a tap on his phone or access to his e-mail. I’m good but I’m not that good, at least not on my own.”

“And he’s too smart to communicate in that fashion anyway,” Dixon answered dismissively. “He’d have a separate phone to talk to whoever he’s talking too, just like you and I.”

“I’m doing what I can, Judge,” Wire said defensively.

“I know you are, Dara,” the Judge answered, sitting up in his seat, patting her on the knee. “I know you are.”

“There’s just only so much I can do on my own,” Wire stated with frustration. “I don’t have people. I don’t have technical assistance. I don’t have any authority.”

“Correct,” the Judge answered. “You don’t have any of that. But then again, this is not what I hired you to do to begin with, which was simply shadow Connolly and tell me what he was up to, which you have done for me spectacularly well. This is much bigger now and more complicated. That’s why we’re going to sit down first thing tomorrow morning and talk with Detective McRyan in St. Paul.”

Wire, who’d spent the day with Detective Court from Alexandria, a competent and professional cop, was skeptical. “Judge, I mean no disrespect, but he’s a St. Paul cop, what can he really do?”

“He’s not your average cop, Dara.” Dixon provided some background on McRyan. “And Mac? He knows this smells. I could hear it in his voice and Sebastian saw it in his eyes. He knows Stroudt was in Kentucky. In fact, he has a good timeline established. And after today, as sure as the sun rises in the east, he is going to come back at us because he knows we know more than we let on. So rather than pissing him off, I’d rather have him on our side. If we tell him what we know and give him what we have, little though it may be, he will run with it. And once he has the scent, look out.”

Wire didn’t often hear the Judge speak of people in this way. The man was a hard sell, yet he gushed about this St. Paul detective. “You’re that impressed with him?”

The Judge nodded. “He’s natural police. You will like him. I guarantee it.”

“So do we call him when we land?”

“I have Ms. Kennedy taking care of that. We will meet first thing in the morning.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Kristoff, we have a problem.”

Mac was a St. Paul guy through and through, but when it came to good restaurants, the competition to the west, Minneapolis, won hands down. In particular, Mac and Sally had developed an affinity for the little restaurants, bistros and character filled hole-in-the-wall bars just northeast of downtown Minneapolis, across the Mississippi River, in an area known to the locals as Nordeast. They often found themselves over in that part of town, going to dinner at one of the little eateries and then finding a small bar or two, usually with good live music, for post-dinner drinks, especially if they made their way over that way on a weekend. The twenty-something crowd, along with Twins and Timberwolves fans could have the robust bar district in downtown Minneapolis, but Nordeast catered to the thirty-something crowd and that worked just fine for them.

Their new favorite restaurant was the Bella Eatery that served authentic Italian. The Bella sat in the middle building of a short block on University Avenue. It was a small place with two rows of four top tables up front, then a small bar that divided the restaurant width wise and then a series of tall booths in the back. When they came to the Bella, Mac and Sally always tried for one of the booths. Tonight, their timing was impeccable as their favorite booth opened up just as they walked in. The booth was a small circular one isolated in the far back right corner. It offered privacy and quiet, as if you were eating at home.

The greeter seated them at the table and let them know of the specials. The waiter was Johnny, on the spot a minute later: “Can I offer either of you a glass of wine?”

Mac was a beer man normally but he’d taken a liking to wine in the last year or so. Up until that point in time, he’d never been a big wine fan, not liking the bitter taste and generally being like his family, strictly beer and Irish whiskey. Sally told him it was because, “All you’ve ever drank was cheap Two Buck Chuck or Boone’s Farm, Mac. Funny how much better good wine tastes, you know, wine that comes out of a bottle with like, you know, a cork.”

Sally was exaggerating to a degree, but when he went to a dinner party with some older lawyer friends of hers last year, he was introduced for really the first time to high quality wines. The friend had a wine cellar in his Lake Minnetonka home stocked with over five hundred bottles of red wine. That night the dinner party of ten polished off twelve bottles and the quality of each left Mac with a new appreciation for wine.

As was his nature, once he was interested in something, he jumped in with both feet. The day after the party, Mac went online and ordered a subscription to the Wine Enthusiast magazine. Not long after, he joined a law school friend’s wine club and found his way to a half dozen wine tastings in the last year. In his own right, he was now building a wine collection with over fifty bottles of mostly red wine at home and was drawing up plans for a small wine cellar behind the bar in their basement. In no way did he consider himself an expert but he did feel he was learning the wines and matching them better to whatever meal he was ordering. He expected he would order chicken parmesan and knew Sally was having linguini, so he was looking for a good Barolo or Amarone for his meal and found one he recognized and liked. “I’d like a bottle of the Bussola Amarone.”

Sally too was looking at the wine list and raised her eyebrows at his order. After the waiter left, she asked, “A $185 bottle of wine? Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’ll get to that,” Mac answered, as he slid close to her, slid his right arm around her and kissed her lightly on the lips, “How was your day?”

Sally gave him an approving look, slid into him a little more and then said, “It was pretty busy, of course. I was working hard on getting Senator Baker around Wisconsin.” Senator Alexander Baker from North Carolina was the vice presidential nominee. He spent the day in Wisconsin campaigning. “We had him going from Madison up to Oshkosh, then Appleton and finally to Green Bay.”

“Is he spending the night there?”

“No, we have him on a plane to DC and tomorrow he works Virginia and then his home state. He will be busy.”

“So how was it you could get away tonight?”

“The Judge gave us all the night off, at least after 8:00 p.m., even Sebastian and Kate. He told them to go home early, have a good meal and recharge for the home stretch.”

“Really? I would think the Judge would have you guys monitoring every computer and phone for the latest information until you fell asleep at your desks in a pool of drool,” Mac said as he sipped his water and cut some bread.

“That’s certainly the way it’s been the last month for sure, but tonight with it being Friday and the way the schedule was laid out and what the networks were doing for programming, it worked out we could bail earlier. Besides, we have other staff monitoring things and if anything comes up that really requires our attention, we’ll know about it. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be on the road through Monday.” She leaned up and kissed him once and then again, softer, her right hand lightly caressing his cheek. “The Judge did ask me something, though, a few hours ago.”

“What’s that?”

“He asked if you would be willing to talk with him in the morning.”

Mac, who was thinking he and Lich would be making another visit to the campaign, readily agreed. “Sure, I can jump on the phone with him again.”

“No, he wants to meet in person.”

“The Judge? He’s going to be here tomorrow? I figured he’d be out on the trail with the governor.”

“He will be, and I get to go with, but after he meets with you first. And he told me he has someone he wants you to meet.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t really know. He said it was someone who’s been helping him on the campaign and could prove helpful for you in your investigation. That’s all he said.”

Mac smiled inwardly. He knew the Judge and McCormick knew more than they told and now he’d get the full story. “You don’t say no to Judge Dixon. Just tell me when and where.”

Their waiter appeared, opened the bottle of wine and poured a small amount for Mac to taste. He swirled his wine glass, took a sip and enjoyed the intensity of the Bussola and then nodded. The waiter poured Sally a glass, added a little more to Mac’s and then left them to enjoy their wine.

“So what are we toasting?” Sally asked with a smile, holding up her glass.

“To life-altering events,” Mac answered with a twinkle in his eye. He had a surprise for her. After he accepted her toast and took a sip of his wine, he leaned in close and kissed her softly again.

* * *

Moriarity and Holmes sat in the back of a Ford panel van parked on West Berkeley Avenue in St. Paul’s Macalester-Groveland neighborhood. This stretch of Berkeley was dark and quiet as the lights in the many homes were starting to dim as the clock pushed past 10:00 p.m. The main levels of a majority of the homes were dark with the only light providing illumination for the sleepy street that which fought through shades and curtains in bedrooms on the upper levels. The clouds kept the moon at bay and the cool temperatures kept pedestrians to a bare minimum. There hadn’t been a walker in forty-five minutes. Only the light but consistent traffic from the busier thoroughfares of Cretin Avenue, a half block to their west, and St. Clair, a block to the north, provided any sense of activity.

The van was parked two houses down from the white stucco two-story Colonial Revival styled home of Sebastian McCormick. The van blended with the assortment of cars, sports utility vehicles and minivans parked along the sleepy boulevard of the decidedly upper-middle-class neighborhood filled with Queen Anne, Craftsman Bungalow and Colonial homes.

The temperature outside was plunging south steadily with a predicted low of twenty-eight degrees. Given the dropping temperatures, both men were thickly dressed in black, with turtlenecks, fleece pullovers and thickly lined nylon jackets.

Moriarity worked the audio surveillance equipment while Holmes handled the video equipment.

“So what are you hearing?” Holmes asked.

“Lots of dinner planning, an occasional cell phone ringing and now he’s opening another bottle of wine,” Moriarity replied, handing another set of earphones to his partner. “You can listen in as well.”

* * *

McCormick looked at the display on his cell phone and didn’t recognize the number. It was the second time the number appeared and for the second time, he let it go. Whoever it was could leave a voice mail, although the icon for a voice mail message had yet to appear.

Ignoring the phone, he went back to work on the bottle of Cabernet, pulling the cork out of their second and setting it on the counter to breathe for a minute or two. Next, he pulled open the oven door and looked inside at the two filet mignons sizzling on the broiling pan, nearly cooked to perfection. He poked at the steak with a long fork. They both liked their steaks medium and the steak still felt a little rare in the middle yet, so in his estimation, the cuts needed another minute or two.

With the oven closed, he moved back to the kitchen counter and poured another glass of wine for himself. Kate walked back in waving her long-stemmed wine glass looking for more.

“Can you give that salad an extra toss?” he asked. “While I give you a refill.”

Kate smiled and did as asked, using the salad spoons to work the Caesar dressing into the mixture of lettuce, tomatoes, croutons and parmesan cheese. They were following orders from the Judge, which were to go have a good meal, enjoy some quiet time and get a good night’s rest. Then tomorrow, come ready to be on the road through Monday. It would be a campaigning marathon.

McCormick opened the oven door again; poked at the filets and decided this time they were ready. He grabbed his long serving fork and placed the cuts onto the large serving plate, along with two baked potatoes, which had been cooking in a smaller countertop oven. Along with the Caesar salad, they would have a good healthy meal, a rarity for them as of late. Kate grabbed the salad bowl and the wine and the two of them moved through the archway and to the dining room.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this,” Sebastian said, as he sat down and grabbed his steak knife and immediately dug into the filet.

“Me neither,” Kate replied, sipping her wine. “This is a great Cabernet, by the way, super smooth,” she added, taking another deep sip. “God that beats the beer we’ve been drinking every night.”

“No kidding,” Sebastian answered, and then raised his wine glass for a toast. “To winning on Tuesday.”

“To us,” Kate replied and leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

“I like that kind of talk,” Sebastian answered. He liked Kate very much and she seemed to return the feeling.

“Is that your cell phone again?” she asked.

“Yes it is,” Sebastian sighed disgustedly. “You’d think people could leave me alone for once.”

“I thought you told everyone no calls tonight.”

“I did. I did.”

“So who is it then?” Kate asked questioningly. Most people in the campaign feared the second in command so she was surprised anyone would dare tempt fate with constant calls.

“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number.”

“Well, whoever it is, they are being awfully persistent. Answer it quick so they stop calling and we can enjoy our night,” Kate said.

“Okay,” he reached in his pocket and pulled out the phone and answered: “Sebastian McCormick.”

* * *

“This is Adam Montgomery. Do you know who I am?”

There was a hesitation and then an uncertain, “I do.”

“Did Jason Stroudt get in contact with you before he was murdered?”

“No.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Adam?”

“Mr. McCormick, I have something I think you should see. Jason said I could trust you.”

* * *

Moriarity and Holmes shared a look. Holmes took off his earbud out and reached for his cell phone. “Kristoff, we have a problem.”

* * *

Sally was astonished.

Her eyes were wide, her jaw hung open, not believing what she’d just heard. But the look on Mac’s face told her otherwise, “You’re not joking, are you?”

Mac shook his head, “Not about this, Sal.”

“You’re really going to get $12,300,000 for your share of the Grand Brew? I heard that right, twelve point three million dollars?”

Mac just nodded.

“Oh my God,” Sally said putting both hands to her mouth. She sat back and away from him just shaking her head struggling for the words. “That’s … that’s …”

“I know, right?” Mac answered with his own smiling look of disbelief. “I wasn’t sure what to say either when I got the call from the guys. I knew I was going to receive a pile of money when they sold, but I had no idea it would be …” he struggled for the right words and blurted, “Like this. This is crazy.”

“They gave you no indication how much the offer was for? How much you’d get?”

Mac shook his head, “No, they said I would be happy but … those two really just sandbagged the hell out of me. I think they really enjoyed it.”

“What are you going to do with it all?” Sally asked with the disbelief still evident on her face.

“I have no idea.”

“Buy a Porsche,” Sally blurted.

Mac snorted, “A rich cop with a Porsche? Kind of cliché, don’t you think?”

Sally shrugged. Didn’t seem like such a terrible idea to her.

“I did call my financial guy to let him know we needed to meet. I suppose that’s where I’ll start. Dad left Mom okay, but I can certainly use this to make sure she’s truly set up once and for all. She and Dad set up the college account I used to buy my interest to begin with, so there’s a certain symmetry to that, I guess.” Mac sat back and stared off into space.

They sat in silence for a moment until Sally spoke up, “Man, now I know why you said we were toasting to life-altering events.”

Mac just nodded, looking down, quiet. Sally picked up on it and reached for his hand. “Hey?”

Mac looked up.

“You don’t look as ecstatic about this as one would expect.”

He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Why? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Mac sat back and looked up to the ceiling, “I’m happy, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad this has happened, I really am. I mean, this sets me up for life.”

“But what?” Sally asked. “Something’s bugging you.”

He nodded. “I feel like a lottery winner, Sal. I’m thinking I didn’t really earn the money.”

“That business wouldn’t have started without your investment,” Sally replied matter of factly.

“I know that,” Mac replied nodding. “But seriously, this is just so out of … proportion.”

“Mac, it is the American dream to buy low and sell high. That’s what you did. You took a risk with a lot of money when you didn’t have much to your name. You showed real faith in your friends and now you’ve been richly and deservedly rewarded.”

“But I had very little to do with turning it into what it is.”

“Maybe not,” Sally agreed, nodding. “But let me tell you what you did do. You gave up a very lucrative career as a lawyer at the best law firm in town to join the family business. You’re out being a cop and putting murderers away and getting paid a small fraction of what you’d be making as a lawyer.”

“It isn’t all that bad,” Mac answered with a little smile. “I did find you.”

His compliment drew him a soft kiss from Sally who then pulled away. She took his hands and pulled them to her heart and looked him in the eyes and said softly, “Michael MacKenzie McRyan, I love you. I love what you stand for, for what you do, your conviction to doing it and doing it right. I simply can’t think of someone who would deserve this great fortune more. And I know you. You’ll do the right thing with it.”

Mac pulled her back to him, embraced her and kissed her deeply. “I’ve missed you.”

Sally put her right hand to his cheek, “Right back at you.”

* * *

Kristoff and Foche cruised in a minivan five hundred yards behind the white Honda Accord being driven by Adam Montgomery. He had another unit following closely behind in an alternating tail. After having driven around the outer beltline of the Twin Cities on Interstate 494 and 694, Montgomery was now moving back up into the cities and was traveling east on Interstate 94, now crossing over the Mississippi River from Minneapolis and into the western edge of St. Paul.

They knew where he was going.

The two professionals shared a look and a nod and Kristoff radioed to the other tailing unit, “We are going ahead. Stay on him and let me know if he changes course.”

“Copy.”

At the Huron Boulevard Exit sign, Kristoff accelerated and pulled past Montgomery within five seconds. The political blogger was carefully following the posted speed limit of sixty. Kristoff was able to get ahead of Montgomery and reach the Cretin-Vandalia exit a minute before he would. Kristoff turned south on Cretin and proceeded nearly two miles to the intersection of Cretin and St. Clair where he stopped at a red light. On green, he turned left onto St. Clair and drove one block east and took a right on South Finn Avenue. On Finn, he drove three quarters of the block down and pulled to the right curb to park, fifty feet back from the intersection of Finn and Berkeley. He parked just past the front of the house on the corner so that he could see the front of the second house, which belonged to McCormick.

Kristoff looked over to Foche and said, “We need to move quickly.”

Foche pulled out his Walther PPK/E, pulled out the clip, checked it and slid it back in. “I agree.”

Kristoff’s partner put his earbud into his ear and the two of them did a quick com check. “I will let you know when I’m at the back door,” Foche said as he pushed himself out of the passenger seat and onto the sidewalk. Kristoff watched him quickly walk back up the sidewalk and turn left into the dark back alley.

* * *

The Judge finished his third bourbon as the wheels touched down at Holman Field in St. Paul, the small commuter airport just southeast of downtown St. Paul. For the small jets the campaign used, Holman was a better option. It allowed for quicker departures and arrivals as you didn’t need to fight through the crowds at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

The jostling of the landing also caused Wire to spring awake.

“I thought you couldn’t sleep on planes,” the Judge joked.

Wire rubbed her eyes, “I usually can’t.”

“Sometimes when you’ve been going non-stop for days on end, your body just shuts down,” the Judge noted as he pulled his cell phone out. “That’s why I gave the kids the night off tonight. I need them rested and sharp for the last three days.” He looked at the display and snorted. “Jeez, I give Sebastian a night off and he still leaves me three messages.”

“He really can’t shut it off, Judge,” Wire answered as she looked at her phone. “Hmpf.”

“What?”

“I have two messages from him as well.”

They both dialed their voice mails.

They both listened.

Both became very worried.

“Judge, I’ve got a bad feeling.”

* * *

Montgomery turned left onto Berkeley from Cretin and drove slowly down the block, looking to his left for the house numbers and finally seeing the numbers for McCormick’s house under the porch light to the left of the front door. The front of the political operative’s home was lit up brightly, the porch light on, lights on in the front of the house as well as the sunroom on the side.

He pulled the car over to the right curb and parked. Two days on the run made him cautious and he sat in the car and observed his surroundings. Nobody had turned to follow him down Berkeley and he didn’t notice any vehicles approaching the area. Vehicles dotted the sides of the street in both directions as well as the cross street Finn in front of him. It was quiet and he checked his watch, 10:21 p.m.

After another two minutes, he reached behind his seat and grabbed his backpack and pushed himself out of the car.

* * *

“Damn it,” the Judge growled.

“Not answering, right?” Wire replied.

“No.”

Wire expertly weaved her Acadia through the four lanes of traffic on Interstate 94, traveling just west of downtown, approaching Snelling Avenue, less than two miles from the Cretin exit. “Something is up, Judge. It is unlike him to not answer. Try Shelby.”

The Judge tried Shelby. “No answer.”

“Try Sally Kennedy and see if she knows anything.” Wire swerved out to the far left lane around a grouping of traffic and then veered hard back right, over to the right lane and roared up the Cretin-Vandalia exit.

* * *

“Montgomery is at the front door,” Kristoff said into his mic. “He’s going inside.”

* * *

Mac pulled out of the parking lot for the Bella Eatery and turned left onto Hennepin Avenue and headed back over the Mississippi River and into downtown Minneapolis, holding Sally’s left hand. Her cell phone started ringing. She let go of Mac’s hand and reached for her purse on the floor and pulled out her phone.

“That’s odd,” Sally mused.

“What?”

“The Judge is calling. Probably wants to make sure we’re on for tomorrow.” Sally answered her phone, “Whoa, whoa, easy, Judge, say that again?” Sally looked over to Mac with a worried look.

Mac’s grip tightened on the wheel when he saw the look on Sally’s face. She was a cool customer, always, but she was clearly concerned. “Judge, I’m going to put you on speaker. I’m with Mac. Go ahead.”

“Mac, I need your help.”

* * *

McCormick and Shelby showed Montgomery into the dining room. “Can I offer you anything to drink or eat?” Sebastian asked.

“No, I’m good,” Montgomery answered although he looked anything but good. The political blogger had a three-day-old beard, appeared haggard and looked like someone who needed to eat and then get some sleep.

“I’m very sorry about Jason,” McCormick offered solemnly. “I haven’t seen him for a long time but he was a good guy.”

“Thanks for saying that.” Montgomery sighed. “I’ve been having a hard time processing all this. I can’t believe what has happened to us.”

“Do you know why Jason came up here?”

“Yes. He came here to meet with you.”

“Why?”

Montgomery took his backpack off his shoulder. “Everything I need to show you is in here.”

* * *

“McRyan is on his way,” the Judge reported.

“What’s his ETA?”

“Ten maybe fifteen minutes. He was over having dinner just north of downtown Minneapolis.”

“He may not be there in time.” Wire punched the accelerator and burst through a yellow turning to red light at the intersection of Cretin and Summit. As she approached the intersection with St. Clair, she took a hard left.

“Dara, he lives on Berkeley.”

“My gut says to go in the back.” Between Stroudt’s murder and what she saw in DC earlier in the day, she knew that there were people looking for Montgomery, dangerous people and she was on her own. Walking up to the front door didn’t seem like a good play.

Wire pulled over to the curb on St. Clair just short of Finn. Parked, she immediately reached in the backseat into her nylon backpack and pulled out her Sig and two magazines. She slid one magazine into the Sig and put the other in her coat pocket. Next, she pulled the slide and chambered a round and then pulled up the back of her black leather coat and slipped the gun into the back of her blue jeans. Wire opened her door and looked back to the Judge. “Stay here,” she ordered. “I mean it.”

* * *

Montgomery sat at the dining room table and waited for his laptop to start up. McCormick sat to his left at the table while Kate kept standing, looking over his shoulder at the computer. “So you’re not going to believe who we saw at this cabin in Kentucky,” Montgomery said excitedly.

“Let me guess. Heath Connolly and a few others,” McCormick replied.

Montgomery sat back from the laptop, his jaw dropping open, looking at Sebastian. “How did you know?”

“We had someone down there as well. She followed Connolly from DC. Our question is who were you following?”

A man wearing a black mask burst into the dining room from the kitchen, a pistol with a suppressor in his hands. He shot Montgomery between the eyes.

* * *

Wire was across the alley and twenty feet from the back door, carefully making her way up the back sidewalk when she heard the deadened, but unmistakable suppressed sound of a gunshot.

A woman screamed.

* * *

“Kate, go, go!” McCormick yelled as he pushed up from his chair and jumped at the shooter, who put two into Sebastian’s chest. McCormick fell forward into the shooter.

“No! No!” Kate screamed as she ran for the front door.

Foche pushed McCormick off of him, stepped forward and pivoted right to face Shelby who was reaching for the knob to the front door. He raised his Walther.

The first shot hit Foche in his right shoulder. It jerked his body back and to the right and Wire’s second shot hit him in the upper right chest and the third shot in the middle of his chest, blowing him back into the dining room wall.

* * *

Kristoff saw the first flash and then two more quick light flashes from Foche’s silencer, light flashes you would only notice if you were looking for them. He was waiting for the fourth when he heard the Pop-Pop-Pop and saw the three muzzle flashes.

That wasn’t right.

“Foche! Foche!” he pleaded urgently into the mic. There was no response. “Francois! Francois!”

This wasn’t right at all.

* * *

Wire moved quickly to the shooter, gun pointed straight at him. He was unconscious but not dead. The man was bleeding from his chest. She reached around his back for a wallet but he wasn’t carrying one. Wire looked back to Shelby who ran over to Sebastian. She rolled him over onto his back and Wire saw the blood and bullet holes in his white dress shirt, two shots to the heart. Her friend was dead. To Sebastian’s right was Montgomery, lying on his back, a bullet hole between his eyes.

In the eerie quiet of the house, Wire heard a car door slam. She noticed the earbud and cord running down the shooter’s neck. Then she heard footsteps on the sidewalk running along the front of the house.

There wasn’t much time.

“Kate! Kate!” she whispered to Shelby who was holding McCormick’s hand in hers. “We gotta get out of here.” Wire looked at the backpack and laptop and asked. “Are those Montgomery’s?”

“Y… y… yes.”

“Put the laptop in the backpack and let’s go.”

Shelby was frozen.

“Now, Kate!” Wire whispered urgently.

Shelby snapped out of it and grabbed the laptop, slipping it into the backpack while she followed Wire to the back of the house. Wire took a quick look out. “Stay right behind me, right behind me, do you understand?”

Shelby nodded.

Wire pointed across the alley. “We are going to run right across the alley, between those two houses. My Acadia is parked on St. Clair. It’s running. The Judge is waiting. Ready?”

Shelby, still crying, sniffled and nodded.

The two slipped out the back door, hustled down the steps and sidewalk and reached the edge of McCormick’s garage. Wire peeked around the corner of the garage to her left. She grabbed Shelby by the arm and dragged her forward and whispered urgently: “Go! Go! Go!”

Shelby sprinted across the alley. Wire was right behind when the headlights lit her up from the left. Coming hard and fast down the alley was a black SUV.

“Go!” Wire yelled to Shelby. Wire stopped on the far side of the alley, set her feet and fired at the SUV, hitting the windshield three times, causing it to veer left into a wood fence. She looked back to McCormick’s and she could see two bodies approaching the back door from the inside and they got a glimpse of her.

Wire sprinted after Shelby who was through the two houses. “Get in the backseat! Get in the backseat!” Wire ordered. As Shelby jumped into the backseat, Wire ran around the front of the Acadia and quickly looked back for pursuers. Seeing none, she jumped into the driver side. She threw the SUV in gear and punched the gas and accelerated east on St. Clair, looking alternately forward and in the rearview mirror. “Judge, keep an eye on our six.”

“What the hell happened, Dara?” the Judge demanded. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“He’s dead.”

* * *

Mac was cruising twenty above the speed limit, his light flashing, as he sped east on Interstate 94, crossing over the Mississippi River when his police radio burped, “All units be advised. We have a report of shots fired on West Berkeley Avenue, between Cretin and Finn.”

“That’s Sebastian’s block!!” Sally wailed, terrified for her friends. “Mac, we gotta get there.”

“Hang on.” Mac buried the accelerator and watched the needle quickly pass one hundred miles per hour. Then he punched a button on his cell phone. “Dick, get over to Sebastian McCormick’s house fast as you can.” Mac gave him the address and a quick rundown of the call from the Judge and the shots fired call. “And get a hold of Riles and Rock. We’re going to need the help. This Stroudt thing just blew up. Way up!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Where is the first shooter?”

Mac accelerated south down Cretin Avenue, a patrol unit falling in behind him with the rollers going and siren pushing everyone to the side. At Berkley, Mac turned hard left and accelerated down the block.

“Second to last on the left,” Sally directed.

Mac pulled up in front of the house. He reached in the center console and grabbed a flashlight and pulled his Sig from his belt. “Stay in the truck.” Sally nodded, terrified.

The patrol unit following him pulled in right behind Mac. Another unit approached from the east, having come down Finn Avenue from St. Clair. Sirens in the far distance would provide additional reinforcements in a few minutes.

The four uniforms on the scene were out of their cars, weapons drawn and flashlights in hand and turned on. McRyan quickly scanned McCormick’s house. The lights were turned off with the exception of a dim light in the sunroom on the house’s left side. Mac turned to the uniform cops and tilted his head towards the house. The uniforms all nodded and Mac led them up the front steps and pulled open the front screen door. Two uniform cops went in and to the left and two others went straight ahead up the stairway to the second floor.

Mac moved inside, his Sig pointed straight ahead, his left hand folded underneath his right holding the flashlight. He heard “clears” being yelled by the uniforms as they searched the house. The detective moved to his right and into the dining room. Immediately, he noted the silhouettes of the two bodies, one lying on the floor to the left of the dining room table and the other at the front end, tangled with a dining room chair. The body at the front had a bullet hole between his eyes. Adam Montgomery. Mac put his light on the body laying to the left of the dining room table and immediately recognized McCormick with two gunshots to his chest. He leaned down to check for a pulse and didn’t feel one.

Where was Kate Shelby? Where was the Judge?

More “clears” were bellowed throughout the house but no reports of bodies. He panned the dining room with his flashlight left to right. To his right there was a blood smear on the far wall of the dining room, running down to the floor. Panning the light down, there was a pool of blood on the wood floor. As he inspected the blood pool he could see a void, where a body might have been, leaning against the wall, sitting on the floor.

The uniform officers searching the house returned to the front foyer, reporting the house was clear, no additional bodies found. Mac led everyone back out the front door as two more patrol units arrived.

“Okay, listen up.” Mac pointed to one officer, “Call it in, two homicides. We need crime scene and the coroner right away and more units.” To the second officer: “I want a large perimeter around the house, the whole yard. Get the tape up fast. Shots fired in this neighborhood will draw the media double quick. We need to keep people back. So once the tape is up, let’s get the cruisers blocking the approaches.” The two officers nodded and double timed it to their squad car. To the other two patrol officers he ordered, “Start a quick canvas and see what people heard and saw. We’ve got people out on their front steps now, lights are coming on, let’s get to people quick. If anyone saw anything, I want to talk to them or I want them talking to Lich, Riley, Rock or another detective. They’re all on their way.” The two officers nodded, with one taking McCormick’s side of the street and the other the far side.

Sally jumped out of the Yukon and came running up to him, panic written all over her face. Mac took a deep breath and looked down briefly. She saw it and her eyes began to water and her hands went to her mouth. He holstered his gun and walked up to her. “I’m sorry. Sebastian McCormick is dead.”

“And Kate? What about Kate, and the Judge? What about the Judge?”

“They’re not in there, Sally.”

A look of partial relief washed over her face.

“That doesn’t mean they’re still alive, honey,” Mac cautioned. “Why don’t you see if you can reach either of them on the phone?”

Mac took out his own cell phone, turned his back to the street and dialed Chief of Police Charlie Flanagan, who lived half a mile away. “Chief, we’ve got a scene developing. You’re going to want to be here.” Mac gave him a quick rundown and the address. As he hung up, he heard dueling squeals of tires behind him. He turned around to see Lich, Rockford and Riley arriving on the scene. Right behind them were detectives Frank Franklin, a/k/a Double Frank and two of Mac’s cousins, Shawn and Patrick, in plain clothes.

“Holy cow, Dick! You really called the cavalry,” Mac quipped, noting the massive backup arriving.

Lich stopped and spread his arms, “Partner, you had that ‘calling all cars’ tone in your voice,” Dick replied, his arms spread open as if to say “what?” “So tell me, what the hell happened?” Lich asked, handing Mac a pair of rubber gloves.

“I’m working on it,” Mac answered and gave them a quick rundown on the phone call with the Judge, the shots fired call a few minutes later, his dash to the scene and his quick search of the house. He finished with, “We’ve got two bodies inside. One is McCormick.”

“Is the other that Kate Shelby?” Lich asked.

“Thankfully, no,” Mac answered. “The other is Adam Montgomery.”

That caught Lich’s attention. “Stroudt’s business partner? The guy we haven’t been able to get a hold of or find? Are you sure?”

Mac nodded.

“What did those two stumble into?”

“I don’t know,” Mac answered. “But Judge Dixon does and if he’s still alive, he and I are going to have a fuckin’ direct conversation about it.”

“Detective McRyan?”

Mac turned to see the uniform cop that was setting up the perimeter calling him from the left side of the house. “I think there is something you should see.”

“Rock and Riles, take the plain clothes and hit the door to doors. There are a couple of uniforms who have started. See if anyone is worth talking to. Keep everyone out from inside until crime scene gets here.”

Mac and Lich left Rock and Riley to organize the door-to-door and followed the uniform cop, named Skrypek, around to the back of the house, down the back sidewalk, past the two-car detached garage and into the alley. “What do you have, Pecker?” Lich asked.

“Detectives, it looks like something went down in the back alley here.” Skrypek pointed his flashlight at three shell casings on the far side of the alley by another garage.

The detectives walked over. Lich leaned down while Mac put his light on the casings. Dick pulled a ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket and picked the casing up with the pen’s tip, “Look like ones for a Sig just like yours, Mac.”

“If you look down the alley to the west here,” Skrypek pointed to some debris, “on the right side you can see where the privacy fence was taken out. I talked briefly to the homeowner who said he heard the loud pop of gunfire, at least a couple of shots, and then a crashing sound. He looked out the back window in time to see an SUV back out from a large hole in his fence and then drive down here towards McCormick’s house. He said after the SUV drove down the alley, there was a minute of quiet and then he heard squealing tires and that was it. Then he called 911. It was a few minutes later and he heard our sirens.”

Mac stood behind the shell casings and looked back down the alley towards the fence. Then he looked back to his left to McCormick’s house and then he looked to his right between two houses and out to St. Clair Avenue. “I wonder,” he mumbled as he slowly started walking towards St. Clair. Just short of the large two-story house on the left was a garden that ran to the property line. He shined his light on the garden, now just dirt, and noted three fresh footprints moving in the direction of St. Clair, large footprints, perhaps a size eleven or twelve. “See that?”

Lich nodded.

“Mark this area off, Officer Skrypek,” Mac ordered and then kept walking through the houses and down to St. Clair Avenue. He quickly looked both directions but didn’t see anything of note but when he looked back towards McCormick’s house, he could see straight through to the back door. Then he started thinking about what he saw inside the house, the blood spot on the far dining room wall and the spot on the floor as well as the void. He thought about the call he and Sally received from the Judge and then about the person Sally said the Judge wanted him to meet and a scenario started forming in his head.

Lich could see the wheels turning in his partners head. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that there’s another shooter I hadn’t thought of.”

His partner looked at him quizzically. “I’m not following.”

“I got the call from the Judge, right?”

“Yeah, so.”

“He must have had someone else in the car with him and that someone is our second shooter.”

“Explain it, please?” Mac’s partner was not following yet.

“Okay. The shooter, I’m going to call this person the ‘Second Shooter,’ is with the Judge and parks here on St. Clair. They jump out of the car,” Mac started walking fast back towards McCormick’s. “They’re walking through here to go to the back door.”

“Why?”

“Caution maybe,” Mac speculated. “They know that McCormick is meeting with or might be meeting with Montgomery.”

“So?”

“After what happened to Stroudt, this person decides to be careful. They will come to McCormick’s from the back.” Mac walked past the shell casings.

“What about the casings?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute.” Mac kept walking to the house but then stopped ten feet short. He visualized the two bodies inside. From the back of the house, the dining room was to the left. In the dining room, one body was to the right of the table, McCormick, and the other was on the end, Montgomery. “I bet that’s what happened,” he uttered.

“What? What happened?” Lich asked, still not fully reading his partner’s mind.

Mac took his Sig out, walked up to the back door, opened it and went inside, walked up the three steps to the landing and then left into the kitchen and then right to the archway into the dining room. He pointed the Sig at the space where Montgomery was sitting and said, “Pop.” Then Mac moved a step right, pointed and said “Pop. Pop,” at McCormick.

Lich was picking up on it now. “First shooter comes in from the back and takes these two just like that.”

“Right,” Mac answered. “So we have accounted for Montgomery and McCormick.”

“So what’s with the second shooter you’re talking about?”

“I’m guessing but I haven’t been able to account for Kate Shelby yet and I know she was here.”

“So where is she?” Lich asked.

“I’m thinking,” Mac was really hoping, “she got away because of the second shooter. If you were the first shooter, you take Montgomery and McCormick. Assume that Shelby was down at that end of the table when the shooter comes in.”

“Okay.”

“So what does she do?”

“She runs for it.”

“Towards the front door, right?”

“If she was at that end of the table, yes.”

Mac backed out of the dining room, went back through the kitchen to the hallway that split the house down the middle. “Second shooter also comes in the back. Second shooter has heard or seen the shots. Second shooter comes down this hall. Shelby is at the front door.” Mac walked down the hallway, gun up, scanning left, looking through the spindles of the stairway banister. He stopped at the end of the banister. “Second shooter gets here, Dick, and puts a shot or two into the first shooter.”

Lich had it now. “The shots throw the first shooter back into the dining room wall, leading to the blood smear and pool of blood on the floor.”

“Right.”

“So if the first shooter was shot, where is he?”

“Or she.”

“Whatever,” Lich replied. “Where is the first shooter? We don’t have a body.”

Mac thought about it for a second and then asked: “Partner, why don’t the Second Shooter and Shelby stay? The threat is gone, right?”

At first Lich squinted at Mac, not getting it. Then a small smile creased his face. “The first shooter has friends.”

“Exactly,” Mac answered. “Exactly. The second shooter and Shelby have to get out of here. They run out the back. First shooter’s buddies are coming down the alley in the SUV …”

“So the second shooter pops the SUV.”

“And then runs to their car on St. Clair and they’re gone,” Mac finished and then his eyes brightened. “And that explains what happened to the body.”

“I don’t follow yet,” Lich said.

“Remember, the neighbor down the alley said after the SUV took out his fence it drove down here towards McCormick’s and then a minute later there was a squealing of the tires, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s going on in that minute?”

Now Lich got it, snapped his fingers and pointed at Mac, “They were removing the body.”

“I think so,” Mac replied. “They removed the first shooter’s body. They couldn’t leave the body behind.”

“No, they have to go throw it in the river somewhere,” Lich answered.

“Maybe.”

* * *

Wire had checked her rearview mirror for the last ten minutes as she’d weaved her way through St. Paul and away from McCormick’s home. Now on Rice Street, she was motoring north, the brightly lit white State Capitol building shrinking away in the distance behind her. Sensing they were free of a tail for the time being, she allowed herself to breathe a little easier and think about the last ten minutes and the loss of Sebastian. Shelby was feeling it too, lying against the back right window, weeping quietly. The Judge was also quiet, alternatively looking out the rear window for a tail and giving directional suggestions. With the capitol disappearing from view, he said: “I think we’re clear.”

“Maybe,” Wire answered. She thought she’d gotten away from the scene without being seen, but she couldn’t be sure. There was enough commotion and shots fired that their escape could have drawn someone’s attention, perhaps a plate number and or description of the Acadia. Wire had no way of knowing for sure. She wasn’t plugged into the police radio system. So that was one problem. The other problem was, at this point, she didn’t know who they could trust. Wire approached the intersection of Rice and Larpenteur Avenue.

“Take a right,” the Judge suggested.

“You see something?” Wire asked pensively.

“No,” the Judge answered calmly. “Just being extra careful is all.”

Wire turned right on Larpenteur and checked the mirror herself. No vehicles turned to follow. She exhaled and the events of the last fifteen minutes started taking a toll on her. With the adrenaline wearing off, she started to shake a little. She gripped the wheel tightly but it didn’t help. Champps Restaurant, with a packed parking lot, was just ahead of them on the left. Wire turned left into the parking lot, circled around to the far side of the lot that backed up to the exit ramp from Interstate 35E and backed into an open space so she could see the entrance and any approaching vehicles. She turned off the lights but left the engine running.

“You okay, Dara?” the Judge asked, putting his hand on Wire’s sleeve.

“I just need a minute to clear my head,” she answered as she leaned back, tilted her head up and exhaled. Her heart was racing. She closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing. The Judge intuitively understood what she was doing and stayed quiet, only the hum of the car heater and the traffic from the interstate behind them provided some ambient noise.

She’d fired her weapon two times in her bureau career and in both instances the adrenaline of the confrontation gave way to the shock of shooting another man. Her body was shaking and it would continue to do so for a few moments. Like with those prior shootings, she ran the whole scenario back through her mind, every step of it, both because it wouldn’t leave her mind but also because, in this instance, she kept wondering if there was anything she could have done to stop it, to have saved Sebastian. They had tried to call, she got there as quickly as she could and she wouldn’t have approached the house any other way than how she did. She was just a little too late.

After a minute she decided it would be best to occupy her mind so she turned to the task at hand.

“Kate, didn’t you guys get our calls?”

Shelby sniffled and shook her head.

“They must have been jamming it then.”

“Jamming it?” the Judge asked, confused.

“Yes. Whoever these guys were, they were jamming the cell phone signal into the house. If you have the right equipment, you could sit out in the street and jam the signal to the house and they were tracking Montgomery somehow, they had to be, that’s the only explanation I can come up with how they ended up at Sebastian’s house.” That gave Wire another thought. “Judge, Connolly has three bodies on him. He’s dropping bodies and he doesn’t seem to care. Who is doing this for him? Where is he getting these guys? Is he using government resources?”

Dixon was skeptical and shook his head, “This isn’t the government. Could be a contractor, but it’s not our government. I don’t think that for a minute.”

“Doesn’t have to be the government sanctioning it, Judge,” Wire answered. “But it still could be government agents of some kind, CIA, NSA, who knows.”

The Judge shook his head, certain, “I don’t buy it. These guys are private. They’re working for Connolly.”

“Fine, he’s not using federal agents to kill people but seriously, Judge, what in the hell did Stroudt and McCormick stumble onto in Kentucky that I didn’t see?”

“Perhaps whatever is in this backpack,” Shelby answered from the backseat. She sat up, sniffled and wiped away a tear with the back of her right hand and then unzipped the backpack that she and Wire had taken from McCormick’s.

The Judge’s cell phone rang and he looked at the display. “It’s Sally Kennedy.” He looked over to Wire and asked, “Should I answer?”

“Not yet, Judge. I need to think this through. Let’s see what’s in the backpack first.”

Shelby pulled out the laptop, which was still powered up but was at the password screen, something they didn’t have. “I can’t get into the laptop without the password,” she said. “We’ll need some help.”

“What else is there?” the Judge asked.

Shelby held up a cell phone.

“That’s a burner phone,” Wire said. “Cheap one he probably bought at a convenience store with a set number of hours. Is that the only one he had in there?”

Kate rummaged through the backpack and shook her head. “That’s the only phone.” She pulled out an Altoids tin and opened it up. Inside she found a SIM card. “I bet he kept his SIM card, though, for his contacts.”

“So I bet he dumped his cell phone because it had GPS,” Wire said. “So I wonder how they tracked him to St. Paul?” The cell phone had been the first thing she thought of.

“Perhaps they were sitting on Sebastian’s house?” the Judge offered.

“Maybe,” Wire answered skeptically. “I suppose they could have thought that if Stroudt’s intent was to come here and contact Sebastian, maybe Montgomery would try and do the same thing. But …”

“… That’s really betting on the come,” the Judge finished. “Montgomery could appear anywhere and if anything it would have been bucking the odds huge to think he’d follow Stroudt.”

“Perhaps that’s what Montgomery was thinking as well,” Wire added. “No, they tracked him in some other way. What else is in the backpack?”

Shelby pulled out a camera, an Olympus. “Maybe this will tell us what they saw.”

“Let me see,” Wire answered. She took the camera from Shelby, turned it on and started looking through the photos. “These are definitely from Hitch’s cabin in Kentucky,” she reported. “They were in the position I wanted to take pictures from.”

The Judge leaned over, “There’s Connolly walking in,” he said with disgust. “That bastard, I’m going to fry his ass if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Who is this man?” Wire asked, pointing to a rotund balding man in a black suit coat and white dress shirt.

“I don’t recognize him,” the Judge answered and then pointed to another man on the right hand side of the picture. “How about this guy?” Dixon pointed to a younger blondish man, holding something up in his hand while standing by a silver metal briefcase.

“Don’t know who that is, Judge,” Wire answered. “I only know Connolly.”

There was a fourth man in the photos, besides security. “How about the Prince of Darkness here?” The Judge pointed at a man dressed in all black including a black fedora. Wire scrolled through the photos but there was never a good picture of the man. His head was always either tilted down or he was standing in the shadows. “I can only make out part of his face,” the Judge said, pulling the camera close to his eyes. Then he handed it back to Wire. “Advance through the photos, Dara, see if we can get another look at him.”

“I remember the guy,” Wire answered. “If only because I never got a good picture of him myself in all of the chaos when people were running out of the back of the cabin and I rolled video and took pictures. The ones I took of him didn’t show much.”

Wire advanced through all of the photos but there was never a clear picture of the man’s face, only partial profiles or even shots of his back but never a straight on photo. The man was always in the shadows, behind everyone, his hat pulled down over his eyes. It didn’t help that Montgomery never seemed to focus on the man. Instead he was focused on Connolly and the rotund bald man.

Dara got to the last picture in the roll.

“What’s that a picture of?” Dixon asked. It looked like a limousine in the distance with a man opening the door.

Wire glanced at the photo. “I’d kind of forgotten about this. There was another limousine that arrived. Whoever was in it never got out because before he or she did, all hell broke loose.”

“So we have another player out there somewhere,” the Judge mused, stroking his chin, calmer now, analyzing their problem.

Wire backed through ten photos to where the younger blond man held something in his hand and showed it to Connolly and the rotund man. In the next photos he was turned, back to the camera, showing the man in the shadows it as well.

“What is he holding?” Wire asked, squinting at the small camera screen. She enlarged the photo on the display but couldn’t make out what he was holding. “I can’t really make that out. His hand covers most of it. Looks like an iPod, almost.”

She showed the Judge, who took a closer look. “I don’t know what that is. Maybe if it were bigger we could get a better idea,” the Judge said.

“I think Montgomery was going to use the laptop and its bigger screen to show us the photos but before he could …” Kate suggested from the back and then she started to tremble again. “Before he could, that man came from out of nowhere and started shooting.”

The Judge looked over to Wire, “The man you shot. Did you recognize him?”

Wire shook her head. “I didn’t look at him long, Judge, but I didn’t recognize him. I checked him quick but he didn’t have any identification on him. Maybe the police will figure out who he is.”

“Speaking of which, perhaps we need to get with them now,” the Judge offered.

Wire wasn’t so sure. “Judge, we have no idea how deep this goes, who these guys have contacts with, who we can trust.”

The Judge nodded, “I hear you but there is one man I know we can trust.”

“We can trust Mac,” Kate added meekly, still in shock. “We can trust him.”

“Yes we can,” the Judge said assuredly. “And he will know who he can trust. We have to go in, Dara. We’re sitting ducks out here.” Dixon reached for his cell phone and hit the number for Sally Kennedy.

* * *

From the flashing lights stationed in front of McCormick’s house emerged the chief. Charlie Flanagan was a tall and angular man, who walked with an elegant gait befitting of a man with a bright white shock of hair. Most of the time the chief looked aristocratic in his pinstripe suits and flowing trench coats, but he acted and sounded anything but.

The chief had been the top lawman in St. Paul for eleven years, an impressive stretch of service for a big city chief. This was particularly the case because the chief was not an especially adroit politician and he refused to play the games politicians loved to play. He was not, and proudly was not, a politician in a policeman’s job. He was a policeman in a political job. Flanagan was a St. Paul cop for thirty-six years. He never forgot whom he was the chief of and that was the police. He was beloved and respected by the force. His men would do anything for him because they knew the chief would have their backs. It was that loyalty and devotion that had kept him in his position for so many years.

The chief, sans his usual suit and tie and his white hair having a mildly Einsteinish look to it late in the evening, approached McRyan, who was standing on the front steps of the house. The chief was like a father to Mac, having been with him when his father Simon was shot and killed in a fluke hunting accident. Since that day, the chief fulfilled Simon’s role as a father figure. The two could read each other like father and son and the chief heard it in Mac’s voice when he called.

“How bad?”

Mac ran his right hand over his face and answered: “Two dead inside, one the deputy campaign manager for the Thomson campaign, Sebastian McCormick. The other is Adam Montgomery.”

“The blogger you’ve been trying to track down?” the chief asked. Mac had brought the chief into the loop earlier in the day on the case after their meeting with Dixon.

“Have you talked to the Judge?”

“That’s how I ended up here,” Mac answered, then related the phone call from Dixon, which brought Mac to the scene.

The chief nodded to the inside of the house, “How did it all go down in there?”

McRyan gave the chief the quick rundown and his theory on how McCormick and Montgomery ended up dead. He finished with: “We have a large blood pool against a wall in the dining room but no body to go with it.”

“So someone’s missing,” the chief answered, nodding his head. “You said Dixon called you and that brought you here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is the Judge now?”

Mac shook his head. “I don’t know, Chief,” he said quietly.

The chief exhaled and closed his eyes, wondering if the Judge ended up on the wrong end of this. “Is his the missing body?”

“I don’t know, Chief. We have calls into all the hospitals about gunshot wounds. I suppose he could have gotten himself to a hospital and we just don’t know about it yet but …”

“… but what?”

“I don’t think that’s how it went down.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“It’s not.”

Mac and the chief turned to see Sally. “I have the Judge on the phone.”

* * *

They tied it off at McCormick’s and then in an instant they were back to square one.

Kristoff rubbed his temples, the stress headache expanding by the minute. And now Foche was gone. This would be the first time in twenty years that he would not have him by his side while he was operating, and what he now knew was that he was not the only one operating here.

“You’re absolutely sure it was a woman who fired at you?” Kristoff asked the driver.

“I saw the ponytail swing as she turned and she moved and ran like a woman but also like a pro. She was law enforcement, military, something along those lines. She popped three at us, bing, bing, bing, like it was no big deal.” Not to mention the three she put into Foche.

Kristoff was running scenarios through his head as to whom she could be working for and his biggest worry was that it was someone with the Thomson campaign. If that were the case, the campaign now had in their possession the evidence to potentially burn his boss, to potentially burn them all.

Moriarity, who was riding shotgun up front, turned to Kristoff in back, “I have Ginger on the line. She says the laptop is still on the move.”

“To where?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Riddle me this, Dara Wire.”

Downtown St. Paul quickly appeared in the windshield once Wire jumped on Interstate 35E and started heading south towards downtown St. Paul. She didn’t want to go to the police, at least not officially yet. With the events of the last hour, she was leery of anyone at this point.

Things were spiraling out of control. What Wire wanted to do was go into hiding in a hotel somewhere far away to sit for a few hours and run everything through her head. Things were happening so fast, she wasn’t thinking, just reacting.

Who or what they were reacting to she had no idea. What she did know was that:

Sebastian was dead.

Stroudt and Montgomery were dead.

There were killers out there operating with impunity.

They were up against an opponent with serious resources and she at least was entertaining the notion that it included law enforcement at some level, regardless of what the Judge said. How else would they have tracked Montgomery to Sebastian’s? That took people, equipment, resources and the one entity that had those elements in large supply was the government.

It wasn’t inconceivable that the vice president, or Connolly as his proxy, or more likely Connolly on his own for that matter, could access federal resources or call in local favors, even in Governor Thomson’s backyard. The crime, whatever it was, was so large that the cover up had to succeed at all costs.

Given all of that, she simply couldn’t bring herself to believe in anyone right now.

The Judge understood where she was coming from, both emotionally and logically. Dixon was as devastated as anyone in the car. He had raised Sebastian in a political sense not to mention a personal one. He would grieve the loss. But one thing the Judge knew how to do was compartmentalize. The emotional drawer was closed for now and the crisis drawer was open. Logically, he knew he had to treat their situation like it was a political crisis and react accordingly.

Soon Sebastian’s death would become news. The national media full court press would be all over the story within hours. When tied with the deaths of Stroudt and Montgomery, the media storm would be immense. Consequently, Judge Dixon couldn’t simply disappear while Wire thought things through.

There was a presidential election at stake.

Whoever was behind these three murders was trying to cover up something that would impact it.

“At least that’s how we have to look at this,” the Judge said.

Wire knew he was right, but something still didn’t feel right.

* * *

Mac had the siren going again, this time pushing traffic to the side along St. Paul’s majestic Summit Avenue, taking the most direct route east across St. Paul. He passed his law school William Mitchell on the left and was approaching the historic University Club on his right. “Why not meet them at the Department of Public Safety?” Double Frank asked from the backseat.

“Agreed,” Lich added from the back. “More protection there.”

Sally took the call from Dixon. “The Judge says his friend is not in a trusting mood after McCormick’s house. The Judge personally vouched for Mac,” Sally reported. “The Judge’s friend said fine, but they had to meet someplace where Mac could trust everyone.”

For Mac, if it wasn’t at HQ, there was only one other place—McRyan’s Pub. The place would be full of cops and family, some one in the same, and Mac would vouch for any of them.

“Hang on,” Mac said as he turned hard right off of Summit Avenue and eased off the gas and let the steepness of Ramsey Street pull the Yukon down from the steep bluff overlooking the city.

“Who’s this friend you’re talking about?” Lich asked.

“I don’t know who it is,” Sally replied. “The Judge is a complicated and calculating man who moves in mysterious ways. But if I had to guess, the Judge has had someone playing a different angle on this than you.”

* * *

“Which place is it, Judge?” Wire asked, having just passed the Xcel Energy Center, traveling southwest through the intersection of West Seventh and Kellogg Boulevard.

“It’s up on the right, two blocks, look for the big red brick building with the shamrock.”

Wire saw it. There had been a Minnesota Wild NHL game earlier in the night. The pub was still packed with hockey fans and off-duty cops, with people milling by the front door. It was Friday night, after all. “Not exactly a discrete place to meet.”

The Judge was nonplussed, “We’ll be fine.” Then he changed the topic. “Kate, can you grab the backpack?”

“Yes,” she answered meekly, pulling the backpack over her shoulder.

“Pull in there,” the Judge ordered.

A four-door sedan pulled away from the front, creating room for Wire’s Acadia. She slid into the opening. Once parked and shut down, Wire looked around. “So, Judge, where is this McRyan?”

“He’ll be here,” the Judge replied confidently.

“He’s right there,” Shelby exclaimed, pointing to a Yukon roaring in quickly from the south on West Seventh, lights flashing.

The Judge pushed himself out of the passenger side and stood up. McRyan saw him, did a quick U-turn and then pulled up another half block past them and into an open parking space.

Wire and Shelby unloaded from the car and joined Dixon on the sidewalk as the three men and Sally Kennedy unloaded from the Yukon. “Which one’s McRyan?” Wire asked.

Shelby pointed, “Mac’s the six-foot athletic blond with the brown leather jacket and jeans walking next to Sally Kennedy.”

Wire looked McRyan over as he approached and noticed his eyes as they narrowed and looked beyond her. Then his right hand cleared his coat back.

* * *

Mac saw the Judge, Shelby and another tall brunette starting to walk towards him. But just past them, back up the block to the north, he saw a black Suburban approaching. The passenger side windows were powering down. There was a black panel van tight behind. The sliding door was opening. They were half a block away.

This wasn’t right.

Mac reached for his gun.

“DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!”

He pushed Sally down to the ground as gunfire erupted from both vehicles, glass from the parked vehicles exploding everywhere. The tall woman had reacted quickly as well, pushing Dixon and Shelby to the ground, lying on top of them.

Mac crouched behind the back bed of a pickup truck and returned fire.

His first two shots hit the Suburban’s passenger door but the third hit the shooter in the front passenger seat.

* * *

“THEY’RE NOT ALONE! THEY’RE NOT ALONE!” Moriarity yelled as Kristoff fired at Dixon and the two women.

Kristoff glanced left and saw the man behind the pickup truck and recognized him immediately.

McRyan.

* * *

Mac locked eyes on the shooter in the panel van and saw the assault rifle turn towards him. Mac got off two quick rounds and dropped behind the pickup as the bullets from the assault rifle ricocheted off the truck and the walls above him as the van and Suburban sped by.

He glanced right to see the tall woman returning fire, covering them now. Mac popped out from behind the truck and into the middle of West Seventh and fired the rest of his clip at the back of the panel van, shattering the back windows, but the van kept going. Mac looked right and saw Double Frank and Sally kneeling over Lich. “Dick!”

“He’s hit in the left shoulder.”

“I’m okay,” Lich groaned bitterly. “Go get those fuckers.”

Mac turned his attention back south and watched the van and Suburban turn left onto Smith Avenue. He started for the Yukon, reaching in his pocket for his keys when an Acadia pulled alongside him. The tall brunette was driving. “Get in! Get in!”

Mac jumped in. “They turned left on Smith.”

The woman accelerated down West Seventh and turned hard left onto Smith Avenue. “What’s your name?” Mac asked, sliding another clip into his Sig.

“Dara Wire.”

Smith Avenue started a gradual turn to the left when they saw it. “There’s the Suburban,” Mac said. It was two blocks ahead. The panel van was not in sight.

Wire pulled up a half block behind the Suburban. “I make two bodies inside, in the passenger seats on the right side,” she said, sliding a fresh clip into her gun.

Mac was up and out the passenger door. He was taking no chances now. “In the Suburban! Put you’re your hands out where I can see them!” he ordered. There was no movement. “Put them out now!”

Again there was no movement.

Mac looked left over to Wire. She nodded and started moving forward towards the left side of the Suburban while Mac moved more slowly towards the right side, gun up. Then Wire saw a flame coming out from the gas cap.

“Back! Get Back! Get Back!”

The Suburban exploded into a fireball.

McRyan and Wire turned away from the explosion. Once they retreated their way to the Acadia, Mac reached in his pocket for his cell phone and immediately called it in, reporting that the panel van probably was proceeding south across the High Bridge towards West St. Paul but they didn’t really know for sure, there was more than one directional option from their location.

As they waited for a patrol unit, Mac looked Wire over. She knew her business. “You took out our third man at McCormick’s, didn’t you?”

Wire snorted. McRyan had figured things out quick. “You’ve been over the scene there?”

Mac nodded as he holstered his Sig.

“Were you able to get an ID off of him? He wasn’t carrying anything on him and we had to get out of there before I could do anything further.”

Mac shook his head, but his answer surprised her. “Maybe once you describe him to me, Ms. Wire, we can, because by the time I got there, the body was gone.”

Wire’s mouth dropped open. “Come again?”

“Gone. There was no body inside, just a big pool of blood, but without a body.”

“That can’t be,” Wire insisted. “When I left he had three holes in him, left shoulder and two in the upper left chest. He had a pulse and was breathing but unconscious. There was no way he walked out of there. No way. No way. NO WAY.”

Mac considered the answer and agreed. “Based on the pool of blood he left behind, I’d say you’re right, he didn’t leave on his own.”

“I knew people were coming.”

“Those people took him then.” Then Mac tacked in a different direction. “So if you’re working for the Judge, you’re ex-something, right?”

Wire nodded. “FBI.”

“Thought so,” Mac answered. “Thanks for the cover back there.”

“Right back at you,” Wire replied. “I saw it in your eyes when we were approaching you on the sidewalk in front of the bar.”

“I saw the windows going down on the Suburban and then the panel van door was sliding open and given what had already happened tonight …” Mac shrugged. “It had the look and feel of a hit.” He paused for a moment and then looked Wire in the eye. “How in the hell did they know you were going to be there?”

“How did they know Montgomery was going to be at Sebastian’s? How did they know we were going to be at the bar? Why did they kill Stroudt? I’m looking for answers to all of these questions,” Wire declared.

Mac picked up her drift, “I’m beginning to understand why you were leery of coming in. Someone is on you, somehow.”

Wire nodded.

“Well ya got an ally now, Dara Wire. After the last hour, I too am very interested in getting answers to these very same questions, and I have a badge.”

“It’s an all access pass.”

“Damn right it is, at least around here,” Mac answered seriously.

A patrol unit arrived on the scene. Mac issued instructions to the patrol officers, who began securing the scene. Another minute later, two fire trucks arrived on the scene and there were another two dead bodies in St. Paul, making it five on the night.

“We need to get back to the Judge,” Wire said.

“Yeah, and I’m going to have a very pissed off partner and extremely anxious girlfriend,” Mac answered as they jumped back into her shot-up Acadia. As she turned around, Mac took in the scene of the burning Suburban, knowing there were two dead bodies inside and then thought of the missing one from McCormick’s. “Riddle me this, Dara Wire. If you were willing to blow up two of your own men without a second’s thought back there, why would you go to the effort and the risk, I might add, of removing the body from McCormick’s?”

Wire considered the question as she turned right back onto West Seventh. “Because you might identify the shooter and that ties him back to whoever hired him.”

“Right,” Mac replied. “So you get the body out of there and … do what? Dump it somewhere else?” There was a questioning skeptical tone to his voice. “If you were going to dump that body, then why do you leave the two behind in the Suburban?” Mac’s tone said he wasn’t buying the body dump theory.

Wire caught the tone and where he was heading. “There’s another scenario worth considering, isn’t there?”

Mac nodded. “He was alive and maybe he meant enough to someone that he needed to be saved.”

Wire considered that for a moment. “Hypothetically, if that was the case, they couldn’t risk taking him to an emergency room here. I’m sure you’ll check all of them to be sure.”

“We will and they wouldn’t go there. If that was your only option, you’d leave him to die at McCormick’s or heck, you’d finish the job off, put a bullet in his head to make sure he wasn’t saved. No. They would have to have a doctor willing to handle something like this off the books.”

“How many people in this town do that kind of work?” Wire asked. “There can’t be many, the town’s not big enough.”

“It’s an area of over three million people so it’s bigger than you think. However, to the larger question of who does this kind of work off the books, I know of a couple who’ve helped us on occasion when we’ve had a CI get injured but needed to avoid the hospital. But you said this guy has three holes in his chest, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then that requires a whole different level of care. We’re going to have to do some work on that.”

The crime scene tape was already up and West Seventh was blocked from Kellogg two blocks to the north to two blocks south of the pub. A patrol cop recognized Mac in the passenger seat and pulled up the crime scene tape to allow them through. The area looked like a war zone and his family’s business looked worse for the wear, with bullet holes in the building’s red brick facade and shattered bar and car window glass everywhere. It was something of a miracle that more people weren’t injured. Three ambulances had arrived and various people were being treated for scrapes and bruises but only one person was actually shot—Lich. In the opening of the third ambulance, Mac saw his partner lying on a stretcher, propped up, an IV already in his arm and an extremely pissed off look on his face. It made Mac smile. If Dick was pissed, he would survive.

“Tell me you caught the bastards,” Lich growled.

Mac shook his head as he jumped up into the ambulance and sat next to his partner, “Negative. But I am glad to see you’re okay.”

“I’m not fuckin’ okay. I got shot,” Dick pointed to his left shoulder and the wound in his shoulder socket. “A first for me.”

“Looks like they grazed you is all,” Mac said casually, inspecting the wound. His partner wasn’t grazed. The wound was a through and through. It looked painful as hell so he expressed some sympathy. “See you inside in a few minutes so we can keep working. We’ve got three bodies now, or five if you count the two that just were barbequed over on Smith.”

“You’re on your own, douche bag.”

“Pussy.”

They both chuckled. Lich was in pain, but he would be fine and Mac breathed a sigh of relief.

“Who’s the tough broad,” Lich asked, looking Wire up and down as only he could, in other words, without any subtleness whatsoever. “From what I saw it looks like she can handle a weapon.”

“Richard Lich, meet Dara Wire.”

“Detective,” Wire waved from the ambulance doorway.

“So what’s your story?”

“Ex-FBI is part of it,” Mac chimed in.

“Feeb, huh?”

Mac nodded, “Fraid so.”

Wire shook her head. “My story is a long one. Let’s just say as of late that I’ve been working for the Judge.”

“Speaking of that,” Mac jumped in, turning serious, “where is everyone else?”

“Inside, downstairs. Dixon, Shelby and one very worried and pissed off assistant county attorney that you live with.”

* * *

“The police have the information now. I was unable to tie it off, they have the pictures of Connolly,” Kristoff said matter of factly to his boss. He provided a brief explanation of McCormick’s and what happened outside of McRyan’s Pub. “I’m sorry. We failed.”

“You could not have foreseen the events of this evening. The information they now have is a problem but a solvable one. To cap the well, we need to go in a different direction. The jet is at Flying Cloud airport. Get there and your next assignment will be waiting.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“It’s our best strategy.”

McRyan’s Pub was opened by Mac’s great-grandfather Patrick. The pub, the oldest in St. Paul, had an extremely colorful history, having remained open and subversively active during Prohibition. During Prohibition, the drinks were served in the infamous Patrick’s Room. Located in the basement, Patrick’s Room was found behind a hidden door disguised as a built-in wooden buffet that ran the length of a wall, not unlike what you might find in one of St. Paul’s Victorian homes. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet opened the door into a large party room. During Prohibition, the police, politicians, citizens and even the occasional notorious criminal partied together. John Dillinger, Machine-Gun Kelly and Creepy Karpis were all guests and the police would leave them alone as long as they behaved themselves in St. Paul. Harboring criminals wasn’t perhaps the McRyan family’s finest hour, but those were the times. Now a plaque outside the room described its notorious history and black and white pictures inside detailed the room’s colorful history.

While Patrick’s Room these days was mostly used for private parties, cop poker games and the odd corporate meeting, on occasion it also served as an off-the-books war room for one of Mac’s investigations. Tonight, it served a new function: temporary safe house. As Mac approached the stairway to the basement, on-duty and off-duty cops alike, many of them McRyan’s, stood at attention, guns visible, ready to throw down at a moment’s notice.

As he pushed into Patrick’s Room, the first person he saw was Sally, who jumped up from the table and rushed to hug him, burying her head in his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he replied quietly, holding her tight. She knew what his job was and the dangers that it occasionally entailed. But until tonight, the danger had always been known, even discussed, but never experienced so up close and personal.

The Judge pushed himself out of a chair and approached and Mac’s mood darkened.

“I better explain.”

“Ya think,” Mac replied tersely, his arms folded. “And this time, no more jackin’ around. I’d like the whole fuckin’ story, if you don’t mind.”

Judge Dixon stepped back and tensed up, his eyes narrowing in on the detective. He was not someone accustomed to being spoken to in such a fashion but he took measure of the look on McRyan’s face and thought of the conditions now existing on the street above and nodded lightly. “You’re right, Detective.”

The Judge looked over to Kate Shelby. “Detective, let’s start with what’s in the backpack.”

Just then, the chief and Mac’s Uncle Shamus burst into Patrick’s Room, “Mac what in the hell is going on?” Then the chief saw the Judge. He stepped to him and extended his hand. “Judge. Good to see you in one piece, my friend.”

Dixon extended his as well. “Thank you, Charlie. We’re safe, thanks to your people.”

The chief looked to Mac, “You okay, son?”

“Fine, sir.”

“And Lich?”

“Took one in the left shoulder; a nasty through and through. He’s on the way to the hospital now.”

“I’ll run over to check on him here soon and we’ll break this all down later, for now I just want to know what in the hell is going on in my city? I have three bodies tied to this now, don’t I?”

“Actually five,” Mac answered.

“Five?” the chief wailed.

“Yes, Chief, we do,” Mac answered, mentioning the blown up Suburban. Then he turned his glare to the Judge. Dixon read the look—start talking.

“Charlie,” the Judge started. “Let’s start with this backpack and its back story.”

Kate unzipped the backpack and pulled out a laptop, spiral notebooks, a cell phone and a manila folder.

“Chief,” the Judge pointed over to Wire. “This is Dara Wire. She used to be FBI, she is a security consultant now and for the past several months she’s been working for me. Her job has been to follow Heath Connolly.”

“Connolly? The campaign manager for the vice president?” the chief asked.

“Right. I’ve known him for a while now and he’s a Rovian-type political operator, except with a serious dark side. The last few months have shown that my concerns about him have been well founded.” The Judge relayed the Florida Keys story to the group.

“I always wondered if you were behind that,” Mac quietly muttered.

“In any event,” Dixon continued, “I’ve had Dara following him around as best as possible.” The Judge pointed to Wire. “D, why don’t you take it from there.”

“I followed Connolly down to Kentucky on Wednesday night to a lake home. The home is owned by Raymond Hitch, a big contributor to the Wellesley campaign. When I arrived at the cabin, I tried to get into position and when I did I ran into …”

“Montgomery and Stroudt,” Mac finished. “They were there, right?”

Wire nodded.

“And they were discovered?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” Wire nodded with a little smile. “How did you know?”

“Logical guess. Being discovered explains their behavior from the middle of Wednesday night on.”

“What do you mean?” the Judge asked.

“We tracked Stroudt’s and Montgomery’s movements before and after that meeting,” Mac replied. “They flew into Nashville on Tuesday afternoon. Before the meeting, everything is a pretty normal business trip, hotel, dinner and drinks. They’re using credit cards, making cell phone calls. Then sometime in the middle of the night, everything changes. Instead of driving back to Nashville, they go northwest to St. Louis.”

“Because they were worried Connolly’s men had what I had,” Wire added, “the license plate to their rental car, which in turn gave them a name.”

“And once they had a name,” Mac continued, “they were able to track Stroudt because he was on a plane to here and then rented a car.”

“Why was he flying here?” the chief asked.

“To see us,” the Judge answered. “Stroudt and Sebastian McCormick were friends back in the day in law school at the University of Virginia.”

“Why did he want to see Sebastian?” Mac asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“It has to be because of what they saw in Kentucky at Hitch’s cabin,” Dixon answered.

“Which was what exactly?” Mac pushed.

Wire took out the camera. “We are thinking it has something to do with what’s on the camera or laptop.”

Mac leaned close to Wire to check the photos on the camera. There were six people in the cabin, one very recognizable, Heath Connolly, and five others. As he looked at the pictures, Mac remarked, “We have two security guys, I’d say. Earbuds and cords on the two in the dark suits. Who are the other three?”

“I don’t know,” Dixon replied. “I’ve only had one quick look at these pictures myself.”

Mac started flipping through the pictures on the camera screen. He stopped on a picture of the younger blond man. The man was holding something in his right hand. Mac squinted at the picture and at what the man held in his hand. He then enlarged the photo on the display screen but couldn’t make it out. Mac pulled out his cell phone and started flipping through his applications until he found the right one, pressed it and held the phone up to the screen on the back of the camera.

“What are you doing?” Wire asked, looking quizzically at McRyan.

“Magnifying glass app,” Mac replied as he held his cell phone over the screen and took in the magnification. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make much out. He would need to get the pictures onto his laptop and then blow them up from there. Then maybe they could make out what was in the man’s hand. “Nothing. Maybe we can get some professional assistance and get that blown up. Maybe then we can tell what it might be.”

Mac changed course and looked to Wire, “Were any of the people in these pictures the man you shot earlier tonight?”

Wire shook her head, “No. He wasn’t in Kentucky.”

“Too bad,” Mac answered. “That might have given us another way to get at these guys.”

“But I did get a picture tonight.”

Mac looked at Wire quizzically.

“What? I’m not the only one who knows how to use a cell phone.”

She showed everyone the picture.

“We’ve got to move this show downtown,” Mac said. “We need to figure out who this guy is and if he’s still alive.”

* * *

CNN was the first cable network on the scene with breaking news, but MSNBC and Fox News were now zeroing in on the events as well. The coverage was alternating between reporters at the home of Thomson deputy campaign manager, Sebastian McCormick, and the scene of a drive-by shooting outside a bar in St. Paul, one in which it was alleged Judge Dixon, Thomson’s campaign manager, had possibly been a target.

Connolly just sat in his hotel suite in Cincinnati and pensively watched.

This was starting to get out of control.

Then when the coverage broke for a commercial and, of course, there was another attack ad on Governor Thomson, as there had been all night. Connolly knew the vice president would be coming to his room shortly.

The chattering class had been analyzing the final days of the campaign, the massive rallies, the big speeches, the final push and the advertising, all of the negative advertising. It was always a complaint every campaign season, the seemingly relentless barrage of negative ads at the end of the race. By the time it was all over, most people wouldn’t want their senator or representative to watch their kids, let alone hold office, given how bad the ads tried to make them sound. But this season and the last few days in particular, was unlike anything anyone had ever seen.

All of the GOP Super PACs were operating as Connolly had conceived, hitting Governor Thomson again and again and again, for two straight days now, in the four key states left to be contested. The negative ads just keep coming and coming, one after another, an unrelenting fusillade. The money being expended was almost unfathomable. That had been the lead story of the night, the tsunami of negative advertising, at least until the shootings in St. Paul.

Governor Thomson wasn’t just taking it lying down, nor was the Democratic Party. They were pushing back as much as they could, but while the Dems owned Internet fundraising, the amounts that could be raised in that medium for the standard voter simply paled in comparison to the largesse held by the GOP and its big money donors. In this environment, the Democrats couldn’t go toe-to-toe, round after round. They simply didn’t have the depth of wealth. Connolly knew this, he knew when they got to this point in the campaign the vice president would have the ability to buy spot after spot to savage Thomson.

Armageddon was promised in every negative ad if Thomson were to win. Your 401k would collapse, your job would disappear, gas prices would skyrocket, your taxes would go through the roof, your freedoms would be curtailed, Christmas would be no more, socialism would run rampant, America would become Europe, illegal aliens would flow across the border, there would be no end to the assault on traditional American values. It was the worst fears coming to reality of those who argued that the Roberts Court’s decision in Citizens United was an unmitigated disaster.

This had been his plan back when he met with the donors in the Florida Keys. To take advantage of the unlimited amounts that could be raised and spent by GOP Super PACs. Now that plan was simply being used as cover for their new plan, the one that was causing bodies to drop all over St. Paul.

There was a knock on his door and then the vice president and his son Donald Jr. entered the room.

“Heath, have you seen what’s been happening in St. Paul?” the vice president asked.

Connolly nodded.

“Sebastian McCormick is dead. Someone tried to kill Judge Dixon in a drive-by shooting. What the hell is going on?” the vice president asked as he sat down into an arm chair.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I can’t fathom why someone would be going after McCormick and Dixon like this. Why? Why them? It’s irrational. It makes no sense.”

“It’s as if someone is trying to decapitate the Thomson campaign a few days before the end here,” Donald Jr. added with a mildly hopeful tone, knowing full well what Connolly was up to. The events of the evening had not fazed the vice president’s son. Donald Wellesley Jr., like Connolly, was always looking for political angles to play. “I’m wondering if there is a way to spin this to our advantage.”

“Spin this?” Connolly asked, thinking it as well, but not wanting to go there in front of the vice president. “We don’t want to touch this.”

“Why the hell not?” Junior asked, having no such reservations, as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “We’re three points down nationally, and trailing by about that much in the key swing states. If there is a way to take some advantage of this, we can’t take a pass on it.” If Connolly was cutthroat, Wellesley Jr. was a political sociopath and his own father knew it.

“No, no, no,” the vice president said. “We have no idea what is blowing in the wind here and what direction it might be blowing. What if some lunatic sympathetic to our party is behind this for some crazy reason? Then what? We’ll be spinning our way out of a bigger hole than we are already in. So no, we will not be trying to get out front on this to take some advantage. If we get out front, I would do it only as a form of protection and only to express my sympathies to the Thomson campaign.”

“Father, I’m merely suggesting we need to play every angle here is all. You want to win, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do. But I’d like to win and have a shred of dignity left.” Then the vice president turned his gaze to Connolly. “Before all this happened in the last half hour, I was going to come in here about the advertising. Heath, what are the Super PACs doing? Jesus Christ, it’s a carpet bombing. I don’t tell you how to do your job but I don’t think this is working.”

“I disagree, sir,” Connolly replied. “I think it’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to be doing. It is sewing greater doubt in Thomson and we just need to keep hammering that message at this point. It’s our best strategy.” Not to mention good cover for his primary strategy. “Besides, sir, I can’t call the Super PACs off. I’ve learned the hard way about coordinating with the Super PACs, so I do not have much ability to control what they are doing. Besides, they, as do I, as do you, view Thomson as a big threat. The Super PACs will not go down without a fight. Right or wrong, they figure they’ll lose exponentially more than they’re spending if Thomson wins.”

The vice president stood up and walked around the suite, shaking his head. Vice President Donald Wellesley was a small government conservative who believed in low taxes, less government regulation and business friendly policies. He was also a man of honor and integrity who was occasionally willing to make common cause with politicians on the other side of the aisle for the good of the country. He often said, “You know the guy on the other side has a good idea from time to time.” This campaign, the negative advertising, the vitriol of it all would, even if he won, make it difficult to govern. The wounds would be deep.

Connolly didn’t care if it would be difficult to govern. If you won, at least you governed, you controlled the levers of power. To make this work he needed the vice president to finish strong and stay on message. “Sir, as I listen to the commentary tonight, I don’t see a lot of criticism of you in this. You are on the record as saying the Supreme’s screwed the pooch with Citizens United. So while the political commentariat is hammering the advertising, I don’t hear them hammering you.”

The vice president looked out the window for a moment and then turned to leave. “I hope you’re right, Heath, but I fear the damage has already been done.”

With that the vice president left Connolly’s suite. Wellesley Jr. stayed. “So, our friend was behind what happened in St. Paul tonight?”

“He called earlier to let me know they had a line on Montgomery. I’m betting he’s the other body at McCormick’s. It’s only a matter of time before that gets out.”

“I don’t see how that hurts us, actually,” Wellesley Jr. answered nonplussed. “I think it might even help us.”

“How so?”

“Two political bloggers and the deputy campaign manager for the Thomson campaign end up dead in St. Paul just miles from Thomson Campaign Headquarters. The media being the media are going to fall all over themselves trying to find a connection. What is the connection? Were they hiding something? If they were, what was it?”

“The connection is that those two saw the meeting in Kentucky and took pictures,” Connolly retorted. “If the media gets that information, then we will all be fucked. The idea I’m sure tonight was to get possession of that information and finally plug that leak.”

“If you’re right, then why the shooting outside the bar?” Junior asked. “Why did Kristoff go after Dixon?”

“I don’t know.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The clock struck midnight as the group filed into the conference room near Mac’s desk. On the whiteboard was the investigation, with Mac’s notes, pictures of Stroudt and Montgomery and the timeline he and Lich were developing before the events of the night. Now Mac had a lot more to add and his mind was racing with where to take the investigation next.

There was no shortage of people willing to offer suggestions, whether it was Dixon, Wire, or any of the other higher ups that were starting to appear around the conference room. The Secret Service was on the scene now and was not shy about making their presence felt and word was the FBI would soon be in the building. The only one not causing a ruckus was Kate Shelby, who sat quietly curled up in a chair in the corner, her eyes watery. She had been through hell tonight and she was fraying in front of everyone’s eyes.

The room was altogether chaotic and Mac took one look at it and shook his head and turned his back to it and looked at his whiteboard and the case.

Charlie Flanagan recognized what was happening.

He put a stop to it.

The chief called everyone together: “This is McRyan’s investigation. If you want a role, then let him assign you one. Otherwise, shut the hell up.”

Charlie Flanagan was a man who had a presence and commanded respect.

The room went uncomfortably silent for a moment and then heads slowly nodded.

Mac loved the man.

Wire sauntered up beside McRyan and watched him write “To Do” on the right side of the whiteboard. Underneath he wrote, who is our killer and underneath he put the printed picture of the man captured on Wire’s cell phone. “If he is alive, we need to see if we can find him.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Wire asked.

“Where’s Double Frank?” Mac asked out loud, not looking away from the whiteboard.

“Right here, Mac,” Double Frank came into the conference room with three cups of coffee, one for him, and one each for Mac and Wire.

“You’re on finding this guy,” Mac pointed to the picture on the whiteboard and handed Franklin a copy of the picture of the killer from McCormick’s house. “If our theory is right and he’s not at the bottom of the river, then someone is taking care of him. Take this picture and get it to all the hospitals as quickly as possible. Then we need to check out ‘off-the-books’ doctors. This guy had three in his left upper chest from Ms. Wire here at close range. That takes some serious surgical intervention so the pool of people performing that work should be pretty small. See what you can find. Take as many guys as you need to help you out and keep me updated with what you’ve done.”

“You got it.”

Next was the van from the shootout. “Paddy, you out there?” Mac was calling for his cousin Patrick, a newly minted detective.

“Right here, cousin.”

“You know the traffic cameras on West Seventh around the pub?” Paddy nodded. “We need that footage. I want to see if we can track the panel van that was in the shootout. Get a plate for it, track it and see what we can find.”

“Done,” Paddy replied.

“Mac, Duffy’s here,” the chief reported from the doorway to the conference room.

Ed Duffy was the local agent-in-charge for the FBI. His history with the department had been long and somewhat checkered, mostly due to a long simmering feud with the chief. However, he worked with Mac and the rest of the Chief’s Boys on a double kidnapping sixteen months ago and in the process snuffed out an FBI traitor. Duffy was a bureau man through and through and appreciated the work done by Mac and his friends to smoke the man out. They’d done it in a not so by the book fashion and warned Duffy off while they did it. Duffy got the traitor and his fingers weren’t on any of the illegality in exposing him. Since that time Duffy had worked well with St. Paul and St. Paul with him, bygones were bygones. “Hey Mac,” Duffy said, extending his hand which Mac took.

“Special Agent Duffy, glad you’re here. Ed, I need you to tell me who this guy is,” Mac handed him a photo of the killer from McCormick’s house. “This man killed Sebastian McCormick, Adam Montgomery and I’m betting he killed Jason Stroudt on Tuesday. So he has for sure two and perhaps three bodies on him. I want him. We’re hunting for him at hospitals but whether we do or don’t find him, I need to know who he is. I’m betting he’s not local. He doesn’t look local.”

“No he doesn’t,” Duffy replied, soaking in the photo. “He looks European, French, maybe even Italian.”

“He could be Greek, Russian, Ethiopian, I don’t care, I just want to know who he is, and if possible, Ed, known associates and if we’re really lucky, an idea of who he might be working for.”

“We’re on it.”

Wire had backed away from McRyan and moved to stand with Sally Kennedy in the back of the room. She watched McRyan in action again and was impressed. The man knew how to take command and run an investigation. He moved quickly and decisively, putting people in action without bravado, just getting things done. In less than two minutes he’d assigned three pieces of the investigation and from what she could tell to three people he trusted.

“God, he’s in his element now,” Sally remarked.

“He appears to be,” Wire agreed. “He’s definitely taking charge.”

Sally laughed quietly. “That’s Mac. He’s not too good riding shotgun, he has to be the driver.”

“Control freak?”

“More than just a little,” Sally replied. “It leads to some interesting conversations at home to say the least.”

Wire caught Kennedy’s subtext, “You don’t strike me as the shrinking violet type. I imagine as a prosecutor, you like being in charge as well.”

“I do. Makes for some fun battles in everything,” and then Sally smiled mischievously and whispered, “and I mean in everything we do.”

Wire smiled herself, “I think I understand.” Kennedy was offering assistance, a little insight, and also letting Dara Wire, the other attractive woman in the room, know ever so gently, that the really good looking detective giving orders was not in play.

“I can just tell you want to help, and I can tell you like to be in control as well, so just thought you’d want to know what to expect,” Sally added.

Wire nodded and casually moved back around the table to join McRyan who was now going through the backpack.

Mac looked up as she approached, “You’re still hanging around, eh?”

“I was rather hoping I could help you,” Wire said, arms folded. “That is, if you need any help?”

Lich was at the hospital with a bullet hole in his shoulder, Riley and Rockford were working the McCormick crime scene and others Mac trusted were working other parts of the investigation. Mac was on his own at the moment.

“I don’t work for Dixon,” Mac stated.

Wire nodded. “I know, and I do. But I can still be helpful. I bring a certain insight to matters that could prove beneficial.”

“My case. My rules. I control it.”

“Your girlfriend told me that is the way it would be.”

“She did, huh?”

“Oh yeah. She said you like to be in charge. I’m good with that.”

Wire was obviously smart, an ex-cop, could clearly handle herself, personally motivated by the night’s events and Dixon trusted her, which spoke volumes. “Okay, Dara Wire. You want in, you’re in.”

“What’s next then?”

“Let’s work through this backpack. I’m betting there is something here.”

“Why?”

“When these guys killed Stroudt, they took whatever he had for luggage. He checked a bag for his flight here but there was nothing left in the motel room. We tracked down some airport footage, and he was carrying a backpack. Those were all gone from the room. These guys saw or knew something that was worth killing for. Maybe the answer is in this backpack.”

Inside the backpack there was a laptop, spiral notebook, a cell phone, camera and pictures. He started with the cell phone, flipping it open and scrolling through the calls.

“Burner phone,” Wire offered.

“Yup,” Mac agreed. “There aren’t many calls, although I recognize this one.”

Wire looked and nodded. In the call history, the last call was to McCormick.

“We’ll run the other numbers, you never know.”

Next he took a look at the laptop, a Dell. He flipped it open, turned it on and it was password protected. He was a good operator of a computer, but he was no hacker. Mac pulled out his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Wire asked.

“A computer genius.”

Wire looked at him skeptically.

“No, I’m serious,” Mac said. “This guy is a genius, this thing will be child’s play for him,” and then into the phone, “Jupiter, I need you down here pronto. My office. Right. See you in fifteen.”

“You were saying genius?”

“Yeah. Old college friend from the U named Jupiter Jones, he’s …”

“Jupiter Jones, as in Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators Jupiter Jones?”

“Yeah, exactly, you like those books too?”

Wire nodded. “How can you not.”

“Exactly,” Mac answered smiling. Anyone who liked Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators couldn’t be all bad. “His parents were big fans of the series. Anyway, I met him in college and after school he made millions with business intelligence software. He cashed in on that and then started doing some amazing stuff with video and photography. His skill set is pretty valuable and we’ve hired him to work with us on occasion.”

“What are you going to have him do?”

“Two things I can think of. First, get that computer up and running so we can go through it. Second …” Mac picked up the photo of the younger blond man holding something in his hand that was squared on the end. “Jupiter is a magician when it comes to blowing photos up and that may help us identify what this guy is holding in his hand or maybe there’s something else in the photos that might prove helpful.”

Wire nodded and then asked, “What are you going to do while he’s working on that?”

“I was going to start working through these spiral notebooks to see if anything pops.”

“I’ll help with that,” Wire offered. Mac slid two of the four books over to her.

Judge Dixon was in the corner of the room, on his cell phone. He hung up and approached Mac. He looked anxious and jumpy. “Mac, are you done with me? I know politics aren’t your thing, but they are mine. I just got off the phone with the governor and we need to start getting in front of all this.”

Mac happened to catch Sally’s eye as the Judge spoke. Her look said let the man go and do his job. The Secret Service was now on the scene in force, at least ten agents were hanging around. The Judge would be secure.

“Okay, Judge. I understand what’s at stake. But I have one condition.”

“Which is?”

“If I call, you answer.”

“Understood.”

The Judge turned to leave and Mac felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned to see Sally. “I’m going too,” she said.

“I don’t know …” Mac started with concern but Sally put her fingers to his lips.

“I’ll be fine,” Sally answered. “The Secret Service is on this and from what I can tell, it looks like at least Battalion strength. The safest place for me now, other than right here, is with the Judge.”

Dixon heard her and said: “Mac, two things. I need Sally.” Dixon looked over to the corner and Kate Shelby shriveled up in the chair. “Kate is out of commission and Sebastian is gone. I need Sally.”

“What’s No. 2?” Mac asked.

“She doesn’t leave my side and that’s a promise. She will have Secret Service protection around the clock. She couldn’t be safer.”

Mac nodded. It wasn’t like he’d really be able to stop her. She was a stubborn, fiery and determined Irish woman and he could argue with her about it, but that would only delay the inevitable.

Sally smiled, pecked him on the lips and left.

* * *

The Judge and Kennedy waited at the front doors of the Department of Public Safety. A Secret Service detail had already taken Kate Shelby to the Judge’s house where she would be under constant guard from the Service and St. Paul Police and under the care of the Judge’s wife.

The task in front of the Judge was a daunting one in the last few days of the election and he would be without who his two right-hand people. He glanced over to Sally Kennedy.

“You ready, young lady?”

Kennedy looked up to the Judge and replied simply, “Yup.”

Dixon chuckled. She was either cool as a cucumber or putting on a good front. He’d find out in the next three days.

A Secret Service man stepped inside the glass doors and said, “Let’s go.”

The two walked out the front door with agents in front, to the side and behind them. A rather sizable uniform police force was present as well and there was a well-armored motorcade awaiting them.

“So where to, Judge?” Sally asked.

“Campaign Headquarters,” Dixon replied. “We need to get to work on this.”

“What did the governor have to say?” she asked.

“That he’s on his way.”

“To where?”

“Here.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Politically, his deputy campaign manager was murdered tonight. His campaign manager, another deputy and that deputy’s assistant were nearly killed. He needs to be on the scene and in command because this is a crisis and a political leader needs to lead during a crisis. If he didn’t come back, the media would be all over him.”

“Oh,” Sally answered with a wisp of disappointment in her voice.

“In a personal sense,” the Judge continued, “his trusted political advisor and friend was murdered. The governor is devastated. Sebastian meant quite a bit to him as he did to all of us. On top of Sebastian, his close friend, yours truly, was nearly killed. Two of his closest advisors, you and Kate, people he’s leaned on heavily for the past few months, were nearly killed. He’s worried as hell about everybody and he wants to make sure everyone is safe and protected, and he won’t feel comfortable until he assesses the security situation personally.”

Sally nodded. “That sounds better. You should use that with the press.”

“I just might,” Dixon replied. “The governor will be back on the road tomorrow before you know it, but his first concern was his people. Once he knew everyone was okay, that the Secret Service was on the scene, he went into political mode about getting a handle on this.”

“So how do we do that?”

“I’m taking care of that as soon as we get back to headquarters. I’m going on camera and we’re going to get control of this situation.”

“What are you going to say, Judge?”

“I’ve got a few things in mind but one thing I won’t be doing—at least yet is …”

“Pointing the finger at the other side,” Sally finished nodding. “Too soon yet.”

“That’s right, Madam Prosecutor. You know as well as I do, we don’t have a case at this point. Now politics ain’t court, the standard isn’t as high, I don’t need proof beyond a reasonable doubt or even a preponderance of evidence, but we don’t have enough yet to go public about it, at least not for my comfort. So I won’t be mentioning Connolly—at least not right now. We need to let the investigation play out more and see what Mac gets us.”

“When does the FBI get involved?”

“The bureau may need to take a bigger role soon just because they have greater resources, but I’m more than comfortable with Mac handling things right now.”

“Because the other side will underestimate what he can do, a St. Paul cop investigating a multiple murder concocted by mercenaries,” Sally replied with a knowing smile. “I know better. Mac is very dangerous right now.”

“I’m counting on it,” the Judge replied.

* * *

Mac and Wire quietly worked through the contents of the notebooks. A few minutes into their review, Mac looked up to Wire and said, “I’m still bothered by one thing.”

“Just one thing?”

Mac chuckled, “Well, not just one thing but the one thing bugging me at the moment is how were you tracked to the pub?”

Wire sat back in her chair. “That’s been gnawing at me too. Originally, I was thinking it might have been through you guys somehow. Not you, Detective, but maybe someone is tapped into the police dispatch system or something along those lines.”

“Except,” Mac answered, “nobody knew about the call other than me, the chief, a couple of detectives I trust back at McCormick’s house and my uncle, who I called on the way to tell him I was coming. It never went through dispatch.”

“At least not that you’re aware of,” Wire cautioned.

Mac thought for a second and then shrugged, “No, you’re right. I need to check that.” He reached for his cell phone and called into dispatch and talked with them for a minute. “Really? Who called that in? And what exactly did he say? Okay. Thanks.”

Wire raised her eyebrows.

“I left the scene and that was called into dispatch by the chief. He said I was on my way to McRyan’s Pub and Pat Riley was the detective on scene at McCormick’s. That’s it.”

“So they could be tapped into your system.”

“Possible,” but then a skeptical look overtook McRyan’s face. “But I’m dubious that’s the case. The call into dispatch didn’t indicate who I was meeting with, merely that I was going to the pub. I could have been going to meet anyone.”

“Probably not a secret you’re on this case.”

“No it’s not, but for someone who is always interested in reaches in logic, this one stretches pretty far. I still think it was something about Montgomery or you.”

There was a light knock on the conference room door. “Interesting conversation you two were having.”

“How much did you hear, Jupe?” Mac asked, turning to face his friend.

“Just a little about being tracked. Sounds fascinating.” Jupiter Jones appeared professionally attired for a computer geek, dressed in a gray University of Minnesota hoodie, weathered blue jeans and black and white Chucky T’s. He strolled over to the closed laptop. “This it?”

“It is.”

“Piece of cake. I’m going to grab another conference room and go to work on this.”

“Take this as well,” Mac handed him the burner phone. “Since you’re so fascinated, see if they were using this burner phone to somehow track Ms. Wire and her friends here, and after you’re done with that I need you to go to work on some photos.”

Mac took a look at his coffee cup, empty, as was Wire’s. “Let’s take five and grab a cup.”

Wire walked with Mac to the break room. The pots were empty so McRyan started brewing a new one and the two of them watched the impromptu news conference unfolding in front of Thomson Campaign Headquarters, with the Judge speaking to the media. Sally stood right behind him.

“This is unusual,” Wire said.

“What is?” Mac asked.

“The Judge going on camera.”

“Really?”

“For all of his political skill and prowess, the man is not a fan of the bright lights. It’s one of the reasons Sebastian ended up taking a lot of the media interviews and shows at night. He loved it and was really good at it. The Judge,” Wire shook her head, “not so much.”

“Dixon’s a throwback,” Mac answered. “He’s an old school political power player who likes backroom deals, handshakes and arm twisting.”

“Exactly, he wasn’t made for this era of nightly political shows and the twenty-four-hour news cycle.”

“New era,” Mac replied. “But he has Governor Thomson within days of the White House.”

“Times change, but politics is politics,” Wire replied in kind. “And when it comes to politics, the Judge is the Gold Standard.”

* * *

There was no podium or even a stand of microphones. Judge Dixon was kicking this one old school. He stood in front of the cameras, his hands in his trench coat pockets, his tie loose at the neck. It could have been a press conference of thirty years ago. Judge Dixon looked worn, tired, sad and pissed off all at the same time. It was an iconic image.

“It is my sad duty to report that Sebastian McCormick was brutally murdered in his St. Paul home tonight. He was shot two times in the chest. His death is a tragedy to his family and to those of us on this campaign who worked closely with him every day. Sebastian was a fine young man, wonderful student and good friend. We will all miss him terribly.”

“Judge, can you tell us what happened?” CNN asked.

“I don’t know all what happened. I do know that a man came in the back door of his home and shot him. The killer also shot another man who was visiting Sebastian. That man was shot in the head. This was a cold and calculated murder.”

“Who is the other man?” CNN pressed.

“The St. Paul Police Department will have to release his name once his family has been contacted. I will not do that.”

“But you know who it is?” Local Channel Seven asked.

“I do.”

“Does this have anything to do with the death of Jason Stroudt of The Congressional Page who we are now learning was found murdered here in St. Paul two days ago?” ABC News inquired, making a leap that was dead on.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“So you’re saying yes?”

“I think my answer speaks for itself.”

“Judge, we’re hearing you were involved in a shooting in downtown St. Paul not long after McCormick was murdered. Is that true?” Fox News inquired.

“It is. I was going to meet up with St. Paul Police Detective Michael McRyan outside of McRyan’s Pub. Detective McRyan is one of the detectives investigating Sebastian’s murder and he needed to speak with me. A panel van and a SUV rolled up along West Seventh and opened fire drive-by shooting style on me, Kate Shelby and Sally Kennedy, along with Detective McRyan and a few others as we stood on the sidewalk in front of McRyan’s Pub. I am alive as are a few others because of the heroic actions of Detective McRyan and his fellow St. Paul police officers in thwarting that attempt on us. Unfortunately, one officer was wounded in the shooting but I am pleased that he is doing well and I am hopeful he will recover fully.”

“Why were you meeting with this detective … did you say McRyan?” MSNBC asked.

“Mac McRyan, yes. I’m not at liberty to say at the moment other than he thought I may have some information about Sebastian that could prove helpful.”

“Is your campaign under attack? And if so, by whom?” CBS News asked.

“Sure feels like it. Listen, folks, you know as well as I do, that in a campaign you’re constantly under attack from any number of directions, your opponent, the news media and in this election cycle by independent groups with massive amounts of money to spend,” the Judge answered plainly, but then some emotion seeped into his voice. “But what we have experienced tonight is something completely different. It is an escalation of violence in our politics that is unacceptable in a country as great as ours. We do not live in Libya, Syria or Iran. We live in the United States of America. We have disagreements, we have political differences, but I’m here to tell you that whether Vice President Wellesley or Governor Thomson is elected president, the world will not come to an end for the other side. This is getting out of hand. We need to seriously examine how it is someone has come so completely off the rails in this country to take a step so dramatic and tragic as this. Sebastian was murdered tonight. Jason Stroudt was murdered two days ago and another man was murdered tonight and I and a few others were nearly murdered. The rest of the world is watching. This has to stop.”

“So Judge, you don’t think this was some random break-in at McCormick’s home tonight? You’re suggesting that McCormick’s murder tonight was politically motivated?” CNN asked.

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But soon?”

“I hope to.”

“Do you think the Wellesley campaign is behind this?” MSNBC asked. The liberal network would like nothing more than that to be the case.

The Judge chose his words carefully, he knew some things that would send the media into an even bigger frenzy but he wasn’t yet ready to launch that. The investigation needed to build that case before he could unleash it. “I’ve known Vice President Wellesley for a number of years and he is a man of integrity and honor. He has already called the governor and called me personally just a few minutes ago, offering his condolences and his assistance. He was shocked and dismayed by the events of tonight and if he were standing with me right now, I think he’d echo the things I’ve had to say. The vice president himself has nothing to do with this, end of story.”

“How about his campaign?” FOX News asked, separating the candidate from the campaign.

The Judge paused and answered a little more quietly, “I hope not.”

“But you think this is political?”

“No question.”

“So who is behind it?” ABC News asked.

“I aim to find out,” the Judge answered. “And God help whoever is behind this if and when I do. Good night.” The Judge turned and walked away.

* * *

“Thanks a lot, Judge,” Mac said while CNN switched back to Anderson Cooper, who was working overtime anchoring their breaking coverage of the night’s events.

“What he said was true,” Wire noted.

“Not disagreeing, but with that little presser right there the media is going to be all over this thing.”

“They were going to be anyway.”

“I know, but now doing our job got just a little harder. They’re going to be all over me and that makes my job harder.”

Wire had gotten the ten-minute skinny on McRyan from the Judge. One thing the Judge said and chuckled as he said it was how much McRyan hated the media. “But Dara,” the Judge said, “McRyan’s good at manipulating and talking to the media when and if it suits his needs.”

“Mac!”

“Yeah, Paddy.”

“I found the panel van.”

“Atta boy! Where?” Mac asked excitedly.

“Easy, cuz. I found it at the bottom of the Mississippi down South St. Paul way, near the old stockyards.”

“By bottom, you mean under water?”

Paddy nodded. “I pulled the traffic cameras and pulled the plate. The van was rented from Right-Way Car Rental. I got the GPS for the van and on the map its last position was at the edge of the river based on its history but it wasn’t giving a position update any longer which we thought was suspicious. I went down to the location and there was no van but there are tire tracks leading into the water. I’m betting it’s in the river. The county will get it out of the river but they’re going to wait for sunlight here in a couple of hours. We might get something off of it but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Mac!!”

McRyan and Wire turned to see Riley and Rockford stalking into the detective’s bullpen. Mac had left them behind to work the McCormick scene. “I could use some good news. You two find anything more?”

“Not a ton,” Riles answered. “My guess is you and Ms. Wire have walked through everything from the shooting, right?”

“We have,” Mac answered.

“Well, we can skip that, I guess,” Riles answered. “We canvassed. A lot of people heard the evening’s festivities but nobody saw much, other than the neighbor who had his fence rearranged. He saw the Suburban pull away. As we understand it that Suburban was barbequed on Smith Avenue not long after, so that isn’t new. The neighbor who saw the Suburban couldn’t give us a description of anyone inside the truck.”

“Buuuut,” Rock added, “we did figure out how Montgomery got up here to St. Paul at least.”

“Which was how?” Wire asked.

“Montgomery borrowed a car from a second cousin in St. Louis,” Rockford replied. “The car was a 2001 white Honda Accord registered to David Reeves. We made a phone call and the car was Reeves’s kid’s car and he loaned it to Montgomery. The second cousin said Montgomery needed to hide from someone for a few days and was trying to stay off of the radar.”

“Yeah, Montgomery told him he was onto a big political story and he needed some time to get the story together without anyone knowing what he was up to.”

“What story?” Mac asked, looking to Wire in particular. “What the hell did these two guys see?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“We have a theory.”

Two forty-one a.m. The Judge yawned as he stood on the tarmac at Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport, as the governor’s campaign jet taxied to the waiting motorcade. Given the night’s events, the media was being kept far away. This would not be a photo-op.

The cabin door opened on the 737 and the governor emerged from the plane. Governor James Thomson did not cut the quintessential presidential look. While the governor’s father had been a tall lanky Scotsman, his mother was a short black-haired German. The governor clearly obtained his physical stature and look from his mother. He was a stocky man, not quite five feet ten inches tall with a few too many pounds around the mid-section. His salt and pepper hair was tightly cropped to his round head which displayed the cauliflower ears he earned during college wrestling days at the Augsburg College when he wrestled at 150 pounds. He’d put a good fifty pounds on since then. There were no Hollywood good looks with the governor. Rather, he was cut from the working class, the son of a teacher and secretary who put himself through college. He was a man who started and built a small direct mail business into a thriving corporation and sold it for millions all the while working his way up in politics, having started at the city council level, then to the state house and eventually the Minnesota governor’s mansion. It was a background that allowed him to connect with middle-class voters. The governor had the common touch. He was one of them, even with his millions. They had been hard earned. He was the embodiment of the American work ethic, the American dream.

The Judge had predicted to his skeptical democratic friends that once Thomson’s biography was known nationally, voters would connect with him. He won the Democratic nomination and then campaigned with discipline, consistency and energy that had put him within grasp of the White House.

They’d run a good campaign, a smart campaign, a pretty clean campaign, but would that be enough?

Thomson reached the bottom of the steps and the Judge moved towards him.

“Nice press conference, Joyce.” Only the governor could get away with calling the Judge by his real first name.

“I thought it captured the moment.”

“If the moment was for you to look pissed, you’re right.”

“I am pissed,” Dixon railed. “Somebody is going to pay.”

“And somebody will.”

A light drizzle was falling so the two men quickly dove into a limousine. “So what do we know?” the governor asked.

The Judge reported what he knew, reviewing the call from McCormick, the Judge and Wire’s race to his house, the murder of McCormick and Montgomery, the shooting at the bar and what they’d learned since, which wasn’t much.

“Is McRyan working the case?”

“He is, Governor. You know him?”

“I’ve met him. I know the family’s name. The reputation is well earned. McRyan’s the best around these parts, bureau included. Give him time and he’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Mac yawned and stretched. He was a night owl normally and rarely needed more than four or five hours most nights. It was a trait that served him well in college and law school when pulling an all nighter was a way of life. He once went three days sleeping a total of four hours when grinding through college finals. All As on the exams. Of course, once finals week was over he slept for the next two days. But that’s the way it was with him. Go for four or five days full tilt and then his body would make him shut down for a day or two and refuel.

So at 3:30 a.m. a yawn didn’t mean he was fading, it was simply an interruption.

He glanced across the conference table and Wire was the same. She was methodically working through one of the other notebooks, jotting down notes as she worked through, occasionally taking a sip of her coffee. Mac was curious as to why she was an ex-FBI agent and would need to get that story.

So he turned his attention back to the notebook. It was apparent to Mac that Montgomery never went anywhere without a notebook and if the inspiration struck him, he wrote down whatever idea it was he had. There were several articles outlined or written in long-hand. Interspersed with the articles were notes of phone calls, references to other articles, web and blog sites, the odd phone number and random names. As Mac got to each name, he would do a web search of the name to see what popped. Most of the time the names were political, representatives (Mac recognized most senators), staff people, media members and other bloggers. In some cases, the name didn’t bring up anything. In other circumstances, such as a name like Anderson, Smith, Martin or Johnson, the web results were so massive that with the lack of any other identifying information, it would take hours to go through the entirety of the results. Nothing was really popping but Mac was keeping a list on his laptop, just in case.

As he got to the end of the last notebook, Mac ran across the names Peterson and Checketts, but nothing else was written. Mac typed Peterson and politics into Google and had just north of 45,000,000 results. He clicked through three or four pages but nothing really looked good.

There was a knock on the door to the conference room. Mac looked up to see Jupiter standing in the doorway. “What’s up?”

“Mac, I overheard you say something about being tracked earlier.”

“That’s right. Someone was tracking Montgomery and then it seemed they were able to track Ms. Wire and company as well. You have something?”

“Well, I think I know how they did it. Montgomery’s laptop has LoJack on it.”

“The tracking system?” Mac asked.

Jones nodded.

Wire’s eyes closed and she shook her head. “A tracking system. I wonder if they found that while going through The Congressional Page offices.”

“Congressional Page offices?” Mac asked. “When were you there?”

“When I was in DC earlier today,” Wire looked at her watch, “Make that yesterday, I was at Stroudt’s condo, then The Congressional Page and finally Montgomery’s with an Alexandria homicide detective.”

“Carl Court?” Mac asked.

Wire nodded and asked, “You talk to him?”

“I did. The good detective said a pretty brunette with political connections had been snooping around.”

Wire grinned and then got back to business: “The files of The Congressional Page and Stroudt’s home were completely cleaned out. Because Montgomery’s building had pretty good security, it didn’t look like his home had been raided. I bet if we look further, we’ll find out that The Congressional Page had LoJack tracking on all of their laptop computers for some reason and whoever broke into those offices, found a record, bill, contract or something along those lines that showed that the computers had the tracking on them.”

“And I bet whoever was tracking Montgomery, did so because they hacked into that system and from there they were able to track him down here to St. Paul,” Mac added.

“And us,” Wire replied. “We had the laptop, Detective. That’s probably how they continued to track us to the pub. They were tracking the laptop. I got away from Sebastian’s with it and they got back on us by tracking it.”

“Well, now, if they’re still tracking it, they know we have it and from here it isn’t going anywhere.”

“That isn’t the only thing that’s interesting on this computer, Mac, let me show you what he’s been searching on the Internet recently.” Jones opened up his own laptop.

“What’s that?”

“A company named DataPoint Electronics. Among their other products, they manufacture and distribute electronic touch screen voting machines.” Jones pulled up the website for the company on his own laptop and clicked the tab marked e-voting machines.

“Can you tell what he was reviewing on the website?” Wire asked.

“Affirmative. The information on the company website is pretty basic, kind of voting machines for dummies, so to speak. That having been said, he seems to have been spending a lot of time on the operating system for the voting machines, the components, how they operate and in particular how a vote is tabulated. DataPoint Electronics produces a paperless electronic voting system.”

“By paperless, do you mean there is no paper ballot?” Mac asked with a furrowed brow, looking at the screen.

“That’s right. There is a paper report printed off the machine with the vote tabulation, but a voter does not complete a paper ballot like we’re accustomed to here in Minnesota. It’s an e-voting machine. You use the touch screen on the voting machine to make your votes. The votes are then tabulated essentially onto the memory card. The votes are tallied on the memory card and a paper report is printed as verification.”

Mac nodded and then moved over to his own laptop and one of Montgomery’s notebooks.

“So when was it he was looking at this website?” Wire asked.

“The last week or so, he started last Saturday it looks like, went through a number of the pages of the website and then he was back on them again pretty hot and heavy Tuesday and Wednesday again. And again, the biggest numbers of visits were to the pages that contain the information on the memory cards.”

“So the way these machines work is that the voter makes their selection and the vote is then tabulated onto the memory card which contains the results for the machine.”

“Right.”

Wire nodded. “It’s interesting and all, but I’m not sure what those searches have to do with the meeting.”

“Maybe it’s because the bald guy is the president of DataPoint,” Mac declared.

“What?” Wire asked surprised. “Seriously?”

Mac turned around his laptop which showed a picture of Peter Checketts, the president of DataPoint Electronics. “Look familiar?”

Wire held up a blown up photo from the meeting next to the laptop screen, “Sure looks like him.” She looked to Jones who nodded as well.

“So the owner of a voting machine company is at a late night meeting in Nowheresville, Kentucky, with the campaign manager for Vice President Wellesley. Nothing suspicious about that,” Wire uttered facetiously. “Cripes.”

“So they’re behind and they’re going to manipulate the machines to win?” Mac asked, disbelief in his voice.

“You have a better explanation?” Wire inquired.

Mac turned to Jones. “So Jupe, I know voting machines aren’t exactly your bailiwick, but let’s assume for the moment that Checketts, Connolly and these other two men are talking voting machines and let’s go with the worst case scenario, they’re trying to manipulate the machines somehow in their favor. How could they go about doing it?”

“I’d have to get into these machines a little more, Mac,” Jupe answered. “There might be any number of ways you could do it. I know I’ve read some conspiracy theories in the past about voting machine manipulation.”

“I’ve seen those as well,” Wire responded.

“So have I,” Mac added. “I saw a special on HBO once on how you could potentially manipulate voting machines by putting some sort of virus on the machine and they showed how the vote could be changed. Which was fascinating and scary all that the same time. But in the final analysis, I was never that worried about it being that big a deal.”

“Why?” Jupe asked. “Sounds bad to me.”

“Me too,” Wire added, looking at the laptop.

“It is,” Mac answered. “But I wasn’t that phased by it because under their scenario you could only manipulate one machine at a time.”

“And to make any meaningful impact on an election, or at least a presidential election, you would have to manipulate hundreds, if not thousands of machines,” Wire added, understanding Mac’s train of thought.

“That takes time, resources and people,” Jupiter noted. “Couldn’t be done, or at least would be really really hard to do something like that machine by machine. The operational security on something like that would be a bitch.”

“Not under the HBO scenario,” Mac answered. “But that’s not what we have here, I don’t think. I think Connolly, or whoever else might be involved, has taken this a step or two further. Checketts’s presence suggests they’re going to manipulate the machines at the source, at DataPoint.”

“Going to? It’s five days to the election,” Wire stated. “If they’re manipulating the machines at the source, it’s already done.”

McRyan and Jones both shook their heads in dismay and sat back in their chairs.

“She’s right,” Jupe said.

“Yeah she is,” Mac agreed, leaning back in the chair, his fingers laced behind his head.

As if the night hadn’t been enough, the case just escalated again.

Mac pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to the windows for the conference room. He casually closed the shades and then walked to the door and looked out. Chief Flanagan was still around, talking to Riley. Mac caught the chief’s eyes and tilted his head towards the conference room. The chief walked into the room and Mac closed the door.

“What do you have?”

“I think we might know what this is all about now. At a minimum we got a big piece of the puzzle.” Mac put the picture of Checketts on the whiteboard. “This is Peter Checketts. He is the president and owner of DataPoint Electronics in Milwaukee.”

“The picture is from the meeting in Kentucky, Chief Flanagan,” Wire added.

“So we have two of the four men from that meeting, at least other than the private security men, right?” the chief asked.

“Right,” Wire answered. “We still haven’t figured out who the other two guys are, but that’s not the interesting part of this.”

“What is?”

“DataPoint Electronics,” Mac answered.

“Which is what?”

“Among other things, a voting machine company,” Wire answered.

That caught the chief’s attention. “Go on,” he said quietly.

Mac explained their theory that the meeting had something to do with manipulating voting machines. He finished with: “Why else would Connolly, Checketts and these two other men meet?”

The chief sighed and sat down and thought about what he’d heard for the past few minutes. Flanagan shook his head, “So you two have the vice president’s campaign manager and the president of a voting machine company at a clandestine late night meeting in backwater Kentucky a week before the election.” Flanagan just looked at the picture and shook his head, the magnitude of what they were looking at dawning on him. The chief also knew what they had sounded good, but that wasn’t enough. “You may be right, it’s a good theory, makes some sense, but you’re way ahead of yourselves. You have no proof.”

“Chief, the picture, the meeting, these guys are up to something,” Jones said.

“They are for sure,” Wire answered. “But the chief’s right. We have a theory, but we have little to no proof. We’d get laughed out of court.”

“Yeah, but we’re not in court,” Mac said. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and this gives us more to go on. But I’m thinking one other thing, Ms. Wire.”

“That we need to call the Judge?”

“Yes.”

Wire nodded. “And get the campaign to work on figuring out where DataPoint machines are and when they got there. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a call.” Dara got up from the table and opened the door to find Detective Franklin ready to knock. Wire walked by Double Frank, who came into the room.

“What’s up, Double Frank?” Mac asked.

“Mac, we’ve hit every hospital in town and all the ‘off-the-books’ guys we are aware of and we haven’t found the guy.”

“Okay, Frank, it was worth a shot.”

“Okay, Mac,” Double Frank turned to leave but then stopped and turned, “but …”

“But what, Detective?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Not tonight it’s not. What is it?”

“As we’ve been asking around tonight, a couple of docs said they’ve heard rumors of a new provider out there. Nobody knows his name, it’s something of a mystery I guess, but supposedly he has high-end surgical skills. Problem is nobody we’ve talked to has a name. I was thinking if there was anyone who might know who this new guy is …”

Mac knew where this was going. “Looks like I need to find a payphone.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“He is a character.”

A police detective, homicide or otherwise, can’t really do his job without confidential sources, people who seemingly have access to otherwise unobtainable information. Sometimes they were the Deep Throat type, honest, hardworking people who just happened to have access to what was needed or were interested in blowing the whistle at that time. They were one time sources and helpful. But what you really needed as a cop were people who always had valuable tidbits of information. Of course, more often than not, the people who had the information a cop needed had it because they walked on the shadier side of life. They were people who occasionally fractured a law on their own. However, for a little quid pro quo, they were usually willing to share information. It was simply how things worked on the street.

McRyan had those kinds of sources around the Twin Cities, cultivated them, kept track of them, and it worked for him. But Mac had a source he could call on that nobody else had. This was a source who seemingly knew everything going down in town. On occasion, when the circumstances truly warranted it, and if he asked right, Mac could call on him.

The source: Fat Charlie Boone.

Back in the day, Charlie Boone ran the dope trade on the north side of Minneapolis. And he ran the trade with an iron fist. His people were disciplined, didn’t sell around schools, didn’t sell around churches, didn’t sell on Sundays and kept the trade low profile and followed the Boone Law: Never put a gun on anyone who was not in the game. That was his one hard and fast rule. If one of his people did that, that person’s fear was not the police, it was Boone.

After a number of years of maintaining a low profile and avoiding the Minneapolis Police, Charlie had made so much money that he’d been able to put several layers between himself and the street. These days, even if the street was kicking money up to him, Boone was so far removed from the action there would be no way to trace it back to him. His money was cleaned now several times over. Fat Charlie Boone was the bank. The Minneapolis Police had long given up on catching him, having been humbled far too many times in their pursuit over the years.

Now Boone was quietly making continuous investments in businesses all over the Twin Cities. He now lived in a thirty-third-story penthouse condo at The Chesterton, a thirty-five-story luxury high-rise condominium overlooking the Stone Arch Bridge and the Mississippi River in downtown Minneapolis. He was healthy, wealthy and wise.

Yet Charlie Boone was still street. He was still plugged in unlike anyone else and he knew everything going on in town. However, as untouchable as he’d become, he did have one Achilles’ heel. Boone had an extremely big family, some of whom were still close enough to the street game. Those family members, usually extended family types, occasionally got into trouble, sometimes in St. Paul.

That’s where McRyan came in.

Sixteen months ago Charlie gave Mac a tip during a double kidnapping that helped him save Chief Flanagan’s life and that of his daughter’s. A few months later, one of Boone’s nephews found himself pinched in St. Paul on a drug charge. Boone reached out to Mac and asked for a little return on his previous investment. Mac went to Flanagan, explained what Charlie was looking for and that the chief’s own daughter was likely alive because of the man’s assistance. The chief gave the little legal maneuver his blessing, but with one proviso. “Let’s get something in return.”

Mac got something in return.

After Boone’s nephew was in the clear, Mac made a late night trip over to the north side of Minneapolis and Boone’s office. Over cigars and a bottle of Wild Turkey, the two struck a little deal.

Mac would never come to him on trivial matters, but if there was something big going on, he could call on Charlie. McRyan figured big would involve a double homicide, cop killing, large robbery, something along those lines. He never envisioned going to Fat Charlie on something big would involve presidential politics. However, if there was in fact a new off-the-books doctor in town, Charlie would know who he was or, if not, how to quickly find him.

Mac gave Wire the short background on Charlie as he drove to a twenty-four-hour gas station on Rice Street just north of the St. Paul capitol.

“Why are we going so far away from headquarters?” Wire asked.

“St. Paul is a big city, but not that big of a city. The farther away, the less likely someone sees me making or taking a call on a payphone. That stuff always looks a little suspicious.”

There were rules when calling Charlie.

Mac had to call from a payphone to a private number and leave a message with the service. Mac went through the routine and hung up.

“So what now?”

“We wait. Give it a minute or two.”

“Even at 4:30 in the morning?”

“Fat Charlie Boone Enterprises is a twenty-four seven operation,” Mac answered. “Someone is always working.”

Sure enough, three minutes later the payphone rang. “This is McRyan. I need to see the big man right away.”

“He can’t just call you?” Wire whispered.

Mac shook his head and put his hand over the mouthpiece, “Everything is face to face with Charlie.” He then took his hand off the receiver. “Twenty minutes? Okay. Tell him I will have a lady investigator with me… Yeah … Trust me, the old man will love her.” He hung up. “So now we drive over to north Minneapolis.”

“He couldn’t just tell you over the phone?”

Mac laughed. “Charlie doesn’t believe in phones, cellular or otherwise. He never let his street guys have a cell phone. Cell phones could be tracked, traced, hacked and monitored. Charlie is old school, like Paulie in Goodfellas. Everything is face to face with Charlie Boone.”

The two went inside the gas station and bought fresh tall coffees for themselves, two extra tall coffees and a bag with four bear claws and started on the trek to the north side of Minneapolis. Mac motored south on Rice Street and maneuvered his way to Interstate 94 and cruised west towards Minneapolis. As he turned a sharp bend to the left on 94 and took the long highway bridge crossing over the Mississippi River, he took in the impressive well lit downtown Minneapolis skyline.

“St. Paul and Minneapolis are so different,” Wire said as they crossed the bridge.

It often amazed Mac that downtown Minneapolis and St. Paul could only be a few miles apart yet be so different from one another. St. Paul was like an East Coast city, brick and mortar, working class, union, dirt on its elbows and knees, a name tag on the left upper chest. Minneapolis, by contrast, was all West Coast, tall glass towers with the beautiful people frequenting orchestras, playhouses and the sprawling restaurant and bar scene in a city, clean, trendy and stylish. One wasn’t more right than the other and each had its own distinct character. The two cities were just both so different yet separated by a thin ribbon of water.

Mac cruised around the south side of downtown, through the Lowry Tunnel and then north on Interstate 94 until he reached the West Broadway exit and then took a left down the north side of Minneapolis’s main artery.

“This looks a little more like it, at least like DC or Baltimore,” Wire noted as she took in West Broadway with the iron bars on the businesses, the occasional boarded up building and the dilapidated nature of the residential dwellings. While many of Minneapolis’s trouble spots had been the subject of revitalization in recent years, the north side remained largely ignored.

“The foreclosure crisis hit the north side especially hard,” Mac said. “It’s too bad, really. There are some really great old neighborhoods and classic houses in this part of town that could thrive again with a little TLC.”

Mac took a right on Penn Avenue and headed north five blocks and did a U-turn in the intersection with Lowry Avenue and pulled up in front of Charlie’s building. Two very large and very intimidating black men were waiting out front for Mac. Omar and Vincent were not to be trifled with. Both well over six feet, arms the size of most men’s thighs and menacing looks. Standing with their arms crossed, they conveyed one message: STAY AWAY.

The two were always in front of Charlie’s place when the great man was present. You’d have to be a fool to mess with these two. Vincent smiled and fist bumped Mac when he walked around the front of his Yukon with the extra coffees and the bag of bear claws for the two men. Meanwhile, Omar opened the passenger door for Wire and gave Mac the usual greeting in his Barry White voice, “Mac, we’ll watch your riiiide while you’re insiiiide.”

Fat Charlie’s building was an old, non-descript, red-brick, one-story rectangular office building that sat on the corner of Lowry and Penn. At one time, a small law practice occupied the south half of the building. Now, the entire main level was the Penn-Lowry Hardware Store, of course owned by Charlie. The law offices, which were operated by two of his sons, were now in the basement which led to the amusing sign on the end of the building: Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.

That entrance was also how you were admitted to Charlie’s office. Mac led Wire around the back of the building and down the narrow cement steps where the door was being held open by one of Charlie’s sons. Having been in Charlie’s subterranean basement office a half dozen times now, Mac knew the way and found the big man in his expansive office that contained a conference table with six chairs, a large seating area with couches, arm chairs and a large flat screen and then the bar area. The floor was black and white tile with paneling halfway up the walls and a light red shag around the top. It was the office of a gangster and Charlie was, and to a certain degree always would be, one. Charlie himself was a big man, although not as hefty as he once was when he truly was Fat Charlie, before he had gastric bypass surgery. However, even with the surgery he still tipped the scales at two hundred fifty pounds. As Mac expected, Boone was nattily attired in a dark purple pin stripe suit but with his salmon colored dress shirt open at the collar. Charlie was an early riser, but 5:00 a.m. was even a little early for him, so there was no tie or cigar, as of yet.

“Mac, my friend, how are you?” Boone greeted enthusiastically.

“I’m okay, Charlie,” Mac answered as they shook hands. “It’s been a loooong night.”

“So I’ve seen on the flat screen. I’ve been monitoring events so I’m pleased to see you still in one piece. How is your partner?”

“Dick Lick will be okay. Took one to his left shoulder, a through and through. He’ll have some rehab time in front of him, but he should be okay.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear that. And I thought all the excitement happened on our side of the mighty Mississippi,” he added with a deep laugh. Then Charlie got his first extended look at Wire. “Mac, who is this lovely lady?”

“Charlie, meet Dara Wire and you mess with her at your own risk,” she extended her hand and Charlie took it and bent down to kiss it. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Mizzz Wire.”

“Mac’s told me all about you, Mr. Boone,” Wire replied with a smile and Charlie’s mood playfully darkened.

“Mac’s full of shit, but you are so very lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Mac, I assume, as usual, we need to cut to the chase.”

“Yeah, Charlie, we do.”

“Well let us sit down then.” Charlie led them to the seating area of a black leather couch and two black leather chairs situated around an expansive mahogany coffee table. A pot of coffee and four black ceramic coffee cups sat on the table along with several newspapers awaiting Charlie’s review.

“Can I at least offer you coffee?”

“I’ll take a regular coffee, but not a Boone Special,” Mac answered and then to Wire he said with a wry smile, “A Boone Special has a little Crown Royal in it.”

“Ah,” and then to Boone she said, “just black.”

Boone feigned disappointment, “As you wish,” and he poured coffee.

As they each took a sip of their coffee, Boone asked. “So what can I do for you?”

Mac gave Charlie a quick rundown of the night’s events, even dropping in some of the political components. He gave Boone just enough so that he appreciated the stakes and Mac could tell that Charlie understood. “He has for sure two and likely three bodies on him. Ms. Wire put three in his upper left chest. His friends tried to kill Ms. Wire, yours truly, Lich, Sally and Judge Dixon in front of my family’s bar. If this guy is still alive, Charlie, I want him. If he is still alive, it’s because someone provided some serious surgical intervention. We’ve gone around to the usual off-the-books doctors and nobody has seen our guy, but we’re getting wind there’s a new guy in town that might have the ability to handle this. I was thinking you might know who this guy is.”

Charlie sat back in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left and stroked his beard with his right hand. “I think I know of whom you speak, Detective. Excuse me for a moment while I make an inquiry.”

Boone pushed himself out of his chair and left his office walking down the hall and they heard a door shut.

Wire leaned over and whispered, “He is a character.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mac replied quietly. “And he is smart, and not only street-smart but business smart. He is a very wealthy man for a reason.”

They heard the door open and footsteps coming back down the tile-floored hallway and then Charlie strolled back into the room.

“Mac, the man you want is Dr. Michael Lupo.” Boone handed Mac a note with an address in Edina along with a phone number.

“What’s his story, Charlie?” Mac asked.

“One of my people mentioned him to me a few weeks ago. He was a doctor in New York City who offered his services to those engaging in nefarious activities, of course, and then he did some of that concierge doctoring like you see on that TV show.” Charlie walked over behind his bar and poured some Crown into his coffee. It was time to start the day. “Anyway, Lupo made a lot of money out east but was starting to feel the heat from your brethren in the NYPD. So about a year ago he skedaddled west and quietly settled in Edina.”

“Where is Edina?” Wire asked.

“Wealthy inner-ring suburb just southwest of Minneapolis,” Mac answered.

Boone nodded. “That’s right. I suspect once he got the lay of the land around here he started putting out feelers. He’s doing the concierge thing again for the beautiful people out in Cake Town, but word is he also is doing some surgical work if the price is right. Apparently for work like that you have to have six figures wired to an offshore bank account to get in his door.”

Lupo sounded like their guy.

Mac took one last sip of his coffee and pushed himself out of the chair. “Charlie, if this is good, I will definitely owe you one.”

Charlie Boone shook his head and gave a dismissive wave, “Mac, given the night’s events, this one is free of charge.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“We have a plane waiting.”

Sometimes in an investigation you need a little luck and, even better, you need the other side to be unlucky, and when the two converge together, well, so much the better.

Mac called in Lupo’s name to the Edina Police Department who put an unmarked car on his house near Interlachen Country Club while Mac organized a party from St. Paul to come over and look things over. When the Edina detective arrived at Lupo’s a little after 5:00 a.m., the house was awake, lights on in several rooms. Ten minutes later the garage door opened and Lupo backed his Jaguar out of his garage and was on his way in a hurry. The detective carefully tailed him five miles west across Edina to Highway 169. Lupo traveled south on 169 to Valley View Road and then made his way west to the back end of a past-its-prime cinder block industrial park in Eden Prairie. Lupo went in the front door of an unmarked one-story building. The shades over the singular front window were drawn. The Edina detective found a good location a block back on the second level of a parking garage to keep an eye on Lupo’s car. That was at 5:25 a.m.

At 5:45 a.m., Mac and Wire met up with Rockford, Riley, Double Frank and Paddy McRyan in the parking lot of Braemar Ice Arena a mile to the east. A contingent from Eden Prairie and Edina arrived five minutes later. The lead officer, Detective Younkers from Eden Prairie, impressed Mac, arriving with a search warrant.

“How’d you get a search warrant on what we have?” Wire asked. She and Mac had discussed a search warrant on the way down and agreed that on what they had, the chances of getting the warrant would be, at best, one-in-five and more likely one-in-ten.

“Hennepin County Judge Kale is a former prosecutor,” Younkers replied, then with a devious smile added, “He’s our go-to guy and loves the late night stuff. He’d sign a search warrant on his mother. So how do you want to handle this?”

“We need to go in strong,” Mac said. “If our guy is in there, he could have some friends hanging around or even inside and they’ll be strapped. So a show of force, vested up, coming in heavy is the way to go.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Younkers replied and he pulled out a map and spread it across the trunk of his Crown Victoria. “Lupo’s space is in the middle of this building,” he said, pointing to a building sitting at the bottom of a U-shaped office park. There was a two-lane street, small grass and sidewalk median and then parking lot in the front of the building with a narrow service driveway that wrapped its way around the back of the building. Younkers then pulled out another sheet that had the building’s interior layout. Lupo was in the middle of the three spaces for the building. The doctor’s office space was thirty feet wide by sixty feet deep. There was a front door and one on the back side. The internal layout that Younkers had was for the space’s previous tenant, which was a small machine shop. The front thirty feet of space was occupied by a small reception area and two interior offices, one on each side of the hallway leading to the back which was an open space, presumably what had been the machining area. “My guess, Detective McRyan, is that if he’s doing surgery in there, it’s in the back, as the front offices look a little small for what he’d likely need.”

Mac nodded as he soaked in the interior map.

“We have twelve people here,” Younkers said. “I’d say we go in with six in the front and six in the back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You ready then?”

“Lead the way,” Mac answered.

Everyone geared up, pulling on their vests and making a quick check of their weapons. Mac let Younkers take the lead in an unmarked with another detective. Mac and Wire followed in his Yukon and the others fell in behind and the motorcade made its way over to Lupo’s office.

While Mac and Wire were driving down from Boone’s to the rendezvous point at the ice arena, the background on Lupo arrived on Mac’s phone. Wire read out the background as Mac drove. Lupo was a surgeon until he was fired for violating hospital policy in New York City to save a patient. That was six years ago. From that point forward, he maintained his medical license but was not part of a medical practice with a clinic or surgical facility.

“He didn’t even retain privileges anywhere?” Mac asked.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

It appeared from his history that it was after his firing that he discovered off-the-books doctoring and the concierge practice. Mac suspected that if they started digging into his financials they’d find the concierge work was reported for tax purposes and served as a cover for the off-the-books work, which may have well been more lucrative, especially if he was now charging six figures for surgical services. Presumably that kind of money would keep the gangbangers and dope dealers away and you’d only be dealing with discreet people with serious cash and no desire to be discovered.

Riley and Rockford were with the group going around the back and Younkers let them go on ahead into the industrial office park and work their way behind Lupo’s building. Once in position, Younkers did as planned and gunned it for the front door, pulling his Crown Vic right to the front door. Mac came in on Younkers’s left and Double Frank and Paddy to his right. The Eden Prairie detective walked right to the front door and started pounding. The door was tinted black. It was impossible to see inside and there was no interior light visible. After ten seconds there was no answer, then Younkers pounded on the door again and this time yelled, “Michael Lupo! This is the Eden Prairie Police Department, we have a search warrant!” Younkers knocked again and Mac shared a look with Wire. They’re inside getting ready for us. Mac pulled his Sig Sauer out of his holster.

Then the front door opened and Riley stuck his head out, “What’s new, guys?”

“What’s going on in there?” Younkers asked.

“The good doctor tried to evade you out the back where he fell into our loving arms,” Riles reported with a smile. “Rock has him in cuffs in back. So come on in.”

The interior was the same as the diagram. There was a small waiting area and a hallway led to the back between two offices. In the back was a sterile area behind vinyl curtains where there was a hospital bed/surgical table with a body laying on it. Wire opened the zipper of the vinyl curtains and went inside and took one look at the man. “That’s him.”

“No question?” McRyan asked.

“No question, Mac. No question at all.”

Mac walked over to Lupo who was standing against the back wall, his hands cuffed behind his back. “Unhook him,” he said to Rock who did so. Lupo rubbed his wrists. “Sit down.” The doctor did as instructed. Mac pulled up a chair in front of Lupo, turned it backwards and sat down and handed him the search warrant. “That covers everything in here and your home.”

Lupo read through it and then looked up and Mac flashed his shield. “I’m Detective McRyan with the St. Paul Police Department. Right now, you want to start thinking about how you can help yourself because, Doc, you are in a world of hurt. And I’m pretty sure we’ll call our good friends with the NYPD. I imagine they’d like to catch up with you as well. Of course, if you help us, then we can forget that New York is looking for you and we’ll deal with your issues here in the friendly confines of Minnesota.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Lupo cowered, putting his hands up. “I’ll help. I’ll help. What do you need?” Lupo asked.

“The man you’ve operated on killed two people tonight and we think perhaps a third two days ago. So for starters, I need to know this man’s name.”

The doctor rubbed his face and shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know his name, Detective,” Lupo replied. “I was contacted about my services around 10:40 p.m. and that the patient needed immediate surgery for gunshot wounds. I quoted my price and the money was in my account within five minutes. Two men dropped him off here at the back door around 11:30 p.m. and I went to work. Obviously I don’t operate like a normal clinic. I don’t have medical records for this kind of work.”

“Did he have a wallet?”

“Not that I found when I went through his clothes.”

Wire had slipped on rubber gloves and was going through the killer’s clothing, which consisted of blue jeans, a bloody black mock turtleneck, and a black leather coat. But as was the case when Wire shot him, he didn’t have a wallet or anything to identify him.

“What’s his medical status?” Mac asked.

Lupo looked over at his patient, “To state it simply, he’s in critical condition. He was shot three times in the chest. It’s touch and go right now as he’s been out of surgery for only a few hours.”

“What are you supposed to do with him?” Riley asked.

“I’m supposed to get a phone call soon to provide an update on his condition. All they wanted me to do was patch him up good enough so he could travel but he’s not close to ready for that yet. We have to get him out of the woods first and he’s nowhere near there.”

“Travel to where?” Wire asked.

Lupo shook his head, “Hell if I know. The two guys who dropped him off were scary as hell, kind of like you two,” he pointed to Rock and Riley. “So I didn’t ask where they were going to. I don’t know and I didn’t care. I minded my business and got my two hundred grand.”

“Well, you’re going to need every last dollar of it to get yourself out of this jam,” Mac said as he walked away and nodded towards Wire, Riley and Rock to follow him to the front reception area.

“So what do you guys think?”

Riles and Rock shrugged their shoulders. “We’ll go through this place to see if there is any record of who this guy is but I got the feeling he was telling the truth.”

“Yeah, the Hippocratic Oath doesn’t seem to matter much to him but I get the vibe that he’s telling the truth about the guy,” Wire said. “He doesn’t know who he is. Lupo got his money, patched him up as best he could and was going to be happy to send him on his way when he was good to be moved. That’s how these doctors roll.” Wire’s phone started vibrating. “It’s the Judge. I should take this,” she said as she moved into one of the offices to talk.

Mac nodded to Rockford, who was holding a camera. “Bobby, let’s get photos of this guy’s face, check his arm for tats or anything else that could be identifying and let’s get this guy’s picture over to Duffy and put it in his queue to see if he can tell us who he is.”

“On it, Mac.”

As Rockford walked to the back, Younkers joined them in the reception area. “What do you guys think?”

“I think two things. First, our guy is in critical condition and if I’m reading Lupo right, it’s maybe 50/50 at best, could go either way. We need to get a surgeon over here stat to confirm that and take over care. Call over to Fairview Southdale or North Memorial and see if we can get a surgeon out here on the QT. I don’t want this guy moved until he’s stable enough to be moved. Second, we leave eight guys inside here,” Mac answered. “We have double that hang around nearby and see if they call. If they do, Lupo tells them their guy is ready to be picked up. If they show, we pounce. If not, at worst, we have our killer. We can keep working on finding out who let him off the leash.”

Wire walked back into the front of the room, “Mac, we have a plane waiting.”

* * *

Moriarity and Holmes sat in the front seats of their latest vehicle, now a black Dodge minivan. Their position up on a small hill two blocks west of Lupo’s office allowed them to look down on the office and take in the front and the back of the business. They saw the three unmarked cars roll around the back and Moriarity said: “That doesn’t look promising.

“No, it doesn’t, they came in fast,” Holmes answered. “And that looks even worse,” he added after seeing the three unmarked cars roll up to the front of the office thirty seconds later. He put the night vision binoculars to his eyes and focused on the front door. “The one doing the knocking has a document in his right hand.”

“Search warrant?”

“I don’t know American law very well,” Holmes answered. “However, it does seem fast to have gotten one if that’s what it is.”

The two men saw the knocking on the front and then looked to the back and saw Lupo try to sneak out the back, only to be immediately taken and cuffed by two large police officers with the other four rushing inside. Holmes reached for his cell phone. “Kristoff, we have a problem on Foche. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to walk away.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I want justice.”

As Mac looked out the plane’s window, he thought about the fact he’d never worked a case like this with the ramifications that it potentially had. The investigation had a tremendous momentum all its own and it wasn’t ready to stop any time soon. It was like pulling at a loose thread. If you pulled one out, three more appeared ready to be pulled until the whole shirt fell apart. The case had so many potential permutations; it was hard to know which one to follow.

The McCormick and Montgomery murders were largely closed. A double murder solved in less than twelve hours plus possibly another one from two days ago. He had the killer at Lupo’s office. There were two impeccable witnesses to identify him. If the man survived his wounds, he was going away for life. That they didn’t know who the man was wasn’t an issue, they’d get his identity eventually. If someone showed to pick him up, so much the better and easier.

The question nagging him, and Wire, not to mention the chief and the Judge, who had now made common cause, was who hired the killer? Someone let the dog out to hunt. Who?

Judge Dixon was emphatic it wasn’t the vice president. Mac thought back to something he learned long ago from his father and that was that politicians always leave themselves a way out. If the night’s events were being orchestrated by Vice President Wellesley, he wasn’t leaving himself a way out. Mac wasn’t going to vote for Wellesley, but from what he’d seen and read on the vice president through the years, he thought him to be a pretty decent and smart man.

In Mac’s mind, Dixon was right. This wasn’t the vice president’s play. It may have been the play of a smart man, but not a decent one.

At this point, that left Connolly, and perhaps Checketts and the other two men at the Kentucky meeting.

Were they the ones behind all this?

Mac and Wire’s operating theory said they were. They were at the Kentucky meeting and everything seemed to start there. That’s when the bodies started dropping. The two men had some hard questions that needed answering. Sometime, and sometime very soon, Connolly was going to be confronted. In Mac’s mind, that’s what should be happening right now, Connolly was the bigger fish. But Judge Dixon put on his old prosecutor hat. “Mac, it’s time to start building a case. When you’re building a case, you start with the smaller fish and get them in line for when you go after the big one. Connolly is the big fish. Checketts is a smaller fish and I’m betting the more frail fish. We go after him first.”

We? How did Dixon become part of we? How did Mac become part of we?

Mac was starting to wonder who he was working for, the city of St. Paul or had he unwittingly been loaned by his boss to Dixon. His gut told him the latter and that gave him some pause, simply because in whatever he did as a cop, he was not partisan, he was not political. His political views he kept close. Mac never told anyone who he voted for, other than Sally.

His name was well enough known and he had done enough as a cop in St. Paul, closed enough important cases in a short period of time, that if he’d wanted, he could have built himself a political platform. The chief before Flanagan was still in the Minnesota Legislature as a State Senator. Mac had been approached twice by the DFL to get involved in politics. Given his success, background, education and brain power, there was more out there for him and politics could be one avenue, but he steadfastly refused. First, Mac couldn’t be pigeonholed politically as strictly a Democrat or Republican, he’d voted for both over his life. His views did not toe either party line. Generally speaking, he was fiscally conservative and socially liberal but even within those broad political philosophies there were many exceptions. Second, and more importantly, Mac couldn’t stand most of today’s politicians, hated their handlers even more and found the whole process distasteful simply because nothing ever got done. All people did was run for office so they could run for office again. It was about saving their job rather than doing the work that needed doing. What was the point of participating in that? As a cop, as a detective, he could solve a problem and see a tangible end result. He explained that to the mayor five months ago when politics came up again and he declined to even take a meeting on running for office. Mac had no interest in pursuing a new job, particularly one in politics.

The mayor asked: “Politics aside, Mac, let’s talk about your future given your education, background and brain power; is being a cop enough for you?”

“It’s enough for now.”

What Mac did was not political but he suddenly found himself embroiled in politics and doing the political bidding for one side. And the stakes of this political game couldn’t be higher.

Of course, the stakes are what piqued his interest. Where did this whole thing lead? What was really going on? Was Heath Connolly really behind all of this?

It was like the chief said: “Mac, you’ve been offered a chance to play quarterback in the Super Bowl. Are you going to walk off the field or are you going to get under center and call a play?”

* * *

Wire felt the plane start to gently descend and knew that they were on the approach to Milwaukee. She sat back and a wave of sadness washed over her and her eyes again teared. Since the shooting, she had been on the go, saving Shelby and the Judge, dealing with the crisis, investigating with McRyan and finding Sebastian’s killer. The adrenaline of that had kept her going and suppressed her emotions.

But now, for the first time since seeing Sebastian lying dead on the floor, there was time to think about his death, about the loss, of what life would be like without one of her best friends. While there was a certain feeling of satisfaction in finding the killer, in identifying him, in knowing that he was caught and would go away for life, it did little to alleviate the sadness or the emotion of the loss.

At first, she kept thinking that if she’d only gotten there sooner. If she’d driven faster, ran to the house instead of being so cautious in her approach, Sebastian wouldn’t be dead. It was only a few seconds between him being dead or alive.

“Dara, honey, how could you have known?” the Judge had said to her as they walked from McRyan’s Yukon to the plane. “You handled it like a pro and you’re not dead because of it. This is not your fault. You saved one life and maybe more. It was just Sebastian’s time and when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

She was amazed by the Judge. The man was broken up inside, she could tell, but he had such a capacity to shut that emotional drawer for now and focus on the immediate problem, the election and making sure it wasn’t stolen from them.

Wire did not have that capacity, at least not right now. Everything was mixing together in her mind and she couldn’t stop thinking of Sebastian.

They’d briefly dated but it wouldn’t have worked long-term. They were too much alike. Hard chargers, alphas, Type As. There was no yin to the yang. A long-term relationship would have been one battle after another in a long and drawn-out war. The short attempt at a relationship was just that, a daily battle and then intense make-up sex at the end of the night. It was intense, it was hot, but it wasn’t a recipe for long-term success.

Oddly enough, out of that experience they formed a close friendship.

Sebastian was there for her when she’d been forced out of the bureau. His phone calls, texts and e-mails of support were part of what helped her get through those trying times. Sebastian, and the Judge, helped her start her consulting business, feeding her potential clients that allowed her to move on and flourish personally and financially. When Sebastian and Dixon called six months ago, the chance to work for and with her friend again, the chance to help him achieve this ultimate goal of the White House, had been a gift.

Now he was gone.

She thought of what he might say to her if he could see her right now. Sebastian was one for tough love. He was not one to provide a soft shoulder to cry on. Rather there was encouragement and there was motivation, a constant reminder to get up off the mat and get going. If he were here right now he’d tell her to suck it up and get back to it. Don’t just sit there. Do something.

She exhaled, sat up in her chair, dabbed at her eyes, sniffled and caught McRyan looking right at her.

“What?”

“There’s someone out there who called the shot on McCormick. What do you want to do about that?”

“I want justice.”

“Then let’s go get it.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Wisconsin, Iowa, Virginia and Colorado.”

The Judge looked out the window of the conference room at the sun breaking above the horizon against the piercing blue sky. Not a cloud to be seen, yet he couldn’t help but feel the storm clouds building all around him. He took a sip of his coffee with his left hand while he rolled a cigar with his right, deep in thought, evaluating his next move or what the opposition’s next move would be.

Of course, the question had now become: Who was the opposition?

For the past two years it had been the vice president. Even when they were in the primaries, it was always about the vice president. But now, Wellesley didn’t seem to be their only opposition. The Judge felt like he was suddenly fighting a two-front war, one against the vice president and the other against Connolly and whoever the political sociopath recruited to do his dirty work.

Governor Thomson stood to his immediate right, awake after a quick two hours of sleep. Thomson, now in a fresh white dress shirt, navy blue tie and dark blue pinstripe suit pants, took in the view with his campaign manager. The governor’s flight for Detroit was leaving within the hour. Until then, his suit coat would remain draped over a conference room chair.

“Have you spoken with McCormick’s mother yet?”

“Briefly,” Dixon replied quietly. “Thankfully she made it easy.”

Thomson looked over, “How so?”

“She said we better win or his death would be for naught.”

“She saw your press conference, didn’t she?”

The Judge nodded. Dixon left no doubt that the murder was politically motivated. That statement, in and of itself, was a bomb to drop and one that would be Talker in the media all day. It would come up at every campaign stop, would be a constant topic of conversation on the plane and the governor would be dealing with it all day. They discussed the strategy for handling it which was, the murder was political but they would let the investigation play out. Nevertheless, the Judge knew what the governor would desire and smiled inwardly when it finally came out.

“You need to keep me updated on what you find today,” the governor said quietly. “I want hourly updates. I have to know what’s going on.”

Dixon took in the request and considered it for a moment. He knew it was coming but he couldn’t let the governor be distracted by the investigation and what they’d found. Given the events of the past twenty-four hours, the media was paying particular attention to how Thomson was handling the death of a key campaign staffer. Sadly, how he handled this situation would be a test of his leadership in the eyes of the media, political pundits and potentially undecided voters. He needed to be focused on the campaign and the job at hand and could not be distracted by the investigation.

“Governor, I’ll let you know when there is something you need to know. You will learn quickly come mid-January of next year that you can’t monitor and manage every situation. In fact, you closely monitor and manage very few of them. You will have to trust in your people to do their jobs. They’ll come to you when a decision needs to be made and let you know what your options are and then you can exercise your best judgment and make a decision. The same thing is true here. Right now, there is nothing you can do so let me and my people worry about it. We have a campaign plan through Monday. You follow that to the letter and let me worry about the rest. If we find something that you need to know, I will tell you and we can decide what to do. But for now, let me worry about this DataPoint business and you worry about campaigning your ass off.”

The Judge looked Thomson in the eye. The governor nodded and said, “Okay.”

Dixon took in a longer look at his candidate. A grueling two-year campaign had taken its toll. The governor’s once jet black hair was now salt and pepper and a little bit thinner along the top. There were a few more crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes and an added wrinkle or two in his forehead. The Judge thought of how two years ago when they started this, how his man was just trying to keep his head above water in those first few months, overwhelmed by the process. He was speaking to small crowds, struggling to be heard, light on cash, just one of many voices seeking to be the voice of the party. It was tough in those early months, but the governor did what the Judge knew he would and could do. He just kept grinding at it day after day, picking up one vote at a time, one endorsement at a time, one debate victory at a time and by the time the primaries started last January, he had the buzz and the momentum. The governor swept through the Iowa caucuses, took New Hampshire by two points and from there rolled through the primaries locking up the nomination by Super Tuesday. James Thomson went from a relative unknown governor of a mid-sized state to the precipice of the White House.

There was a knock on the door and the two men turned to see Sally Kennedy. With her were two campaign aides named Bagnoli and McGrann. Upon their return to campaign headquarters, the Judge assigned Sally the task of figuring out where DataPoint had voting machines. The Judge pointed to her: “So what have you found?”

“DataPoint has voting machines in twenty-two states,” Sally replied. McGrann and Bagnoli laid out a map of the United States, with DataPoint states marked.

“Twenty-two?” the governor replied, stunned.

Sally held up her hands, “Before anyone panics, they have a number of machines in states that are either clearly ours or the vice president’s. We haven’t spent two minutes thinking about Kentucky, Oklahoma, Alabama or Texas because they’re not coming our way, but DataPoint has machines in big chunks of those states. They also have them in much of the Northeast where we lead just about every state by twenty points or more. The vice president hasn’t been up in that neck of the woods since the primaries. Those states don’t worry us.”

“Which states do?” Dixon asked.

Sally exhaled. “Wisconsin, Iowa, Virginia and Colorado. DataPoint has a big market share in those states.”

Dixon, rarely one to show any emotion, cringed. Those were four of the most hotly contested states.

“What about Ohio?” Thomson asked.

“Not that we see,” Sally answered, pointing to Ohio on the map. “DataPoint is not the supplier to any part of that state that we’ve seen.”

“But we have four of the states that are very much in play,” the Judge stated. “And DataPoint has their machines in those states.”

“Looks like it,” Sally answered. “The spread in Colorado is about six points right now, correct?”

“Yes,” replied the Judge.

“Then if we were to assume the worst, isn’t that going to be a hard one to explain if the vote shifts six points?”

“Maybe,” the Judge answered. “Depends on what happens between now and Tuesday.”

“Wait a minute,” the governor ordered and then remarked. “DataPoint has machines in those states, but isn’t the relevant question how recently the machines were put into those states?”

“Yes, sir. That’s one key question of many. We don’t know the answer—yet,” Sally answered. “We need to find out. With the day getting started, we can start calling around to the states and get some answers. If it was a long time ago, then it would probably be more difficult to manipulate the machines. However, maybe repairs were needed? Maybe upgrades were installed? We need to find answers to all of these questions.”

“Of course, if machines were put in recently, that would be of serious concern as well,” the Judge added.

“How about going to the source on this?” Governor Thomson asked. “How about going after DataPoint?”

The Judge smiled. “I’ve sent McRyan and Wire to Milwaukee to do just that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Milwaukee.”

Saturday, November 2nd

Their plane touched down at 7:23 a.m. and taxied to the back corner and a small hanger where a campaign aide waited with a rental for them. Mac was on the phone with Riley as they exited the plane so Wire jumped behind the wheel of their rental car, a black Acadia. She programmed in the address for Peter Checketts while the pilot placed their bags in the back of the SUV.

Riley reported that all remained quiet at Lupo’s office. Nobody had called on their package as of yet. A trauma surgeon from nearby Fairview Southdale was on the scene monitoring the killer’s condition, which remained critical.

“Doc says he’s still not ready to be moved. He’s too weak and frail. It’s still very much touch and go at this point.”

“So all remains quiet?” Mac asked.

“Very,” Riley replied. “We’ve got a ton of people in place if they show, but Lupo said they should have checked with him at 6:00 a.m. He never got a call. They called at 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. so my sense is …”

“They know you’re there,” Mac answered.

“We came in heavy when we did, which we had to given all that had happened, but I’m starting to think …”

“They were probably watching the doc’s place from a distance, saw us roll in and evacuated the area.”

“That’s my sense of it dude, sorry,” Riles answered. “So where are you?”

“Milwaukee.”

“Milwaukee?” Riles replied with surprise. “As in Wisconsin?”

“Is there any other Milwaukee? We’re on our way to Whitefish Bay. It’s a ritzy suburb north of the city sitting on Lake Michigan.”

“What the hell are you doing there?” Riles asked dumfounded.

“Long story short, Dixon is pulling strings. He wants Wire and me to get after Checketts and see what he can tell us.”

“If you guys are right and this case is about voting machines, isn’t that federal?”

“That part is,” Mac agreed, although some of the jurisdiction issues between state and federal could get a little tricky.

“I would have thought he’d want the bureau on that,” Riles said.

“Me too,” Mac replied. “But if the bureau is on it, that means word might get back to Connolly and …”

“Ahhh, and he wants his ducks in a row before …”

“We, or the bureau, or he, or some combination of all of that, goes after Heath Connolly. This is one part a good investigational move and another part political. Besides, this is still a murder investigation. Someone hired that guy. I want to know who and that remains my jurisdiction. Checketts is part of that and Wire and I want a shot at him before we try to go after Connolly.”

“We’re getting close,” Wire said as she turned right onto a residential street, the dark blue waters of Lake Michigan visible in the distance as they descended down a slight incline towards the lake.

“Riles, I gotta go. Keep in touch.” Mac hung up.

The background on Checketts was that he was divorced for three years. His ex-wife now lived at their former vacation home in Naples, Florida. Checketts kept their Whitefish Bay home overlooking Lake Michigan. Other than running his company, a little research revealed that Checketts also owned a condo in Sin City and there was some allusion in a few background articles that he liked to frequent the casinos in Vegas.

Mac was fine continuing to pursue the case to Milwaukee and even accepting the campaign jet plane ride, but if he was going into another cop’s town, you called the cops in that town. Chief Flanagan had already called ahead to his opposite number in Milwaukee who then phoned up to Whitefish Bay. The Milwaukee chief offered to have his guys shadow St. Paul and Whitefish Bay agreed. That’s why, waiting in a playground parking lot in a black Crown Victoria, were two Milwaukee homicide detectives. Wire pulled up next to them and she and Mac hopped out of the Acadia.

Mac approached the detective on the passenger side and pulled out his shield. “Detective McRyan from St. Paul.”

“Detective Herdine from Milwaukee PD,” a tall thinning redhead answered, extending his hand. “That short guy over there is my partner Detective Kaufman.”

“Who ya calling short?” Kaufman replied while shaking his head, although he was a good three to four inches shorter than his partner. “Herdine just gets pissed because I take him for everything at the golf course.”

Mac laughed and introduced his partner, “This is Dara Wire. She is, shall we say, currently unaffiliated with a law enforcement agency but she is a former fed and has been consulting with us in our investigation back in St. Paul.” Everyone shook hands.

“So you two were involved in all the action in St. Paul last night, eh?” Kaufman asked. “We saw it on the news this morning at the station.”

“We were,” Wire answered and yawned. “We’ve been on the go ever since.”

“Well, what can this Mr. Checketts tell you about all that?” Herdine asked casually, taking out a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum. He then offered gum to everyone else who obliged.

“Detective Herdine, that is exactly what we would like to find out,” Mac answered and then he and Wire tag teamed in giving the two detectives a little background on the investigation. “Ever since the meeting in Kentucky on Wednesday night, bodies have been dropping and we think Mr. Checketts can provide us a little insight into who is behind that,” Wire said, finishing up.

“You guys have any idea who that might be?” Kaufman asked.

“We have a theory,” Wire answered. “We don’t think it’s Checketts, per se.”

“But Checketts is either in on it or knows who’s calling the shots,” Mac added.

Herdine nodded and said, “Well then, let’s go see the man and see what he has to say for himself.”

Kaufman jumped behind the wheel and led them down the remainder of the block and pulled into the circular driveway for Checketts’s home, a sprawling two-story spread sitting grandly on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. The house itself had white siding, black shutters and looked for all intents and purposes like it could have been plucked from an oceanfront summer home on Cape Cod. To the right of the home was a detached three-stall garage. One stall door was open and a black BMW Alpina B7 was parked inside. “Nice car,” Wire noted.

“Means he should be home,” Mac added.

Kaufman parked under the large portico in front and Wire pulled in behind. Everyone filed out and Kaufman looked to Wire, “You may have the honor.”

Wire pressed the doorbell twice and waited. There was no answer. She hit it again and then knocked. “Mr. Checketts, it’s the police. Open up.” The group waited another minute and then shared a look. Nothing was stirring in the house. It was eerily quiet and still. The only noise was the waves crashing the shoreline around the back of the house.

Everyone’s gut told them something didn’t seem right.

Wire pulled out her Sig and let it hang at her side and Mac soon followed. Kaufman nodded to Herdine who walked over to the garage and the open stall. He touched the hood of the Beamer and then briefly disappeared inside the garage. After a few seconds, he reemerged and quickly walked back over. “Engine’s cold on the Beamer, as are the ones for the Tahoe and the sweet candy apple red Porsche in the third stall.”

“Let’s take a look around,” Mac suggested. “Dara, Detective Kaufman and I will head around the back. You and Detective Herdine watch the front.”

McRyan and Kaufman went around the left side of the house, peering in windows. Mac looked in the corner window, which was for a smaller eating area just off the kitchen that opened into a large area of couches, chairs and a fireplace with exposed beams thirty feet up to the ceiling and that’s when he saw it. “Ahhhhh, shit,” he groaned.

“What? What did you see?” Kaufman asked.

Mac took off running around the back of the house, up onto the patio to the wall of twenty-foot-high windows looking out to the lake and pointed inside. “That.” Mac holstered his Sig. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered in disgust.

Framed in the large windows looking out to Lake Michigan was Peter Checketts. From an exposed beam twenty feet up, he was hanging by a rope around his neck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Suicide? Seriously?”

Kristoff buckled his seatbelt as the pilot told him they were ready to take off. He was leaving a team of two behind to monitor the situation at Checketts’s, to make sure what he left behind was interpreted properly by the authorities once they arrived and in time they would arrive. He hoped it would be a day or two; given it was a Saturday morning and Checketts lived alone, there was a decent chance that would be the case. He wanted it to go down as a suicide. Given the victim’s financial circumstances, it would be easy for the police to piece it all together if they were so inclined.

He took a sip of his wine. As he looked out the window while the plane taxied, he made a mock toast to Foche, his comrade in arms.

Kristoff met Foche when they were both with the General Directorate for External Security, the French equivalent of the CIA. Foche was five years his junior but he’d identified him as an exceptional candidate to be a field agent and Foche had not disappointed. They served their country ably for years around the world. However, a joint intelligence and military operation in Afghanistan in 2002 with the United States went awry. It was Kristoff’s operation but it failed, not due to his planning or execution, but because of an American security breach in Kabul that caused Kristoff and Foche to walk thirty men into a Taliban ambush in Kandahar. Kristoff, and by extension Foche as his right-hand man, were the scapegoats for the French. The two intelligence officers were moved out of the field, professionally humiliated and moved to a desk in the General Directorate where they would be quietly phased out. Their careers in the field were over. Field work was all the two men knew. It was all they wanted to do. It was what they were built to do.

Then the Bishop rescued them.

The Bishop knew what really happened in Afghanistan, knew of their exemplary records and of their capabilities. What the Bishop needed was two men who could speak multiple languages, operate in the shadows, hire the right people, be ghosts when need be and have little compunction about killing if and when it was necessary. In return for this risky work they would be paid handsomely.

They’d both gotten their hands dirty in Afghanistan and long before for menial pay and love of country. Now, they would be paid beyond their wildest dreams to do the kind of work they were built to do. Their boss of the last ten years had lived up to every commitment that had been made and then some. Their loyalty to him was absolute. If the Bishop needed something, it was done, no questions asked.

Kristoff and Foche always knew it could come to an end. Their work was dangerous but they were elite. Until last night, they’d never failed, rarely came close to harm and never were remotely close to being identified. That was all no more.

Foche was in custody and fighting for his life. He was shot three times in the chest. Kristoff was surprised to find him still alive. He thought the police would assume he was removed from the house to be dumped. With that thought in mind, that would have given Foche time to hopefully be made well enough to travel and leave the country to recover if he survived. But McRyan didn’t think that way. Instead, in a mere seven hours, he’d found Foche. On a professional level, it left Kristoff extremely impressed.

Foche had been leery of McRyan from the get go, much more than Kristoff himself. Kristoff was an operational man, a problem solver, whereas Foche was the stronger of the two in accounting for the human component of what they were doing. He had an uncanny ability to read people. Kristoff’s partner was proven right yet again. McRyan was an extremely capable adversary.

Kristoff wished to fly back to Minneapolis to immediately and personally assess the situation of his friend. Could he break him free of police custody? Could he get him on a plane to safety? Would he even be healthy enough to travel? If given some time and resources, he was confident he could make it happen, no matter the odds.

Moriarity and Holmes knew this but warned him off nonetheless. His two men told him that the police presence surrounding Foche was robust and that it would require a significant assault to free him and even then the chances of success would be questionable at best. The police in the Twin Cities were now on full alert and no chances would be taken with the security around Foche, they said, if the force surrounding him at Lupo’s office was any indication. Nevertheless, Kristoff wanted to go back to see for himself.

The Bishop understood Kristoff’s desires, but they had to wait. The “oil well” that was their current crisis was still not fully capped and the next step in tying it all off would be far more difficult and an operational approach to taking care of that problem needed to be quickly developed.

Foche could and would have to wait. In fact, with regard to Foche, Bishop held a different concern. Would he talk? “I am loyal, Kristoff, this you know. But if he lives, will Francois talk?”

“Never,” Kristoff replied defiantly. “Francois will not break, I promise you. He knows that I will come for him. They may identify him but there is no way they can tie him back to you and he will not say a word.”

“In the long run, that he is in Minnesota is not the worst for us.”

“What do you know of the Minnesota penal system?” Kristoff asked.

“Minnesota does not have the death penalty for murder,” the boss answered. “If he is convicted of first-degree murder, he will get a life sentence. Minnesota prisons are not as bad as some other states, nor, might I add, as secure.”

“Then in time I will get him out.”

“And I’ll help,” the Bishop answered. “But first, we must finish this or it will not matter.”

“Understood.”

Kristoff poured himself another glass, “I will see you again, my friend,” he whispered and toasted Foche one more time and started contemplating his next move.

* * *

The two Milwaukee detectives, understanding what their Twin Cities colleagues had gone through and where their suspicions were coming from, treated the scene as a homicide.

Problem was, the scene looked an awful lot like a suicide.

There were no signs of any struggle or forced entry into the home, other than the efforts of McRyan to get inside from the patio to see if Checketts was still alive. There was no suicide note left behind. However, a look at the financials and correspondence on Checketts’s desk suggested a likely reason for his suicide, if that’s what this was. The man was broke. He’d lost millions in Vegas and owed millions more and he didn’t have the funds to cover it. He appeared to be ruined financially, at least on a personal basis. You could theorize how a person like Checketts, a successful businessman who was about to be broke, couldn’t face it. The crime scene techs weren’t finding anything inside the house to suggest otherwise and the coroner, at least preliminarily, said it looked like a suicide. That is what it looked like to Kaufman and Herdine as well, although they were both careful to say that is what it looked like. Mac could tell the two of them were on the ball with a healthy dose of police skepticism. He knew plenty of cops who would see the obvious, take it and never give it a second thought, never question if the obvious was actually the answer.

Mac walked out the back of the house and found Wire down by the edge of the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, talking on her cell phone.

“Yes sir, that’s correct,” Wire reported. “I will, sir.”

“Dixon?” Mac asked as he walked up.

Wire frowned and nodded and then asked skeptically. “Suicide? Seriously?”

“That’s what they’re saying,” Mac answered. “No suicide note, but in his office, his financial records are lying about. It would appear the man was personally broke. He owed a lot of money to casinos in Vegas and he didn’t have the equity to pay. So rather than face it, he hung himself. It’s wrapped up all nice and neat.”

“But you don’t buy it?”

McRyan shook his head as he looked out over the lake. “Awfully convenient, don’t you think,” it was a statement, not a question.

“They’re tying up loose ends?”

“Yeah, but whose loose ends? What did the Judge have to say?”

“That he needed some time to think,” Wire answered.

Wire and McRyan stared out over the bluff and into the deep blue waters of Lake Michigan, the cool winds refreshing after a long night’s work. “So last night these guys are in St. Paul, coming after Montgomery and taking McCormick in the process. I mean, in reality, Sebastian was just in the wrong place at the wrong time if you think about it.”

“Agreed.”

“So then they come over here and get Checketts before we can even talk to him.”

Wire nodded, “Because we now have the pictures with Checketts in them. He’s a liability now.”

“How did they do that? I mean, they’re shooting at us at what, almost 11:00 p.m. last night? We get here at a little after seven this morning. So that’s an eight-hour window and in reality a lot less than that to get over here to Milwaukee and do the deed. I wonder what time of death is for Checketts?”

Wire gave that a moment’s thought and then smiled. “There aren’t just people sitting here in Milwaukee you can hire on a moment’s notice to do this right?”

Mac shook his head and the raised his eyebrows, as if to say, go on.

“So they had to fly over here,” Wire said, a slight smile coming across her face. “And if you fly over here …”

“… there has to be a record of the flight,” Mac finished the sentence for her.

“Right,” Wire replied and then looked back out to the lake. “That’s right. I don’t suspect they flew over commercial.”

“I doubt there would have been one available at that time of night,” Mac answered. “It’s almost surely a small commuter plane or corporate jet like we flew over on.”

Wire folded her arms and put her finger to her lips, “I wonder how many places there are around here that you could fly into like that?”

“We need to start looking,” Mac answered.

“Given what these guys are capable of, there may not be a record of the flight,” Wire said.

“That could be,” Mac answered. “But I bet there’s a tower log of the flight or radar signature of the flight, something for a plane coming from Minneapolis/St. Paul over to Milwaukee or the surrounding area. If we move quickly enough they might not be able to erase the flight from the records.”

“Okay, so we look into that,” Wire stated as she turned to look at the house. “So this is no suicide. Checketts was murdered. How would you have done it?”

“You mean get into the house?” Mac answered, following Wire’s lead.

“Right.”

“Probably not from the front, the street is quiet but a car pulling up to a house like Checketts’s in the very early a.m. on a night people are out and about might draw some attention, so they don’t come in from the front.”

Wire and McRyan were standing at the far northeast corner of the property, ten feet back from the bluff overlooking the lake. She looked to her right, to the north, and the next four homes all had privacy fences of varying heights to define their property up to the bluff line overlooking the lake. Wire looked back to the south and the two houses in that direction had high wood privacy fences.

“Not from the sides,” they said in unison.

Wire started walking to the south, following the line of the bluff overlooking the lake. Two-thirds of the way across the property she stopped and a second later McRyan, who’d been following, joined her. There was a small path winding its way with right and left switchbacks through the tall grass down the steep face of the bluff to the lake.

Wire started, “If you stayed close to the bottom of the bluff …”

“… Nobody in any of the houses along here, even if they were looking, would have seen the approach,” Mac finished. He crouched down and looked at the path which was a combination of sand and trampled down grass. Stepping to the left side of the path and into the taller grass and bush, Mac carefully made his way fifteen feet down the bluff to a ten-foot open stretch of sand in the path. There were footprints leading up to and then back down the path from the top. The prints looked fresh and there were two sets, so two people. He pulled out his phone and took pictures of the prints.

“Get moulds?” Wire shouted down.

“Yeah, we should,” Mac answered back as he slowly picked his way farther down the path to another patch of sand at a switchback where the path turned left. The same prints appeared. However, the imprints of this second set of treads were deep and distinctive, this area of the path being flatter and damp, an area where water would collect during a rain. Mac crouched down and took more pictures with his phone. Satisfied, he carefully worked his way back up the steep bluff to Wire.

“There were a couple of fresh large footprints we found in a dirt garden in the yard behind McCormick’s house,” Mac stated.

“Maybe we get a match to these?” Wire offered with a little smile.

Mac nodded as he typed an e-mail on his phone, attaching the pictures.

“Who are you sending those to?”

“My cousin Paddy. He’ll get these compared to the moulds we took last night. If we get a match …”

“… We put this whole suicide into question,” Wire finished.

“Right,” Mac finished as he completed the e-mail and then looked up with a blank stare on his face. Wire saw it.

“What, Mac? What are you thinking?”

“Whoever is behind this just took out Checketts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And Stroudt, Montgomery and Sebastian as well.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I gotta warn Riley. They may not try to free their man in custody, but they may try to …”

“Finish off the job now that we have him,” Wire was following his train of thought and hers quickly shifted into gear. “You know, Mac, you could do this.” She explained her thoughts.

Mac replied with a smile, “That could work.” Mac pulled his cell phone out again and called Riley and explained his and Wire’s sudden epiphany. Riley understood.

“How is our shooter doing?” Wire asked Mac as Kaufman and Herdine approached.

“Riles says fifty-fifty at best,” Mac answered. “The trauma doc on the scene wants to move him, get him to the hospital.”

“Who is that you’re talking about?” Herdine asked.

“The man who shot McCormick last night? We have him in custody but he has several bullet holes in him courtesy of Ms. Wire here. We’re moving him from the off-the-books doctor we found him with to a nearby hospital,” Mac answered. “Speaking of medical issues, what’s preliminary time of death for Checketts?”

“Coroner puts it between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m.,” Herdine answered.

“Funny. And this happens just as we’re on our way to talk to him.”

Kaufman offered a smile, “This does kind of look like a suicide.”

“It does look like that,” Mac replied.

“But we don’t buy it either,” Kaufman answered. “Just a little too timely for my taste.”

“Good, then let me tell you what we’re thinking,” Wire answered. She posited her and Mac’s theory and mentioned the footprints and then their thoughts on flights from the Twin Cities. “We need to check on planes arriving and based on time of death, they would need to have arrived sometime after say midnight and before 4:00 a.m.”

“Now that sounds kinda interesting,” Kaufman answered, obviously intrigued.

“Can you guys look into that?” Wire asked.

Kaufman looked over to Herdine who nodded. “Why not,” Kaufman said and pulled out his phone.

While his partner walked a few feet away to make that call, Herdine continued. “Along the lines of how you guys are thinking, I have an interesting tidbit of information for someone who might not buy that this is a suicide. Turns out it’s been a tough run for DataPoint.”

“Oh, why do you say that?” Wire asked, perking up, catching Herdine’s leading tone.

“I got a call from my HQ a few minutes ago,” Herdine replied. “Three nights ago, Wednesday night, DataPoint’s CIO, Gabriel Martin, was killed in a hit and run accident in the city.” The Milwaukee detective smiled mischievously.

“Did you say Wednesday night?” Wire asked but was looking at Mac who mouthed, “Kentucky.”

“I did at that,” Herdine answered. “Interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”

“The coincidences are starting to pile up,” Wire replied, still locked on Mac.

“Thought you might say that,” Herdine replied and then offered a piece of paper out of his notebook. “I’ve got a guy you could talk to about that case, maybe you can share notes, perhaps help each other out? In fact, if you wanted to call him at that number in say ten minutes, I’m sure he’d be available to chat with you.”

* * *

Foucault put the binoculars on the scene from the northeast, a quarter mile away up the shoreline as it angled away from Checketts’s home. Vigneault worked the camera, taking photos, zeroing in on the two cops talking on the bluff. He looked away from the camera to the pictures on his tablet, then back into the camera and took three more photos. He checked the pictures and looked at the tablet again. “No doubt about it. That’s McRyan.”

“Can’t be. He was in Minnesota just a few hours ago.”

“It’s McRyan and he’s with a woman cop, or at least I think she’s a cop. She carries herself like a cop.”

“Take some pictures of her. What about that woman who fired on our guys at McCormick’s and then again at us outside that pub? Is that her?”

“Did we ever get a good description of her?” Vigneault asked as he snapped photos.

Foucault looked to his notes, “Tall, brunette, black jacket, knew how to handle a gun.” Foucault looked through his binoculars. “That could be her. She certainly fits the description.”

Vigneault smiled, “Was she described as good looking?”

Foucault put the glasses back up to his eyes, “She was not, but then again, the descriptions of her came from people under fire so I doubt they took in the aesthetics. However, my friend, I do see a tall brunette with her long hair in a ponytail who is rather fetching. She’s in a short black leather coat and she has a Sig Sauer on her belt but …”

“But what?”

“McRyan has his shield on his belt. I don’t see one on her.”

“Could be in her coat,” Vigneault posited.

“I suppose, or maybe she’s with another law enforcement agency. FBI agents don’t wear their badges on their belts or around their necks.”

“They also show up to crime scenes in functional dark suits or navy blue wind breakers with FBI in gold lettering, not skin tight blue jeans and stylish black leather coats,” Vigneault noted. “Hmpf.”

“What?”

Vigneault watched through the camera. “Take a look through your glasses.”

Foucault did and saw the woman working her way south along the shoreline, looking down the bluff towards the lake. She stopped and McRyan joined her. They looked at each other and there was some conversation. Then McRyan started down the bluff looking at the footpath. “Isn’t that the path you guys used?”

“Yes.”

McRyan stopped and started taking pictures with his cell phone. The St. Paul detective then worked his way farther down the path and did the same thing and then took another look farther down the path to the lake but did not go down any farther. After another minute, he made his way back up and he and the woman were then joined by the Milwaukee cops.

“I’m starting to think that our plan to make it look like a suicide is going to be questioned,” Foucault said.

Vigneault snapped a few more photos and then pulled the camera down. “You may be right. We came up that path so there are probably footprints. In the dark we couldn’t really see very well on the way up and back down but it seemed like mostly grass.” He hooked his camera up to his tablet and copied the photos into an e-mail to Kristoff. Then he pulled out his phone and made a call.

“Kristoff, I’m sending you photos to look at. McRyan is on the scene here, not just Milwaukee PD. Yes, McRyan. And I have pictures of a woman who is with him and seems to be investigating with him. I think she is the woman from St. Paul.”

* * *

Double Frank and Paddy McRyan followed the ambulance as it motored on Interstate 494 as it approached Highway 100. The trauma surgeon had pronounced the killer stable enough to travel to the hospital. There were two squad cars in front of the ambulance. Double Frank and Paddy were directly behind, followed by two more patrol units. The ambulance was riding quiet, no lights, driving the posted. A state patrol helicopter flew overhead.

Double Frank had his hand casually draped over the wheel when the ambulance started to accelerate. “What the …”

The ambulance lights and siren came on.

“Uh-oh,” Paddy uttered, “that doesn’t look good.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Whoa!”

Portsmouth, Virginia.

Kristoff sighed as he threw the strap for his suitcase over his shoulder and picked up his duffel bag and jumped into the cab he hailed. As he jumped into the backseat of his second taxi ride of the morning, he looked to his cell phone for a further update from Vigneault. He had not provided one since his last text ten minutes ago, merely indicating that they were following McRyan and his woman partner back into the city. Kristoff forwarded the pictures from Vigneault to the boss’s people to see if they could identify her. It might give them an idea of who else was investigating the case with McRyan.

This cab ride was the second of three switches in vehicles before he met with his boss. There were always multiple vehicles used when he went to see the boss. He expected this cab ride would take about twenty minutes for him to reach the Marriot in downtown Norfolk.

The Bishop.

The Bishop was what the boss told Kristoff he could call him the first time they met. It was actually a few years before he actually knew the boss’s real name, when he saw him in a television interview. The next time he saw the Bishop and he used the boss’s real name, the boss was not pleased. It was the last time Kristoff crossed that line. His real name would make him less anonymous and the boss liked his anonymity, especially when using Kristoff to do certain work on his behalf. And the boss used the Bishop moniker sparingly as well lest it become synonymous with his real name. Few used the name the Bishop and even fewer knew it referred to the boss. In fact, Kristoff’s men were not allowed to know who Kristoff worked for. The lone exception was Foche since they were recruited as a package by the Bishop. As far as the men knew, they worked for Kristoff, who worked for some shadowy figure. Since the men were always paid and paid well, they didn’t seem to care. Kristoff took care of them and they got paid, so they worked for Kristoff.

The one thing about the arrangement that was a concern to Kristoff was if something went wrong, all the boss had to do was eliminate Kristoff and Foche and there was no tie back to the Bishop. Kristoff often wondered whether he should have created some insurance for himself. It was a risk not to. However, the risk had been and was worth the reward. They could retire at any time in style now and never need to work another day. This adventure had Kristoff thinking it was finally time to walk away. First, he had to finish this problem off and second, figure out a way to get Foche free. If he could solve the first problem for the boss, he trusted the boss would help him with the second.

If Kristoff could finish this off.

The phone call from his men was disconcerting. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect McRyan to get to Milwaukee. It was inevitable. What he didn’t expect is that he would be there so quickly. Usually, the gears of getting a cop from one city to the next required miles and miles of bureaucratic red tape. In this case, McRyan was moving as fast and as freely as Kristoff himself. The St. Paul detective was all over this case.

The boss smelled Judge Dixon.

The Judge was pulling strings behind the scenes, the man’s specialty.

As the taxi made its way through the moderate mid-morning traffic of Norfolk, Kristoff took in the talk radio station the cab driver had on. The host was setting up his next segment with the talker of the morning, Judge Dixon’s early a.m. press conference and Governor Thomson’s follow-up presser. Dixon’s early morning press conference in front of Thomson Campaign Headquarters started the Thomson campaign on the offensive. They were presenting a determined, if not angry, front. The murder of McCormick was political. Adam Montgomery’s name was out now as the second victim and Jason Stroudt’s name came out as well as a possible third victim. Now all the questions were being asked. Why was Montgomery at McCormick’s house? What was he telling McCormick? Why was Stroudt in St. Paul two days earlier? Why was he murdered? Were all the murders connected? If it was political, what was the end game? Was this intended to impact the presidential election or was there something else going on?

Judge Dixon had made sure the question being asked by the media was what was Montgomery going to tell Sebastian McCormick? Montgomery was not confronting McCormick. Rather, he was going to tell him something important, something related to the campaign, something someone didn’t want getting out and something so bad that Montgomery could not be allowed to tell it. What? Nobody knew because they were killed before it could be told.

Dixon started the fire with his press conference. Thomson threw gas on the fire when he finished with: “There is more to this than just the murders. There are some people who will have to answer some very hard questions to explain their actions.” Thomson wouldn’t explicitly say if those people were related to the vice president’s campaign or organizations supporting the vice president’s campaign, but the implication couldn’t have been made more clear.

Kristoff knew that meant they had the photos. McRyan, and by extension the Thomson campaign, had the photo of Connolly and Checketts from Hitch’s lake place in Kentucky. Now Checketts was dead and that would make the news wire sooner or later and that would lead to more questions. Other questions would be asked about the other two men in the photos, Khrutov, the ex-KGB man, and his little friend.

Dixon’s press conference as well as Governor Thomson’s brief morning press conference had the media in full scandal mode and the vice president’s campaign was off balance. Despite there being almost no evidence made public that the vice president’s campaign was at all responsible, Dixon and Thomson effectively pushed the spotlight towards the Wellesley campaign and the outside groups supporting it while deftly noting the vice president was an honorable man. This was the first part of the political play. There would be more to come. But for now, the media was looking into the backgrounds of Montgomery and Stroudt to see if there was anything in their history that would indicate what this was all about. This had not gone unnoticed by the vice president’s people. The Wellesley campaign’s surrogates were on all the networks and all the shows, but despite their attempts to get ahead of the story and express sympathy to the victims, there was an air of defensiveness in their responses, even from the vice president. The defensiveness was juxtaposed against the grieving and purposefulness of the Thomson campaign and as was often the case in politics, those suffering from tragedy gained political momentum.

The boss had seen this coming, hence the cleanup in Milwaukee.

Now, there was one last loose end to take care of. Take care of that, let the boss’s plan play out and the election may yet go their way.

The cab pulled up to the entrance of the Marriott in downtown Norfolk. Kristoff exited the taxi, paid the driver and gathered his luggage. At the front desk, he collected an envelope with keys to a Ford Edge in the parking ramp and directions to meet his boss. As he reached the car, he received a text from his man Vigneault advising him to check his e-mail for pictures of a woman. He took a look at the directions to get to the Bishop. The drive would be a good three hours. In three hours, perhaps his boss could help with the identification of the woman in the photos.

He started up the Ford Edge and let it hum to life while he dug out his tablet to look at the photos from Vigneault. The rental package for the car included satellite radio. Kristoff turned it to FOX News radio.

“Our new lead story, the St. Paul Police are reporting that the man responsible for killing Sebastian McCormick and Adam Montgomery last night at McCormick’s St. Paul home has died. While the details remain sketchy, it appears that there was a shootout at McCormick’s wherein the man, who is alleged to have killed McCormick and Montgomery, was himself shot three times. Who he was shot by has not been disclosed. However, the killer escaped the scene at McCormick’s and received medical attention. He was found several hours later this morning in Eden Prairie, a western suburb of the Twin Cities, recovering from surgery to repair his wounds. The police have not yet disclosed where he underwent surgery other than to indicate it was not at a recognized medical facility. He was in the process of being transported from the location of his surgery to Fairview Southdale Hospital in suburban Edina when he went into cardiac arrest and he was unable to be revived.

There are many questions left to be answered by this incident last night. The authorities, and in particular the lead detective for the investigation, a Detective McRyan in St. Paul, have not made themselves available to the media as of yet to answer questions, pointing out that the investigation is ongoing.

FOX News Radio will continue to monitor this unfolding situation in St. Paul and bring you all of the latest updates from this news story that may have political ramifications for Tuesday’s elections. Again, our top story at this hour …”

Kristoff turned off the radio, leaned his head back against the headrest and let a tear run down his cheek.

* * *

Foucault maintained his distance behind McRyan and Wire as they drove back into Milwaukee.

“So where are they headed?” Foucault asked as he kept four cars back traveling south on Lake Drive.

“If I had to guess, they’re making a trip to DataPoint,” Vigneault replied, alternately watching their mark in front of them and checking his phone and tablet for further instructions. For now, it appeared they were simply to follow McRyan and monitor his movements and report in to Kristoff who was now on the East Coast.

The Acadia took a right turn onto East Juneau Avenue.

“I don’t think we’re going to DataPoint just yet,” Foucault said.

“No,” Vigneault replied. “I’d say we’re heading back towards someplace very familiar, however.”

* * *

Wire took Lake Drive down from Whitefish Bay into downtown Milwaukee. Once in downtown, she picked her way over as instructed by McRyan towards the bar district.

“Why am I not surprised you know how to get to the bar district?”

“That transparent, huh?” Mac answered with a smile.

“Let’s see, your family owns what I’ve come to learn is a famous …”

“Or infamous …”

Wire smiled and nodded in agreement, “… or infamous St. Paul bar and then the minute this Milwaukee cop mentions North Water Street, you’re like, that’s by Fitzgibbon’s Irish Pub, right?”

“I might have spent a night to two in this town. I hate the Packers but Milwaukee is an absolute blast. You should try Oktoberfest over here. It is an unbelievably good time.”

Their destination was a new twenty-story apartment tower on the northwest outskirts of downtown Milwaukee. The tower sat on the northern end of the North Water Street bar district McRyan so loved. Apartments on the east and north sides of the tower enjoyed spectacular unobstructed views of Lake Michigan. The west side of the tower overlooked the Milwaukee River and the south side faced the towers of downtown.

The front of the tower faced south onto East Juneau Avenue, a busy thoroughfare with a median dividing the east and west corridors of the street. Wire was driving west on East Juneau Avenue, passed the front of the apartment building, made a U-turn at Water Street and drove back east and parked on the opposite side of the median from the apartment building. They each took one final sip of coffee, their fuel for the past twelve hours, and pushed themselves back outside into the cool wet day. While the early morning had been crystal clear, clouds and coolness were quickly moving in and a light drizzle was falling. Luckily, when they stopped for coffee, Mac purchased two small umbrellas.

As expected, the detective waiting for them was standing underneath the entrance awning for the apartment building named the Waterview Tower. Herdine’s guy was a detective named Darwin Ring, who if he wasn’t a spitting image of Bobby Rockford, had to be some sort of relative, Mac thought. Ring was big, very black and when he smiled, there was a Michael Strahan like gap in his bright white front teeth. However, unlike Bobby Rock, Ring was an exceedingly snappy dresser with a sharp, perfectly tailored downtown black pinstripe suit, silver monogrammed dress shirt, accented with a vibrant purple tie and spit shined Kenneth Cole lace-up dress shoes. Ring topped it all off with a black classic center dent fedora and a long black umbrella that he leaned on. He was right out of Central Casting. Mac liked him before he met him.

“Detective Ring, I presume,” Mac said, extending his hand. “Mac McRyan, St. Paul.”

“Michael Mackenzie McRyan, you mean?” Ring replied with a hearty laugh and a booming voice. “I guess we’ll just have to call you 3M.”

Wire laughed uncontrollably.

Mac smiled, “I like it, Detective, I like it lot.” Then he looked to his temporary partner, “Detective Ring, this is Dara Wire.”

“Ahh,” Ring answered, his two hands swallowing her one. “You are the pretty unaffiliated cop my friend Herdine mentioned. It is my pleasure indeed.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Wire answered with a big smile.

Pleasantries were exchanged for another minute and then Wire moved to business, “Detective Ring, I assume your colleagues filled you in why we’re down here.”

“They did indeed, Ms. Wire. This is a most peculiar case, I must say, and quite interesting,” Ring replied while opening his umbrella. “Let us go stand in the median and I can describe to you the events that transpired here this past Wednesday night.”

Ring led them across the westbound side of East Juneau to the median which was ten feet wide. He faced the apartment building entrance. “So here’s what happened. Gabriel Martin exits the Waterview Tower there and he crosses the westbound side of the street like we just did and gets to the median here and pauses.”

“How do you know he pauses?” Wire asked.

The detective opened a Milwaukee Police Department file and pulled out some still photos. “Because we have traffic camera photos of Martin standing here to wait for traffic to pass.” Wire and McRyan each looked at the photo. A man is standing in the median under a streetlight. Rain is falling and he’s looking in the direction of oncoming traffic. Mac looks to the west and see’s the traffic camera high up on the light pole, one camera looking to the north on Water Street and the other looking east on Juneau towards their position.

“Anyway, traffic passes and Martin quickly walks across the two lanes to his car parked on Juneau here.” Ring pulled out his cell phone and opened a video file. “The rest you should see for yourself.” The detective hit play and Wire and Mac leaned in to watch.

“Whoa!” Mac recoiled from the video.

“Oh my God,” Wire yelped, raising her hands to her face.

As Martin reached his car and opened the door, a Chevy Suburban comes from the west and runs him over. The Suburban ran over Martin, the car door and didn’t stop, just kept going and out of camera view.

“The Suburban didn’t slow down a lick,” Mac added. “There was no attempt to evade or anything.”

“No there was not,” Ring replied. “The driver was either completely oblivious, looking in a different direction or down or to the left or …”

“… It was intentional,” Wire finished. “If the driver was distracted or looking in a different direction, the truck wouldn’t be on such a straight path …”

“… Nor would it have accelerated like that,” Mac finished. “That’s a hit, plain and simple.”

“I agree,” Ring answered.

“I take it you never found the driver?” Wire asked.

“Nor the Suburban,” Ring replied. “I got the video footage you just looked at. I tracked the license plate and it was for a Suburban reported stolen at literally the same time this accident happened. The owner was at the Menomonee Falls police station filing the report when Martin was run down. In any event, we used some traffic cams to track the Suburban for a number of blocks until it got out of downtown to the north but then we lost it.”

“How about GPS?”

“Tried that but we lost track of it on that as well up around Lac Du Cours Lake north of town here.”

Mac shook his head and gave a knowing smile. “It’s probably at the bottom of that lake. There was a panel van that we were tracking last night that was involved in the shooting outside my family’s pub. We tracked the van to the bottom of the Mississippi River south of St. Paul. I bet they did the same here.”

Ring jotted down some notes. “I’ll have to check on that. See if we find it there. Not that it’ll do much good at this point.”

“You never know, forensics is an amazing thing,” Mac added.

“Did you get a look at the driver at all?” Wire asked.

The detective shook his head, “Wish we did, my lady. The driver was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low and the collar of his coat was pulled up so the face is obscured so we didn’t really get a good look at his face.”

“Was there a passenger?”

Ring nodded. “That’s yet another reason why I think it’s a hit, because even if the driver was distracted …”

“… The passenger sees Martin and stops him.”

“In this case, the passenger directs the driver,” Mac stated. “I assume no good facial views of the passenger either?”

Ring shook his head, “Dressed in the same uniform. They were a team.”

“How about witnesses? Were there any?” Wire asked, looking around. It was a busy street near the bar district.

“Kind of,” Ring replied. “The security guard for the tower heard the collision and was the one who called it in. There were two other witnesses walking on the street but they were a good hundred yards away when Martin was run down. They gave us a description of the Suburban but not much else. So there wasn’t much there.”

“How about Martin? Anyone have a reason to want to kill him?”

“That’s what was incredibly odd,” Ring answered. “I figured we’d find someone with motive when we started digging through his life but turns out, the guy didn’t have much going.”

“Let me guess,” Mac started. “He had work and not much else.”

“Correct.”

Mac and Wire looked up and down the street again, taking the scene in. Wire held her gaze to the west while Mac asked, “So Martin didn’t live here, right?”

“No,” Ring answered. “He was visiting a friend here, a Ms. Ginger Bloom. Turns out she was his assistant at DataPoint.”

“Fishing off the corporate pier?” Mac asked.

Ring smiled, “You know they say that is a really bad idea, that it can go really bad.”

“It certainly did in this case,” Wire noted.

“You could say that, Ms. Wire, you could,” Ring replied with a smile. “In any event, Mr. Martin was here until just after 11:00 p.m. on Wednesday and then when he left, he was killed.” The detective looked at his file and sighed sadly. “You know. This Martin guy didn’t look like he ever did anything wrong. Good citizen, worked hard, maybe even a workaholic, and yet he gets steamrolled in the middle of a busy street and I can’t understand why. What did he do?”

“Detective Ring,” Wire answered, “that’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“And,” Mac finished, “we’re thinking the answer is at DataPoint. Think you could help us?”

Ring nodded, “Let me make some calls.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“You caught the hesitation?”

Mac was on his phone as he, Wire and Ring walked out of the Starbucks with fresh coffees. It was a Saturday morning and Ring made some calls to arrange for key personnel to appear at DataPoint. While there was a Saturday manufacturing shift working, the key players they wanted to talk to were not in. They would be by the time Ring led them there.

Mac hung up his phone, “Paddy confirms, same shoe tread in St. Paul as we found out at Checketts’s place. Also same size, this was not a suicide,” Mac reported.

“We should let Kaufman and Herdine know,” Wire suggested as they walked down the street.

“I gave him Herdine’s number so that’s going to be taken care of. Bit by bit we’re getting somewhere here,” Mac said enthusiastically.

As she approached the Acadia, Wire looked back west down Juneau and stared for a moment. “Why don’t you drive,” she suggested, flipping the keys to Mac as they approached the Acadia. “You seem to know the town better anyway.”

Mac took the keys and jumped behind the wheel and turned the ignition and adjusted the rearview mirror up some and noted Ring approaching in his dark blue Crown Victoria from behind. Once Ring was past, McRyan pulled away from the curb and fell in behind for what Ring said would be a ten-minute drive to DataPoint. Wire, meanwhile, sat slouched down in the passenger seat and with the finger controls on the center console, adjusted the passenger-side rearview mirror so that she could look back. After a minute she saw it. She casually pulled a small notepad out of the pocket of her leather jacket and started writing down the plate number.

“Silver Traverse six or seven back, right?” Mac said, taking a gander in the rearview mirror. “I assume that is what’s got you a little spooked?”

Wire looked back to McRyan with an astonished look on her face. “How long have you been on it?”

“I noticed it once or twice when we were driving into the city from Whitefish Bay if only because the license plate has the numbers 422. And then again when we were walking the scene with Ring which is when you noticed it, right, you were gazing back down the street for an extra stretch?”

“Yes,” Wire said with a grin. She was realizing not much got by McRyan. “What’s the significance of 422?”

Mac shrugged, “Nothing really. My high school football and baseball number was four and my hockey number in high school and college was twenty-two, so I tend to notice those numbers for some reason. Why did you notice it?”

“Maybe I’m getting a little paranoid,” Wire answered. “I’m certain there were at least two two-man teams watching Montgomery’s apartment in DC when I was scoping the area and then after what happened in St. Paul, I seem to constantly be looking back to see if anyone is following.”

“Me too,” McRyan replied casually, his right hand draped loosely over the wheel. If they were being watched, might as well look relaxed and unsuspecting. “I operate on the theory these days that only the paranoid survive. I had a case where it turned out the people we took down had been following us for a while. Shit, they’d bugged Sally’s house as it turned out so Lord only knows what they heard us doing, Sally can be … kind of loud,” he said with a devilish grin.

Wire just laughed.

“Anyways, I’m always a little paranoid now when I get on a murder case with some complexity to it. I figure someone is watching from somewhere.”

Wire nodded, having done undercover work while in the bureau. “I noticed it when Ring first explained how the Suburban took out Martin. I looked back that way and saw the Traverse. Then a minute later I took another look and noticed the two guys sitting in the front seat and I got a feeling, you know.”

McRyan nodded. “Women’s intuition.”

“Why if it’s a woman does it have to be intuition?” Wire asked, mildly perturbed.

“Just is.”

“What is it for a man, then?”

“Spidey Sense,” Mac answered. “Ring’s taking a right turn here so let’s see if we’re right and the Traverse follows.”

McRyan followed Ring west on Wells Street as they crossed the Milwaukee River, heading into an area of older warehouse buildings. Ten seconds after the turn, the Traverse came around the corner. “Do you have the full plate now?” McRyan asked, checking his rearview mirror.

“I do,” Wire answered. “I’ll have Ring run it when we get to DataPoint.”

“Looks like we’re there.”

DataPoint was located west of the Milwaukee River in a non-descript four-story warehouse building with a simple DataPoint sign on the front. Mac dropped the Acadia into a guest parking space in the front next to Ring.

Ring led them through the front doors into DataPoint’s offices. Once inside, to their immediate right was a waiting area. To the left was a rounded reception desk unmanned since it was Saturday. Standing at the reception desk was a short and stocky woman dressed in a black pant suit and navy blue open collar blouse. She had a Milwaukee police badge on her belt. Ring walked up to her, spoke briefly and turned to them, “Detective McRyan, Ms. Wire, meet my partner Jill Brosel.”

“Hello,” Brosel said as she shook hands. “Let’s step over here.” The four moved into the small conference room to the left of the reception desk. It was likely a conference room used for job interviews as it was small, maybe ten feet by eight feet, with a small round conference table and four chairs and a little mini-fridge in the corner with a glass door. Inside was water and sodas. “Water,” Wire uttered with some desperation as she helped herself to an Ice Mountain and handed one to Mac. She then moved to the window and peeked through the shades and scanned the area. She looked back to McRyan and nodded. The silver Traverse was still lingering.

Ring, ever observant, saw the look the two of them shared and asked, “What’s out there?”

“We’ve got ourselves a tail,” Mac replied as he walked over to the window to look for himself. The Traverse was parked across the street in the second row of the parking lot for the company across the street at about ten o’clock. Two men sitting in the front seat of the SUV. Mac pulled out his cell phone and focused on the Traverse, zooming as best he could with the camera function on his cell phone. The best he could do was two white men in dark coats and baseball hats pulled down low over their eyes.

Mac showed the picture to Ring. “Look familiar?”

Ring snorted and shrugged. Two white men, baseball caps pulled down low. They looked kind of generic. “Could be the guys who took out Martin?” hardly convinced but mildly intrigued.

“Let’s start finding out,” Wire replied as she handed Ring a slip of paper with the plate number.

“Right away,” Ring answered as he pulled out his phone. “Let me call it in.”

Then to Brosel, “Have you talked to anyone around here?”

The detective shook her head, “Only to the CFO of the company just to get the lay of the land. Other managers have started coming in and the shock is written all over their faces. The place is half full because it’s Saturday but you can feel it in the air around here, people are in shock. They can’t believe lightning has struck twice in three days. Darwin told you about the Chief Information Officer, right?”

Wire and McRyan nodded.

“This is a relatively small company, one hundred twenty-two employees. Everyone knows everybody, pretty tight, so people were devastated by Martin’s death, and now this. They’ll have two funerals to attend next week.”

“So who do we need to talk to?”

“Depends on how you want to approach it?” Brosel asked.

Mac considered the detective’s question for a moment. People had been through a lot and he didn’t want to unnecessarily add to their suffering. However, with Checketts and Martin being murdered, it was clear something was going on at this company. In Mac’s mind, that told him that the people working there would put together two and two and start wondering so there was no harm in accelerating that process. “Detective, let’s start with the CFO and go from there.”

Brosel left the room while Ring came back in. “I’ve got someone checking into the Traverse and I’m bringing in two plain clothes guys to watch it while we’re in here. You really think they’re the guys who took out Martin?”

“Don’t know,” Wire answered. “But they are clearly following us.”

Brosel returned to the conference room with Michael Bruzinski, DataPoint’s Chief Financial Officer. Introductions were made around the room, with Ring finishing with, “We’re sorry for your loss here.” Bruzinski nodded as he sat down at the conference table. With Checketts’s death, at least for the time being, Bruzinski was in charge of the company.

Mac got right to it, summarizing what was found at Checketts’s. For the moment, he left things at a suicide. He was more interested in the financial condition of the company. “Mr. Bruzinski, were you at all aware of Mr. Checketts’s dire financial condition?”

“No,” the CFO replied. “Mr. Checketts shared nothing with me about that. You might want to ask his secretary to see if she knew anything, but I knew nothing of it.”

“So you weren’t at all aware of his debts to the casinos in Las Vegas.”

“I was not, although I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“Why is that?”

“He liked to gamble and gamble big. He talked about killing it in Vegas all the time.”

“But did he?” Wire asked.

“I assumed he was doing all right given he always seemed to have money for the latest toys, whether it was cars, a boat for the lake and things like that,” Bruzinski replied. “He just seemed to like the action and the bigger the stakes the better. Around here, he always wanted to up the ante in our fantasy football league, wanted the NCAA basketball pool to have bigger stakes, wanted to play for big money on the golf course. I’d tell him; hey, your staff around here can’t afford to throw $100 into a basketball pool. They can’t afford to put a grand into a fantasy football league, not unless you’re going to start paying them a lot more money. But he was an adrenaline junkie and always wanted to play for more, more, more.”

Mac and Wire shared a knowing look. That explained how Checketts probably got himself into trouble in Las Vegas. The question was, did the trouble in Las Vegas have anything to do with his murder, and more so, with the election. Mac nodded to Wire to find out.

“Mr. Bruzinski,” Dara asked, “is DataPoint under any financial stress?”

“No, not at all,” the CFO replied. “We are doing quite well. We’re having one of our best years this year.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“The voting machine side of our business has had a banner year. We just filled a massive order for new machines for six different states, so we’re doing really really well. The machines went out about four months ago. We had an immediate glitch with the machines in three states that we had to fix at our cost, but otherwise, things are great. I can show you the books.”

Mac was taking notes and he looked up at the mention of new voting machines and the recent problem in three states. He looked to Wire whose eyes had narrowed. She caught it as well.

“What states had the problem?” Wire asked.

“Here in Wisconsin, which was a little embarrassing, as well as Iowa and Virginia.”

Mac snorted and shook his head lightly. There were new voting machines in Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia, all of which were key states in the last days of the election, where, along with Ohio, the election would ultimately be decided. He looked over to Wire, who was jotting all this down. Bruzinski noticed this as well.

“You seem interested in the states. Why is that? And you were introduced as being from St. Paul, why would you have any interest in this?”

“We’re interested in anything that can help explain what happened to Mr. Checketts. We’re interested in anything that can explain what happened to your CIO,” Wire answered.

“Gabe Martin? I thought his death was a hit and run.”

“It’s looking more and more like a homicide,” Ring stated out loud what he’d thought since Wednesday.

“Gabe was murdered? But Mr. Checketts took his own life. You’re still saying there’s a connection?”

“One was killed on Wednesday and one is dead today, so yes, we think there could be. Don’t you?” Wire answered, perhaps getting ahead of herself and drawing a frown from McRyan, who apparently hadn’t been ready to go there just yet. They’d only worked together for ten hours now, so they weren’t totally in synch.

“Are you saying Mr. Checketts didn’t commit suicide?” Bruzinski asked. “An officer at the scene at Mr. Checketts house who called me told me it looked like a suicide.”

“Umm …” Wire started.

Ring covered it, “From what I’ve been told from our people at the scene, there is at least some question about it. The medical examiner will have to complete the autopsy, of course, but there is conflicting evidence and so we’re covering our bases. There were some murders in St. Paul last night that Detective McRyan thinks might have some connection to Mr. Martin and Mr. Checketts and he’s here to run those down.”

McRyan gave Ring a wink, “nicely handled.”

If it were possible for the man, Bruzinski was shocked yet again. “Why would anyone want to murder him? It must have something to do with these debts in Vegas.”

“It could be a suicide, it could have something to do with the debts, it could have something to do with DataPoint, we don’t know yet,” Mac answered. “We’re trying to figure that out. We’re trying to figure out if Checketts committed suicide or was murdered. We’re trying to figure out why someone would kill your CIO, Mr. Martin a few days ago. We’re trying to figure out if there is a connection between the two. Is there anything those two were mixed up in that could lead to this?”

Bruzinski shook his head and rubbed his face with his right hand, trying to wipe the stress away. “Not that I can think of. I mean, I ran the numbers for the company and talked with Mr. Checketts daily and basically ran things when he wasn’t around, but I never really knew much about his private life, and I knew Gabe even less. You should talk to Ginger Bloom though. She was the secretary for both of them.”

“And it is Ms. Bloom who was seeing Mr. Martin?” Wire asked.

“That’s right, although we didn’t necessarily know that at the time he was killed.”

* * *

Vigneault and Foucault watched the DataPoint offices from across the street. McRyan and Company had gone inside ten minutes ago. Now the two men sat in wait—again.

“Do you know why it is that Kristoff was so worried about this company in the first place? So worried that he had us take this Martin out?” Foucault asked, peering out the windshield through the mist, the wipers automatically clearing the glass every so often.

“He has not shared that with me,” Vigneault replied. “I do what I’m told and I get paid.”

Foucault nodded as he watched the front of the building, desiring a cup of coffee, maybe a bite to eat, but knowing he and his partner could not leave their post, at least not at this location. They would have to wait it out with the radio quietly playing light rock music. Vigneault took a couple of photos of the building, the Acadia that McRyan was driving and sent them off to Kristoff, so as to keep their employer informed. He was on the East Coast now but was demanding he be kept up to date with every move made by McRyan.

“Here comes Ring,” Foucault reported, now familiar with the Milwaukee detective, having watched his every move the day following their taking out of Martin. The sharp dressed Milwaukee cop came out the front door, talking on a cell phone, looking at a notepad, occasionally surveying the surroundings all while standing under the awning covering the entrance to DataPoint.

“It would be nice if we had another team with us,” Vigneault noted. He was worried about their exposure. He’d have much preferred to have another team so that they could be running a rotating tail, relieving each other if need be and allowing for shifting positions while monitoring. None of that was possible in this instance. “I feel like we’re a little exposed here. We might have to consider moving back.”

* * *

Wire peered through the shades.

“Still there?” Mac asked, walking up behind her.

“Uh huh.”

There was a knock on the door and Bruzinski came back into the small conference room with Ginger Bloom. Ginger was aptly named, with light red hair falling around her narrow face and to her slender shoulders. Ms. Bloom was carrying balled up tissue in her hand. She’d been crying. Her eyes were red and her mascara was smeared. In the matter of three days, she’d lost the two people she worked for, one of whom was her boyfriend.

Ring pulled out the chair for her to sit down. Typically, Mac would have wanted Bruzinski out of the room, but Bloom looked like she wanted the familiar face with her so he was allowed to stay, for now. Ring made some quick introductions of Wire and McRyan.

“Ms. Bloom,” Wire started, “were you aware of the financial difficulties that Mr. Checketts was having?”

Ginger shook her head, “No I wasn’t. He never shared that with me. He rarely talked about anything outside of work with me.”

“Strictly professional?” Mac asked.

Bloom nodded.

“But that was different with Gabriel Martin?” Wire led and Mac let her go. This was a natural line of questioning for some female bonding. “That wasn’t strictly professional.”

Bloom sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, “N.. n.. no,” she stammered. “We were dating for a while. I don’t think anybody knew, at least not until he was killed.”

“How long have you worked for Martin and Checketts?”

“Just over three years.”

“How long were you dating Martin?”

“About five months or so, ever since early June,” Bloom answered.

“Was it all of the sudden or …”

“… had it been coming?” The secretary offered a slight smile. “Ms. Wire, our relationship was something of a slow burn. He was my boss at first, then friends and then over time an attraction started to build. You spend an extra minute or two in each other’s work space. Then you start texting each other. Of course, then we started sharing lingering looks with each other, holding eye contact that extra second. Gabe called it eye sex. You ever have that happen to you?”

“No comment,” Wire replied with a slight embarrassed smile. Mac wasn’t sure if Wire was putting on a little act to develop rapport or if she’d experienced what Bloom had.

“Well, it happened to me.”

“Were you in love with him?”

The question caused Bloom to choke up and the tears started anew for her as she stammered, “Y…y… yes. I was and he was as well.”

“Did he ever share with you any problems he was having here at work?”

“Not really. The only work problem I remember was the issue we had with the new machines.”

“Mr. Bruzinski, you mentioned that earlier. What was the malfunction?” Mac asked.

“The memory cards were not computing properly,” Bruzinski answered. “Gabe had to go out and analyze the problem and he was relieved, I remember, that it wasn’t so much a programming issue as a production one from one of our subcontractors, so we hired a new subcontractor to manufacture the cards and then we had our crews go out and install them, test them and make sure everything was working.”

Mac and Wire shared a look, “When did the fix take place?” Mac asked.

“We finished it about ten days ago. It was a pretty big project. We had to replace the memory cards in our machines in those three states. From my perspective it was nerve racking only because the fix was at our cost. We’re going to pursue compensation from our old subcontractor for the fix.”

“Did that put financial stress on the company?”

Bruzinski shook his head, “It hurt a little but like I said earlier, we’re having a great year so we could absorb it pretty easily. The fix just ate into the profits a little is all. I’m a CFO. I just hate to see that money going out the door.”

“Did Checketts seem particularly bothered by it? Was there anything unusual about the project?”

Bruzinski gave it some thought. “He didn’t seem overly bothered by it that I could tell. The only thing that was unusual was that he was a little more hands on in this case, I guess.”

“How so?” Wire asked.

“He decided who we would hire as the subcontractor which was usually a decision for Gabe and I, but he was emphatic we use a specific contractor so we did. It was a company I’d never heard of. In any event, he wanted to know how the process would work, the timeline for completion, who would be doing the installation of the cards, when they would go out, so on and so forth.”

“And that was unusual?” Mac asked.

“A little,” the CFO replied. “He was pretty hands off most of the time. He would let Gabe run the technical side and our manufacturing people would run the production side with our outside vendors and he would just say get it done. In this case, he took much more active interest. I figured he did that because it involved an error on our part.”

Mac snuck a glance at Wire, who was looking right back, the recognition on both of their faces. Was this what this was all about? He looked to Bloom. “Ms. Bloom, did either Mr. Checketts or Mr. Martin express any concerns about this project or anything else that was going on?”

“Mr. Checketts didn’t.”

“What about Martin?”

Bloom hesitated for a moment, as if she was giving deeper thought to the question. “He didn’t say anything about that project to me.” She glanced in Bruzinski’s direction but Mac could see she was becoming guarded and hesitant. “He was involved in evaluating what the problem was with the memory cards but otherwise he didn’t say much about the completion of that project.”

Mac’s eyes shifted over to Wire again. She’d seen it too. Bloom knew more than she was letting on. She wasn’t necessarily lying, he wasn’t getting that vibe, but she was holding something back, perhaps thinking it through. Mac looked down to his notebook and jotted down some notes about the conversation, not wanting to lose track of this thread. Then he went in another direction to give her some time.

“Mr. Bruzinski or Ms. Bloom, does the name Jason Stroudt mean anything to you?”

Bruzinski and Bloom shook their heads.

“How about Adam Montgomery. Does that name ring a bell?”

Bruzinski shook his head and said: “No.”

Bloom’s eyes went wide and then she looked over to Bruzinski quickly and then said: “N… n… no. I do… do… don’t know that name.” Wire looked at Mac, did you catch that? Mac raised an eyebrow.

Montgomery registered with Bloom.

Why?

There was a knock on the door of the conference room door and Bruzinski was asked out into the hallway, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Wire leaned over and whispered to Mac: “You caught the hesitation?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see what it’s about.”

“Go.”

Wire leaned away from Mac and looked to Bloom: “The name Adam Montgomery means something to you, doesn’t it?”

Bloom bit her bottom lip and a scared look washed over her face and sadness became nervousness.

“Ginger, something has you spooked here,” Mac asked quietly. “What is it?”

“Gabe gave me something a day before he was killed. I have it at my apartment. He told me that if anything happened to him, I should give it to Adam Montgomery and he gave me a phone number to call. I’ve tried to call Montgomery but he hasn’t answered his phone.”

“Ginger,” Mac answered, “Adam Montgomery is dead. He was killed last night in St. Paul.”

Bloom’s right hand went to her mouth in shock. Wire lightly grabbed Ginger’s left hand. “He was meeting with a friend of mine when he was killed,” Wire added. “My friend was shot and killed as well.”

Very quietly, Mac said: “Ginger, I’m going to make sure you’re safe. But you’re going to need to show us what Mr. Martin gave you, but not here.” He took out a business card and wrote instructions on the back.

* * *

The vice president was in the middle of his speech, just getting warmed up about the need for fiscal sanity in the government. He was in Cincinnati, speaking to a massive rally at the Riverfront Coliseum. If northern and eastern Ohio were fertile territory for Governor Thomson, southern Ohio was lush territory for Vice President Wellesley. Connolly had looked at polling data and the metering dials from the last presidential debate. When government spending was framed as being out of control or that the government was spending insanely, the vice president experienced an uptick in the state. So, it became part of the stump speech, the democrats equaled insane government spending. Never mind the fact that under the Barnes Administration the debt had increased by another $5 trillion. Politics was perception, not reality.

Connolly stood with Wellesley Jr., just off the dais, taking in the speech, feeling the roars of the crowd of nearly 18,000, an exceptional turnout. The campaign manager felt the buzzing of the phone in his left front pocket, the burner phone for the Bishop. “Our friend is texting.”

“The Bishop?” Wellesley Jr. asked quietly, looking straight ahead.

Connolly nodded and the two of them slipped away from the dais and down a tunnel that led back to the bowels of the arena and to a locker room that was an anteroom for the campaign. The burner phone revealed a text with a message: “Check e-mail. Look at pictures. Do you know woman?”

“Woman?” Wellesley Jr. asked.

“I think he’s asking about the woman working with the St. Paul Detective McRyan. It’s a new development. Let me get out my personal tablet.” Connolly took his tablet out of his computer bag, opened up the e-mail from the anonymous account and opened the first picture.

“Dara frickin’ Wire,” Wellesley Jr. said bitterly.

“You know her?”

“FBI. Or she was. She’s …”

Connolly saw the look of anger over take Wellesley Jr.’s face. “She’s the one who … you know … like … rearranged your face.”

“That’s her,” Wellesley Jr. growled. “You tell our friend that if he can take that bitch out I’ll get him any vote he’ll ever need.”

“I’ll call the Bishop.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“There was no time for the layer cake.”

The man sipped his coffee and admired the view for another minute, considering the chaos he’d set in motion in locations not as serene as the one he now overlooked. The isolated cabin was idyllic, of course, he would have nothing less. It contained just the right touch of rustic furnishings along with all the modern conveniences the Bishop was accustomed to and needed for his business. The view as he sat at a pine table on the porch looking high out over the broad valley down to the York River was spectacular to say the least. The pallet of orange, yellow, brown and red of the autumn leaves stretched for miles, accented by the clear blue sky.

The Bishop sat at the table looking at his laptop screen, playing chess against the computer. For a man who carried the nickname “the Bishop,” he had played little chess in his life until very recently. In his life there was little time for games or hobbies. When he was a child he enjoyed playing with dominos. Not playing the game against an opponent, but rather setting them up in complex and long formations and then once complete, just ticking one domino down and making the rest fall. It served as a metaphor for his life, setting up and making the dominos fall. Running his business was his hobby, his obsession, his time playing in the sandbox. However, now that he’d started playing chess he was obsessed with it and how it mirrored his life, the moves he made and the pieces he moved around to make events occur as he wished. He’d come to the conclusion whether he was buying stock through numerous shell companies for a hostile takeover of a corporation, uncovering compromising information on an energy minister in Russia in return for drilling rights or using his proxies in Syria to continue to feed the violence and civil strife, the Bishop realized that all of life was a chess game, one move begetting another. He had the innate ability to see two or three moves ahead and he could set the trap. Often times he enjoyed the journey every bit as much as the ultimate destination.

This time, however, he was not enjoying the journey to the ultimate destination. The election had to be won, but there were loose ends imperiling the end game. The former was set to be won if the latter was handled.

The Bishop rarely involved himself so thoroughly in politics. There were candidates that he favored to which he donated vast sums of money, far beyond what was allowed by previous state and federal campaign financing laws, but always in his preferred method, indirectly, through various organizations, in manners that were untraceable. But this time around, for the presidency, the election was paramount to achieving his ultimate goal and to protecting his interests.

Governor James Thomson was a man who believed in everything the Bishop didn’t. Whether it was the environment, for which Thomson wanted to take action on global warming and move away from fossil fuels, to his promises to break up the big banks, everything Thomson proposed and wished to enact would hit at everything the Bishop had spent years building and profiting from. It was his goal to be the richest man in the world. A Thomson presidency would make his goals much more difficult if not impossible to attain.

Therefore, the election had to be won.

Nobody beyond a few people knew that he was involved and the loose ends were being tied up one by one and how it was being done didn’t bother him. The Bishop was a ruthless man and believed you could only succeed to the level he aspired by being so. You did not attain the wealth and power he had by being nice, by playing by the rules. You got to where the Bishop was by doing whatever it took to get and stay there. So Martin, Checketts, Stroudt, Montgomery and McCormick were done and gone and the Bishop wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it. He didn’t have anything personal against them. It was just business.

And now the radio playing quietly to his right gave him an extremely relieving piece of news—Foche was dead.

The Bishop exhaled. Foche served him well for the past ten years and he would be missed, not only by the Bishop but by Kristoff as well. But Foche was also one less loose end to worry about. One less awkward situation to deal with, because it would have had to have been dealt with.

The question now circulating through his mind was whether such steps would be needed with regard to the St. Paul detective and his lady friend. He’d read the background on McRyan. He was a very able cop and his file screamed relentless. The man would not stop investigating as long as there was something to go on.

McRyan was a threat and he now had a partner who was equally troubling.

Dara Wire.

Courtesy of Wellesley Jr., he now had the identity of the woman who likely shot Foche and was involved in the fireworks outside of McRyan’s Pub.

Dara Wire was thirty-four years old and retired from the FBI, an early retirement not of her choice. Up until four years ago, she’d been a rising star in the bureau, working organized crime, having first worked undercover and by the time she was thirty, beginning to recruit and serve as the main contact for undercover operatives. She was becoming a top-notch investigator with an extremely bright future in the bureau.

The Bishop spent a moment looking at her picture.

Wire wasn’t necessarily pretty but she was a strikingly attractive woman, a brunette with soft green eyes and an alluring smile. Yet, he could see how she would have been effective undercover working the mob. This was especially true when he evaluated the photo of her in an extremely low-cut body hugging black dress cut at mid-thigh and wearing stiletto heels. She could do the gangster’s moll look, big hair, large breasts and copious makeup for just the right amount of trashiness. The goombas probably fell all over themselves for her.

Four years ago, Wire was working an informant in the Giordano crime family, which was operating in northern New Jersey and was proving particularly troublesome on several real estate projects on the Hudson Riverfront looking towards Manhattan. Wire’s informant was in deep with the family and the RICO case was building to take a big chunk of the infrastructure of the Giordano’s down. The investigation, and its advanced stages, apparently got back to Donald Wellesley Jr. who let it slip at a DC cocktail party, a party that included a delegation of politicians from New Jersey, that the bureau had an informant feeding information on the Giordano’s. Word from the party leaked back to the Giordano’s and after conducting their own form of internal family investigation, Wire’s informant was found floating in the Hudson, so badly beaten he could only be identified by his fingerprints.

With what they had on the Giordano’s, the FBI moved in and in the process of interrogating family members, Wire discovered how the family learned of her informant. The bureau’s higher ups, at the time a particularly spineless lot, were not about to touch the son of the vice president. Incensed, Wire took matters into her own hands and found Wellesley Jr. at a Washington DC bar and proceeded to, Giordano style, savagely beat him to a pulp around the face until the Secret Service, hanging idly outside the bar, was able to get inside and take Wire into custody.

At a minimum, Dara Wire was out of the bureau and was looking at far worse trouble. However, she had one ace in the hole and the Bishop smiled. He loved and admired power plays and Wire had the ultimate power player come to her defense—Judge Dixon.

She’d come to his attention while he was still the attorney general due to her impressive undercover work. The Judge intervened on her behalf and threatened to expose the vice president’s son and few knew how to do that like Dixon. The Judge was able to leverage a soft departure from the bureau for Wire. Donald Wellesley Jr., meanwhile, disappeared from view for a number of months to recuperate from his injuries.

With McRyan and Wire on the hunt, the Bishop had reason to worry.

Of course, he’d have much preferred to operate without there ever being even the possibility of any loose ends requiring Kristoff to ply his services in so many places and to such brutal effect. The Bishop often thought of his operations as a layer cake, with layer after layer between himself and what he was trying to accomplish. His involvement was never known or discovered.

However, there were times when you had to move quickly and didn’t have the luxury of setting up the layer cake. When Heath Connolly came to him about his friend Peter Checketts and the trouble he was having in Las Vegas, the Bishop saw the opening and the chance to grab the election out of the jaws of defeat, but they had to move quickly.

“There was no time for the layer cake,” he muttered, sipping his coffee.

There was no layer cake, and then Kentucky went bad.

It seemed like a simple and safe enough meeting, especially with Kristoff solving the Martin problem in Milwaukee at the same time. The meeting was like so many he’d arranged over the years that had gone off without a hitch. And the Kentucky meeting was necessary. Given the money and stakes at risk, he and Connolly needed to be certain their plan would work and needed to see how it would work. But then the meeting was discovered and he’d been tying off loose ends ever since—Stroudt, Montgomery, McCormick and Checketts.

Now the extremely capable McRyan and Wire were investigating.

They were a danger.

The two of them were relentless and would not stop.

They presented him with one last loose thread to clip and the man to solve that problem was coming up his driveway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“You ever see Bullitt?”

The Judge sat on a folding chair in the bowels of Crisler Arena on the campus of the University of Michigan and poured over the electoral map as he listened to Michigan’s governor rev up the crowd for Governor Thomson, who would speak in five minutes. Michigan was largely in the bag, the governor up by eight points, but they wanted to be sure and much of their campaigning, and the media coverage it would garner, would seep into the northern Ohio media markets, which was prime vote territory.

Yet despite the enthusiasm in the arena, the Judge was dour. Something was going on at DataPoint and it was going to have an impact on the election. “Fucking Connolly,” he grumbled, as he stood up and heard the roars of the crowd come through the halls of Crisler Arena on the campus of the University of Michigan.

“You were right, of course,” Sally Kennedy said, standing ten feet back. She’d walked unnoticed into the anteroom a minute earlier and was watching the Judge pore over the map.

“About?”

“Connolly.”

The Judge twirled his cigar in his right hand. “I’ve met many a political operator in my day, Ms. Kennedy. And most of them understood there was a certain honor that came with doing this. They loved their country.”

“But they played by the rules, right?”

The Judge smiled, a kind of wistful smile, an acknowledgment that his views were now very old school, but they were also from a good school. “To quote my good friend, the forty-second president of the United States,” the Judge deadpanned in his best Clinton, “that depends upon what your definition of ‘rules’ is.”

Sally chuckled as did the Judge.

“So rules are relative in politics. You hit your opponent hard where he is weak and you pound away day after day. You might twist your opponent’s words out of context to get political mileage out of it. And if I could, I always liked to keep a surprise or two in my back pocket if I could to use the week before the election. All of that’s fair game,” the Judge said enthusiastically. “Guys like Ol’ Ed Rollins, Steve Schmidt, Jimmy Baker, Mary Matalin, Charlie Black, they were good people to go up against. They were patriots. They were Republicans that I could battle against and they would piss me off, oh my God, would they piss me off. But it was because they were good. I worked on Mondale’s campaign back in 1984, back when you were probably in elementary school.”

“Pre-school, actually,” Kennedy needled.

“Man, I’m getting old,” the Judge answered ruefully. “Well, in 1984, Fritz got his ass kicked. Of course, it’s the height of the Cold War and the president ran that ‘Bear in the Woods’ television spot. Have you seen that?”

“Sure, I saw it on YouTube when someone mentioned it a while back.”

“YouTube,” the Judge snorted and shook his head, acknowledging again how things had indeed changed. “Anyway. I remember calling Ed Rollins who was running the Reagan campaign a week before the election.”

“Before the election?”

“Oh hell yeah. It was over at that point, the only question was whether the Gipper would sweep everything or if we could at least hold onto Minnesota. So I called Ed and we laughed about that ad because it was brilliant. It really was and I had to tell him that. And it was good politics. Ed and his boys kicked our ass, but he did it with honor and integrity. Heath Connolly?” The Judge shook his head. “Connolly has no honor or integrity. I hate Rove. What he did to a good man in John McCain back in 2000 in South Carolina and then Max Cleland down in Georgia in 2002, a Vietnam Vet, a man who lost limbs in that war, engineering a campaign that questioned his patriotism, his commitment to protect this country, was reprehensible. It degraded the politics of our country and simply creates an environment where people like Heath Connolly flourish. He’s Karl Rove on steroids, EPO and HGH all at once. Connolly could give a shit about country.”

“But he wins,” Kennedy answered.

“And in the end I suppose that’s all that matters to lots of people,” the Judge answered. “Just not me. I’ll have to meet my maker someday. When I’m lying on my death bed, I want to know I did right. I don’t want to be like Lee Atwater, begging for forgiveness on my death bed for my sins against my fellow man when I’m dying. I want to go with a clear conscience knowing I did it the right way.”

“Connolly doesn’t have a conscience from what I can see.”

“Or a soul,” the Judge shook his head disgustedly. “He doesn’t care how you win, just win.” Dixon exhaled. “I think how you win matters.”

Sally nodded and looked down at the map and saw the Judge’s chicken scratch math off to the side of the map, with Ohio in Governor Thomson’s column, but Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia flipped red. The election would end up 271 for the vice president and 267 for Governor Thomson. She’d done the math herself a few times already, running different scenarios on her notepad, assuming something was going on in the three key states.

“Judge?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find the answers. I’ve got faith.”

“In your boy?” Meaning Mac.

She nodded and then gave him a sly smile. “He likes to win too.”

* * *

Saturday afternoon on Water Street in Milwaukee meant it was time for Happy Hour drinks. As 4:00 p.m. disappeared in the rearview mirror, the bars along the avenue started to fill with partiers dressed in red looking to get tuned up for the football game. The Wisconsin Badgers would be playing the Minnesota Golden Gophers at 6:00 p.m. and the bar was starting to fill with Badger fans for the game; it looked like the Soviet Red Army was invading. In Wisconsin, with the successes of the Green Bay Packers and Wisconsin Badgers football teams, much of the talk in the bar revolved around the bruising Badgers rushing game or the aerial majesty of Aaron Rodgers. It was expected that the weekend would be one of winning. For Mac, sitting in a corner booth at Fitzgibbon’s, it all made his stomach turn.

“Why such a sour look on your face?” Wire asked, sipping at her Miller Lite. They were in Milwaukee so the beer would, of course, have to be a Miller product.

“The Packer and Badger fans,” McRyan answered, gesturing to the crowd. “My poor Golden Gophers, they never seem to be able to get over the hump. They play the Badgers tonight, and while the new coach has them going in the right direction, it could be really ugly here in a few hours. And the Packers? The team is great, fun to watch and I love Aaron Rodgers, he is a stud, and Lambeau Field? I’ve watched two games there and it is way cool. But the Packer fans?” He shook his head. “The worst. Absolutely insufferable.”

“They love their team.”

“Everyone loves their team,” Mac answered. “But only in Wisconsin, only in Wisconsin, do the fans actually delude themselves into thinking they’re part of the team. In Minnesota, we don’t say ‘we’ when talking about the Vikings. We say the Vikes will beat the Bears, the Purple will beat the Packers. In Wisconsin, they don’t say the Pack will beat the Vikes, they say ‘we’ will beat the Vikes. There is no ‘we.’ They are not on the field. The fans are not playing. They’re just fans, just like ones in every other city. It’s ridiculous.”

Wire laughed, the ever serious Mac McRyan whining about Packer fans. She pushed his buttons. “So they’re proud of their team. They’ve won five Super Bowls. I mean, how many have the Vikings won?”

Mac took a sip of his beer and glared at her. She half thought he might jump across the table and clock her.

They were just having one drink, nursing a small beer and then it would be back to water or coffee. The beer was part of a strategy that Mac and Wire concocted back at DataPoint. A Traverse was tailing them with two men. Once they spotted the tail, Ring put a car on them. For an hour, Mac and Wire drove around Milwaukee, eventually stopping and dropping their bags at a hotel before making the trek to the pub. Their tail stayed with them the whole way. The plate on the Traverse was for a rental. The name on the rental was for George Wilson. The rental was charged on a credit card with Black Rook Enterprises, another Cayman Islands Company with a PO Box.

Ring’s men did a background on George Wilson. Wilson listed a Florida address on his license. He had a clean criminal and driving record and a quiet credit history going back just two years. The license was a Florida license with an address that didn’t exist. It was another cover ID. George Wilson would be dealt with soon. First, they needed to meet with someone.

Mac and Wire parked on the street in front of the pub, easy for the two men to spot and see. In turn, the two followers were now sitting a block south on Water Street waiting. Ring’s men were in turn another block back and a block north on Water Street, watching them, and if they moved, Wire would know. She was wearing an earbud that tied her into communication with Ring and his units on the street. They had three units total watching. Since the two men were sitting in front, it would be easy for Ginger Bloom to slip into the back of the pub and find them in their corner booth.

Before he left DataPoint, Mac wrote instructions for Bloom on the back of his business card. She was instructed to go to her apartment, grab whatever it was that Gabe Martin gave her and then come to Fitzgibbon’s. She was to text Mac when she left the apartment, which occurred ten minutes ago. Mac instructed her to come in the back of the pub since their tail was sitting on Water Street. For her safety, two of Ring’s men followed her from DataPoint to her apartment and then the pub.

Mac got a text from one of the plain clothes cops: “She’s clean. Coming in the back door.”

“She should be in here in a second,” he reported to Wire as he took another sip of his beer.

Bloom knew the bar. She walked right in the rear entrance, took a left and found Wire and McRyan in the back booth, a beer awaiting her arrival. She sat down and immediately started peering around the bar, anxious.

“It’s okay, Ginger,” Wire said, reaching for her hand. “You weren’t followed here.”

Mac slid the beer over to her, “I thought after the day’s events, you could maybe use a drink.”

Bloom nodded and took a long, several-second pull from her beer, put it down, wiped her mouth with the back of her right hand and exhaled. “I needed that.”

“I figured as much,” Mac said sympathetically. “Now, what have you brought us?”

Ginger reached into her handbag and pulled out a letter envelope and handed it to Wire. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

Wire nodded and reached for Bloom’s hand, “You are. We’re trying to find Gabriel’s killer and we think whoever killed him is tied into whoever ordered Adam Montgomery and others killed.” Wire took out her pocket knife and opened the envelope. Inside was the business card for Kenosha Self-Storage, a slip of paper with No. 137 written on it and a key to a padlock. She showed the contents to McRyan who nodded.

“So what is the story on this envelope?” Mac asked.

“Gabe gave it to me the night before he was killed. He said if anything happened to him, I should give this to Adam Montgomery. Gabe gave me Montgomery’s phone number to call. The next day, Thursday, I tried to call Montgomery but he never answered his cell phone.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“No, Gabe told me to only talk directly to him, not to leave a message.”

“Was Martin scared?” Wire asked.

Bloom took a sip of her beer. “He didn’t look it outwardly, but it was a scary talk when we had it. He said he was probably being way too paranoid but I could tell he was worried, again not in his expression, but in the way he talked. Something was up but he wouldn’t really tell me what it was all about.”

“He was protecting you,” Mac answered. “He was in danger, from what we don’t yet know, maybe this locker tells us. That last day at work, how did that go?”

“It was kind of tense that morning and I know he was in Mr. Checketts’s office for a long time and I know it was a little heated, but that happened from time to time as Mr. Checketts could be pretty harsh on people if he wanted.”

“Business owner,” Mac commented.

“Exactly,” Ginger replied. “Anyways, he’d yelled at Gabe before so I didn’t really give it that much thought, especially when Gabe and I met for lunch. He said everything was cool, I didn’t need to worry and then we talked about normal things, so I assumed whatever he was worried about went away. Obviously it didn’t.”

The three of them went over Bloom’s story again, picking at certain elements but there was nothing more new to be gleaned. “Okay, Ginger, why don’t you finish your beer quick,” Wire suggested, “and then walk straight out the back door and go right home. Two police officers will follow you and then will watch your place for a while just to make sure everything is okay and hopefully the next time we chat, we’ll have answers for you.”

Bloom nodded, finished her beer in two more sips, slipped out of the booth and out the back door. Mac texted the officers waiting outside that Bloom was on her way out.

“So what do you suppose we’ll find in this locker?” Wire asked.

“I don’t know, but before we go down to Kenosha and find out, we need to do something about that tail.” Mac began working his cell phone.

“What are you looking up?”

“Street map for Milwaukee,” Mac answered. “I want to pull a Steve McQueen on our tail.”

Wire looked at him quizzically, “I don’t follow.”

“You ever see the movie Bullitt?”

Wire nodded and smiled. “Now I know what you’re talking about.”

* * *

Foucault yawned and shook his head. It was late afternoon and it would be dark in minutes, the sun starting to make its final rapid descent to the west. As he leaned back in the passenger seat, he alternately watched the front of Fitzgibbon’s Pub across the median of Water Street to his left, McRyan’s Acadia ahead one block parked on the north bound side and his rearview mirror for the Starbucks two buildings back to his right. Inside the Starbucks, Vigneault was buying coffee and sandwiches, taking advantage of the first chance all day they’d had to get something to eat and drink.

Foucault occasionally checked his phone, awaiting any update or further instructions from Kristoff. For now, they were still in the watch and follow mode. Thus far there was little more to report. From their time at DataPoint, McRyan and the woman, other than a quick stop at their hotel, drove aimlessly around town it seemed for an hour before coming to this point and heading into the pub. He and his partner had given some thought to one of them sliding into the pub to see what they were up to but decided against it. If they had another two men or two vehicles, it would have been done. However, with just the two of them, they thought it better to hold their position and see where McRyan and his lady friend were off to next.

Foucault looked in the review mirror and caught Vigneault pushing out the front door of the Starbucks with a cardboard drink carrier holding four coffees and a paper bag containing sandwiches.

“What do you have?”

Vigneault shook his head, ever the Frenchman. “American coffee is passable at best. They may call this espresso, but please, a weak imitation. And the sandwiches?” He wrinkled his nose, “I will eat them because I have to.” He bought an assortment of ham and turkey wraps.

Foucault was not as picky, having spent more time in the States and was well accustomed to American fast food. He took a sip of his coffee and it was agreeable and the turkey wrap wasn’t bad either. Was it like home? No, but it would get the job done. On his third bite, McRyan and Wire emerged from the front of the pub. “There they are.” He set his coffee in the cup holder in the center console and reached for the keys and started the Traverse.

McRyan and Wire crossed the first half of the street, waited at the center median for traffic to pass and then jogged across the northbound side of Water Street to their Acadia. After a moment, the lights for the Acadia came on but the vehicle didn’t move. After a couple of minutes, McRyan pulled out and proceeded north on Water Street.

“That traffic will keep them well back, I should think,” Wire said, looking back behind them.

“Good,” Mac answered. “I need about a two-block lead on them for this to work.”

* * *

Foucault looked in his rearview mirror and had traffic right on top of him that he needed to let pass.

“I’ll watch for a break,” Vigneault said, his view north blocked by the vehicles parked in front of them. “You keep your eye on them.”

The traffic passed.

“Go.”

Foucault quickly pulled out, McRyan still visible two blocks ahead. He wanted to push his way closer but the traffic that passed them was now between them and McRyan, clogging the path forward.

“He’s turning left,” Vigneault exclaimed and then took a look at the GPS. “Left on … Knapp.”

Foucault reached Knapp about ten seconds after McRyan and turned left. Now away from the traffic, he could accelerate some and he needed to as the Acadia was already at least three blocks ahead across the Milwaukee River where Knapp became McKinley Street.

“We need to get a little closer,” Vigneault ordered.

“Working on it,” was the reply as the Traverse reached the west side of the Milwaukee River, still two blocks back but closing quickly. “It looks like he’s turning right. What’s that on?”

* * *

Mac caught a glimpse of the quickly closing Traverse in his rearview mirror. He took a right turn off McKinley onto North Sixth Street, accelerated a half block and took a hard right onto a narrow alleyway halfway up the block. He powered down the alley and took another quick right behind a building into an alleyway running south back towards McKinley.

“If this works, we should circle around and come in behind them,” Mac said as he drove south down the alley and turned right back onto McKinley Street. Once on McKinley, he took an immediate right on North Sixth Street and a block and a half ahead was the Traverse, which was followed by a black Ford Edge. “Bingo, and Ring’s man fell in right behind them.”

* * *

“Where did they go?” Vigneault asked. “There wasn’t another street to turn right on, at least not that quickly.”

“I don’t know,” Foucault answered and then looked in his rearview mirror. “I think I see a black Acadia one block behind us.”

Vigneault turned left to look and McRyan was two cars back, a Ford Edge between them. He looked to his partner, worried. “We’re made.”

“What do you think we should do?” Foucault replied anxiously, the adrenaline causing his foot to slowly but surely depress the accelerator and pick up speed. The Traverse had a powerful enough engine.

The two men shared a look.

Foucault looked down to his feet, “I’m wearing the same shoes I wore when we killed Checketts.”

“Who knows what they have from when we took out Martin,” Vigneault added.

* * *

“Now, here’s the interesting part,” Mac said, looking in his rearview mirror as Ring pulled up behind in his Crown Victoria with a patrol car right behind him. Ring passed McRyan and raised an eyebrow and Mac nodded. Ring pulled ahead and then in front of Mac and the patrol unit passed them both as well as the Ford Edge and pulled in behind the Traverse, which had been slowly increasing its speed and was now at least fifteen miles over the limit for this two-lane city street.

“This is where we learn if they were the ones that did Checketts and Martin or were at least involved.”

The patrol unit turned on its lights.

“Oh, I think they were!” Wire exclaimed.

* * *

Foucault blew through a red light and accelerated hard north, the patrol unit now at least two blocks back.

“It’s pretty dark out now,” Vigneault exclaimed. “Maybe we can lose the patrol unit and dump the car.”

“We’ll have to lose more than one unit,” Foucault answered as he buried the accelerator. “I have at least three sets of rollers behind us all of the sudden.”

He flew down the entrance ramp for northbound State Highway 43.

* * *

“Why are you slowing down?” Wire barked as Mac eased back while going down the entrance ramp, letting the chase unfold in front him.

“This is Milwaukee’s show,” McRyan replied calmly. “I don’t have a flashing light so we’ll just hang behind and follow.”

The chase charged north on 43, the Traverse expertly weaving in and out of traffic.

“This guy’s had training,” Wire observed. “He’s no novice driver.”

“We’re good as long as he’s on the highway.”

The Traverse was in the left lane and suddenly cut sharply across in front of a car in the right lane. The car was forced to brake, which caused the following car to hit it from behind, creating a pile up that sucked in the three patrol units blocking all of the lanes.

Ring swerved hard right onto the right shoulder just slipping past the pile up. He fishtailed his Crown Victoria but regained control before ending up down in the ditch. With control regained, Ring followed the Traverse up the exit ramp. Mac veered right to the highway shoulder, scooted around the pile-up and accelerated up the exit ramp.

“He turned right, Mac! He turned right!” Dara exclaimed, now with her Sig Sauer out.

“I got it. I’m going to get in right behind Ring. Let him know.”

“Copy that,” Wire replied to Mac and then to Ring, “Darwin, we’re right on your six.” Then back to McRyan, “He’s got you, Mac. He’s called all cars.”

The Traverse was now screaming down East Keefe Avenue.

“This is dangerous,” Mac warned. “We’ve got residential on the right and if they turn in there, we’ve got to back off. What we really need is a chopper.”

“I know he has a call in for one, should be here any second.”

Just then a chopper dropped out of the sky and painted the Traverse two blocks ahead. “Now we’re talking.” Mac quickly looked right and saw flashing lights coming down a residential street. To his left was an industrial area and as he looked ahead it was industrial on the left for several blocks. “Atta boy, Ring!” Mac exclaimed. “Way to know your town.”

“What?” Wire asked.

“He’s bringing the patrol units in from the right. He’s going to drive these guys into this industrial area up on the left. Look at the chopper, it’s flying on the right, trying to drive them that way as well.”

* * *

Foucault thought he had a chance when the pile-up happened, but he still had one unit on his tail as he sped down Keefe. He should have turned right into the residential neighborhoods but now it was too late. Every time he looked right, there were flashing lights and now he saw flashing lights ahead, stationary.

“We have to turn left,” Vigneault yelped.

Foucault turned hard left onto North Holton Street and accelerated only to find another patrol unit closing from the north.

“I have to go left again!”

He turned too late.

* * *

The Traverse tried to turn left onto Elm Street to go west, but at its high speed it couldn’t make the turn. The left-side wheels were off the ground when its right wheels hit the curb. The Traverse flipped high in the air. It landed on its roof, violently rolling over twice and then crashing upside down into a red brick building. The brick wall collapsed upon the impact, bricks and debris crashing down on the Traverse.

Two patrol units closed in on the vehicle, followed by Ring and then Mac pulling in behind.

Ring popped out of his car with the radio in his hand, calling for an ambulance and fire truck.

Mac was out, Sig Sauer in his right hand and flashlight in his left. He ran over and stopped ten feet short and crouched down to look into the Traverse, its roof caved in. The two men were restrained inside by their seat belts, hanging upside down, their bodies limp. Wire came up behind him with another flashlight and shined it inside the vehicle.

“No movement,” Wire noted.

“And lots of blood,” Mac answered and then looked up into the sky. Not only did he see the State Patrol chopper that had swooped into the action, but now there was a television news chopper for the local FOX station hovering overhead as well.

“Keep your box on FOX,” Mac muttered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“A murder at The Snelling led to all of this?”

Sally, Shelby and Dixon sat casually on the couch in a locker room at the Bradley Center in Milwaukee. The governor would be speaking in fifteen minutes and was in an adjoining room, freshening up and spending some time with his family.

Michigan was the target earlier in the day, their last tour through the state. The candidate had two stops in Milwaukee tonight. The campaign wanted to hit Madison as well, but with the football game between Wisconsin and Minnesota at Camp Randall Stadium, the campaign thought the better of it. That might be especially true as the Golden Gophers were looking for an upset, leading 13–3 early in the second quarter.

Hitting the hustings and the small towns on bus tours was over. The campaign was now in big venue mode, hitting arenas, stadiums and airplane hangars for the big crowds, getting to as many people at a time as possible. For Sally, on her maiden big time political voyage, it was intoxicating. “It’s like a concert tour,” she remarked with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a child when they were at Joe Louis Arena in downtown Detroit over the lunch hour.

The television was on CNN. A reporter was now standing outside of the DataPoint building and reporting on the deaths of Checketts and Martin. “That didn’t take long,” Sally stated.

“It’s something new to report on,” the Judge answered, taking in the news report. “I know for a fact, that this reporter has more background information than she is letting on.”

“Such as?” Sally asked.

“I’m sure the names of Montgomery and Stroudt might have been mentioned.”

“But not Heath Connolly?”

“Not yet, but soon,” the Judge answered. “Tomorrow, in time for Meet the Press and the rest of the morning shows. Give the media a taste of this thing and then drop the big name in and they will be relentless in their pursuit. It’s good for us if the media starts looking at that company. If we need to pressure states to inspect their machines, the media will prove an ally for us.”

Kennedy was quietly amazed. Sebastian had not been dead twenty-four hours yet the Judge soldiered on, completely locked into campaign mode. There was a cloud of sadness that hovered over him that everyone could sense. He tried to suppress it but it was there. After Tuesday, it would be tough on him with the election over and there was time to stop and reflect. But for now, the adrenaline and urgency of the race and what they were facing was enough to keep the Judge focused on the election. What Sebastian’s mother said to the governor had spread throughout the campaign staff now. “You better win.” The Judge was determined not to let Sebastian, or his mother, down.

CNN switched stories and the byline was Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and it was video of a police chase. The reporter indicated the chase ended just fifteen minutes ago and then what grabbed their undivided attention was: “The chase included detectives involved in the investigations surrounding the deaths of Peter Checketts and Gabriel Martin from DataPoint.”

The Judge and Sally stood up and walked to the television.

The footage from the news helicopter caught the chase directly from behind as it went through a combination residential and commercial areas of Milwaukee, a police chopper shining a light on a crossover vehicle while an unmarked police car and another gave chase.

The crossover turned hard left into an industrial area and then tried to turn left again but was unable to negotiate the corner and crashed violently into the building. Two cars pulled up, one unmarked police car and another vehicle. The cop out of the police car was on the radio while another cop was out of the second vehicle, in plain clothes and approached in a crouch with a gun and flashlight.

“Oh my God,” Sally croaked.

“What?” the Judge asked.

“That’s Mac.”

“How can you tell?”

“The crouch,” Sally replied. “I saw that twice last night and now as he’s standing up, that’s Mac, no doubt. I recognize his brown leather flight jacket. That’s him.”

“He sure does know how to find trouble,” the Judge remarked.

“It usually knows where to find him,” Sally quipped back.

“And that’s Wire right behind him,” the Judge replied, noting the tall brunette with a ponytail. Just then the Judge pulled his phone out and it was ringing. “Ms. Wire, care to tell me what this police chase is all about?”

* * *

It took Mac, Wire and a contingent of Milwaukee cops an hour to make their way down to Kenosha. Ring had to remain back at the crash site. Kaufman and Herdine, however, having spent the afternoon tracking down whether there were any flights from Minneapolis-St. Paul to Milwaukee late in the night or early in the morning, were back on the scene. They found a flight that left Flying Cloud airport in Eden Prairie at 12:08 a.m. and landed in Appleton, Wisconsin, just south of Green Bay at 1:14 a.m. That left plenty of time to get down to Checketts’s place along Lake Michigan. Unfortunately, at neither Flying Cloud nor the small airport in Appleton, was there any video footage of who came on or off the plane. The plane itself was registered to a White Knight Corporation in the Cayman Islands and Kaufman and Herdine indicated that finding more than that would require two things, more time to dig and probably some federal assistance. Mac and Wire thought they were getting close to the point that the feds needed to be brought in. But first, what was in the storage locker?

With an assist from Kenosha Police, the group was able to get into the Kenosha Self-Storage Facility and to storage unit 137. Kenosha Self-Storage had both indoor and outdoor storage units. Unit 137 was located outdoors in the middle of the third row of storage units back from the gated front entrance. Unit 137 was a small, narrow unit, perhaps six feet wide, maybe ten feet deep, a kind Mac had seen a hundred times watching Storage Wars. The kind of locker Jarrod would bid big on and Brandi would get pissed about while Dave smirked at them and uttered several “Yuuups” to bid them up.

Mac looked over to Kaufman who had a video camera in hand which was now running. “You’re good to go, Mac.”

A padlock fastened the orange metal door down. Mac took out the key from Bloom, slid it in the lock which opened. He and Herdine pushed up the door.

Inside there was a table, a voting machine and metal briefcase.

Mac looked to Kaufman and gave him a moment to take some video of the room. Wire and Mac pulled on blue rubber gloves and walked to the table. They both looked at the briefcase. Mac flipped the locks and opened it. Inside were what looked like computer disks and a large yellow envelope. He opened the envelope and inside was a letter addressed to Adam Montgomery.

“Dear Adam,

When I called you yesterday I know I was cryptic in telling you to keep an eye on Peter Checketts. If you’re finding this letter, it means that Ginger has contacted you and that something has happened to me.

Four days ago I found five memory cards for DataPoint Voting Machines in the office of Peter Checketts. As you know, Checketts is the president and owner of DataPoint Electronics. I’ve known and worked for Peter for over ten years. I even introduced you to him a number of years ago.

Three nights ago I went into Peter’s office to look for some reports we ran regarding the new machines we delivered to three states, which were Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia, as well as a memory card replacement we completed for those machines. I’d left the reports in his office. I couldn’t find the reports on the top of his desk so I started looking in his desk and credenza drawers. I’ve told him for years that he needs to lock his desk but he never does. It’s those little details that he always misses.

I found the reports I was looking for in a credenza drawer where there were also five memory cards for our newest voting machines. It was unusual for him to have memory cards in his office. However, he and I were discussing memory cards a few weeks ago with regard to the replacements and the new company he hired to make the new cards. I recalled bringing some cards into the office at that time, so I just assumed they were the cards I left in his office. I took them and stuffed them into my backpack along with the reports I’d been looking for.

When I emptied my backpack at home, I pulled out the memory cards. They looked slightly different than our cards normally do, the gray coloring was slightly darker and there was a red-dot on the cards. I keep DataPoint machines at home in my shop as I like to tinker with them. I decided to test the cards and make sure they worked. I put one of the memory cards I found in Checketts’s office into my machine. After some test runs, including an election morning test run, things looked fine. I was about to shut down the machine when I decided to set the internal clock on the machine to 1:00 p.m. on Election Day. As you know, I am as big a political junkie as there is, especially on presidential politics. So I set the machine up for the presidential election and I put in forty votes, twenty for each candidate. However, the machine registered twenty-one votes for Wellesley and nineteen for Thomson. I reset the machine again with the same memory card, twenty votes for each candidate and again, it was twenty-one for Wellesley and nineteen for Thomson. I checked the other four memory cards and the same results occurred.

I opened one of the memory cards and evaluated the programming. In the attached sheets I show how the memory card programming has been altered to roll back one of every twenty votes for Governor Thomson that is made after 12:00 p.m. on Election Day.

I confronted Peter Checketts about this. Whenever I’ve gone to him with a technical concern in the past, he would automatically say, get it fixed. This time he went off on me for coming into his office, for overreacting and questioning the integrity of the company. It was a side of him I’ve never seen before. It was totally out of character. He was not the man I’ve known.

That was earlier today.

I am not sure what I am onto here. The cards you find in this storage locker are the four remaining ones I found in Checketts’s office. I know what I’m seeing on these cards. The memory cards for our machines have been programmed to run this rollback, but I don’t know on how many. I don’t know how far this goes.

If I am right, the very company I work for has conspired to fix the United State Presidential Election for Vice President Wellesley. You have a deep interest in the issue of election integrity. We have had long talks on this issue and both share a passion for our nation’s election process. If you find this, please succeed where I have failed.

Your friend,

Gabriel Martin

Mac handed the letter to Wire, and in disbelief said: “A murder at The Snelling led to all this?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“You’ve got about three hours to prepare. No sweat.”

Mac leaned back against a car, sipping a Starbucks coffee and devouring a slightly stale glazed donut that Kaufman and Herdine picked up. This was no longer simply a homicide investigation. Upon reflection, Mac realized it stopped being just a homicide investigation last night, when Judge Dixon became involved.

At that point, it became more—much more.

As a detective, Mac didn’t ever like to think there was something bigger and more important than the death of a human being. But the reality of what he and Wire discovered an hour ago made him realize there was so much more at stake.

The voting machine suggested election fraud which fell within the purview of the FBI and in particular the Civil Rights Division. The FBI would be taking over—and at this point, should be taking over.

This was one reason Wire was now picking up Dixon at the Bradley Center in Milwaukee and transporting him down to the storage locker. McRyan and Wire both worried about the FBI slow walking the case to get through the election. Wire worried that the director was three years into his first five-year term and he undoubtedly would be looking for another five years after that from the next occupant of the White House. The director wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side and Wire speculated he would tread carefully. Mac deferred to Wire on bureau politics but he thought it was unlikely the bureau would move slowly given what was in the locker and the letter. To be safe, Mac also took several photos of the letter and e-mailed copies to Pat Riley and Bobby Rockford in St. Paul with the notation, “I’m not making this up. This is what the case is about. Keep these in case the bureau decides to bury this.”

Wire took photos with her own camera so that the Judge could read the letter. Now there were copies in case of an attempt to cover up the discovery. There would be something to show the media if need be. The Judge’s presence would apply the necessary pressure to ensure their discovery would be properly and immediately investigated.

The early signs were promising.

Special agents from the FBI Milwaukee office arrived on the scene quickly and in force, with crime scene techs and agents. You could always count on the bureau to want to make a display of power when they wanted jurisdiction, hence the excess of dark suits hovering around the scene. Yet they were working with Kenosha and Milwaukee police and had acknowledged Mac’s presence. Crime scene people, both from the county and from the bureau were snapping photographs and logging evidence.

The Local Special Agent-In-Charge (AIC) for the bureau was special agent Margaret Berman and in charge she was. There was no doubt who everyone from the bureau would be answering to. Mac met with Berman briefly, giving her a run down on the situation and was reasonably impressed with her response. He called Wire and the Judge to clue them in on Berman.

Mac took in the scene as he placed a call to Ed Duffy.

“Duffy.”

“McRyan.”

“How’s Milwaukee?”

“A party town like always.”

“I saw the car chase and you hovering around the scene. Do tell?”

“Over beers at the pub, another time, I promise. I’m pressed for time. What can you tell me about Special Agent Margaret Berman?”

“Maggie?” Duffy laughed. “She’s known as the Little General. You’ll love her. She doesn’t take shit from anyone and can be a real ball breaker if you get on her bad side, so I might suggest you hide your usual contempt for us bureau types if I were you. Good news is she’s a hell of a cop and gets the job done. Oh, and one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s very ambitious. She doesn’t want Milwaukee to be her last stop. She’s very attuned to what it takes to climb the ladder.”

Mac thought about the case they were dealing with and an ambitious FBI agent could be good or bad. Good if she goes after the case. Bad if in her efforts to climb the FBI ladder, she would be willing to sack a sensitive case for a promotion. Duffy usually read people okay and if he thought Berman was the goods, he’d go with it. Plus it was consistent with at least his initial impression of the agent. He changed topics, “Ed, have you had any luck on the man we gave you pictures of?”

“Your call is good timing, I was getting ready to call you anyway,” Duffy replied. “The answer is yes and no and I can e-mail you some more information or have Riley do it if you’d like.”

“Yeah, get it to Riley and me. It may be helpful on both ends. But for now, I’ll take the quick version.”

“Okay, the guy you captured that killed McCormick, Montgomery and probably Stroudt at The Snelling, we don’t have an ID on him yet.”

“Nothing, huh?”

“Nada yet,” Duffy answered. “He’s dead, you sure it matters?”

“If I know who he was, that can still help me.”

“Okay,” Duffy answered. “As I look at the pictures you gave me, my impression is he looks southern European to me, not Spanish or Portuguese, more French, maybe northern Italian or even Sardinian. In any event, I mentioned that to my people in DC and they’re looking in those directions.”

“Okay, what about the other two guys? The blonds in the photos I handed you when we were at police HQ?”

“There I have some help for you, Mac,” Duffy replied eagerly. “The younger blond man we’ve identified as Viktor Domitrovich.”

“Russian?”

“Ukrainian. He’s a computer hacker and virus creator. He’s been a pain in the bureau’s butt from time to time over the last several years.”

“That fits,” Mac told Duffy what they’d just found and another person now was in the know on Martin and DataPoint, just in case. “Unbelievable,” was all Duffy could say in response, then got back on task “So we know who Domitrovich is, so that’s the good news.”

“The bad?”

“He’s dead. Kiev police found him this morning in his apartment with one between the eyes execution style. Sound familiar?”

“Indeed,” Mac answered. “Any witnesses? Anyone see anything?”

Duffy exhaled. “Nada.”

“Natch,” Mac replied disgustedly.

“There are other apartment units but nobody heard anything, so the thought is—silencer. Based on the condition of his body, they think he was done sometime yesterday.”

“So that guy is dead. What about the second guy?”

“That’s where it gets tricky. By the way, are you ever going to tell me where these pictures came from?” Duffy asked, still fishing.

“Sometime, maybe when I tell you about the car chase,” McRyan answered again evasively. “But not right now.”

“Okay, let me ask this a different way, these photos are enlargements. Will I ever get to see the whole picture?”

“Again, maybe when I tell you about the car chase,” Mac answered, evading. “Ed, there’s a great story behind this but I’m just not at liberty to tell it all yet.”

“Okay,” Duffy groaned, the disappointment obvious in his voice. “The picture you gave us shows about seventy-five percent of his face and for the most part he’s in the shadows so it is difficult to get a firm identification.”

“How about an un-firm one?”

“That I just got,” Ed answered. “We have a semi-retired agent in DC who used to work the Russia beat. He thinks the guy could be a Russian by the name of Anatoly Khrutov. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad?”

“He’s a nasty guy. Ex-KGB with some ties to Putin from back in the good old days. After the Cold War ended, he became something of a shadowy fixer in Russia. He puts people with people and gets paid for it.”

“Puts people with people?” Mac asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“For example, he helps foreign businessmen get connected with the right ministers in the government. You need a drilling permit, he can help shepherd it through the bureaucracy. You want to open a business? He knew who could help you get the right permissions. He’s said to know where everyone’s skeletons are buried so he can apply leverage to get done what he wants done. He wasn’t cheap either, very expensive.”

“Was?” Mac said. “Is he out of the game now?”

“Right, at least that’s what our people thought,” Duffy replied. “He’s been dormant for a number of years. These days, his nest is so feathered he’s thought to be largely retired, but if this is him, it looks as if the bear came out of hibernation.”

“For one last big score,” Mac answered.

“Maybe,” Ed answered. “The odd thing is he typically sticks to his home turf, Mac. When he was active, he didn’t often venture outside of Russia and when he did, he kept close to home, eastern Europe mostly. It was rare he ever even went into western Europe, let alone come to the States.”

Mac gave what Duffy said some thought, took a sip of his coffee and an idea came to him. “Ed, do we know who from the United States used Khrutov in Russia?”

“I don’t off hand, but I can look into that, Mac. Why?”

“If it was rare he ever left his home turf, then he wouldn’t have done it for just anyone. It had to be someone special, someone he’d done work with before, probably more than once.”

“That’s a good thought,” Duffy replied agreeably. “I’ll get back to my contacts in DC and see what I can find.”

“Good. Keep on this Russian and let me know if you find anything, and listen, I really appreciate your help on this.”

“Are you kidding, Mac? A case like this? It’s fun to be in the ballgame, man. I’m on this.”

That brought a smile to Mac’s face. This was a hell of a case.

He made another call.

“Yeah,” the voice growled.

“You leave me hanging and now I’m left to investigate with this ex-FBI chick. Some partner you are.”

“Two things. First, fuck you. Second, at least she’s easier on the eyes than me,” Lich replied and Mac howled in laughter. His partner sounded fine although he reported he was very sore and very pissed off. “You find the bastards behind this yet?”

“We’re getting closer. This case is crazy. Get this …” Mac spent five minutes giving his partner the rundown of the day’s events from Checketts, to Darwin Ring and DataPoint, Ginger Bloom and the chase, and then finishing with the locker.

His partner had one piece of advice. “Watch your back, Mac.”

“I always do,” McRyan answered as Wire pulled back into the parking lot with Dixon and Sally. “Listen. I gotta go. I’ll buzz you tomorrow.”

Mac hung up and Sally came walking quickly to him and gave him a hug and a kiss. “Glad to see you in one piece,” she whispered in his ear, a touch of worry in her voice.

“I’m good. Wire and I were just spectators with a front row seat on that car chase.”

“Uh huh,” was his girlfriend’s skeptical and knowing reply. “The whole calling the move a ‘Bullitt’ was a nice touch by the way. Stealing from my favorite cop movie? Really?”

“Wire talks too much.”

“Mac, which one is Special Agent Berman?” the Judge asked, bailing Mac out for now.

Mac pointed to a stout woman with short brown hair wearing a black trench coat.

“Watch this,” Wire said with a knowing look.

Dixon approached Berman and extended his hand. Berman recognized Dixon and smiled when he introduced himself. They chatted for a minute and then the two of them walked away from the storage locker to have some privacy and engaged in a discussion for nearly five minutes. It looked like an agreeable conversation. Then Berman received a phone call. The call lasted a couple of minutes and then Berman spoke for about a minute and then the two of them shook hands and Dixon came walking back to the group.

“So?” Sally asked.

“FBI Director Mitchell called while we were over there.”

“Convenient timing,” Mac remarked, sensing a setup, a good kind of setup.

“Perhaps,” the Judge replied with a wry smile. “In any event, we’re putting everything on a plane here and going to DC. The director wants to be briefed directly on this. If the briefing goes the way I hope it goes, the director, probably in eventual consultation with the attorney general, will order an immediate mass review of all DataPoint voting machines for this virus mentioned in the letter. While in transit to DC, the secretaries of state for Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia are going to be put on alert.”

“Which is what you want, right?” Sally asked.

“It is,” the Judge answered and then looked to Mac and Wire. “I think you two have discovered what this is all about and have explained why all these people were killed, why our Sebastian was killed. Well done. Well done indeed.”

McRyan and Wire both nodded modestly. The magnitude of what their investigation uncovered suppressed any urge to express happiness. “Now you two have a plane to catch with the FBI,” the Judge added and led them walking back towards the Acadia. “And Mac?’

“Yes, Judge?”

“You’re going to give the briefing to the director as soon as you get to Washington.”

That stopped Mac in his tracks. The Judge looked back with a mischievous smile noting the suddenly nervous look on the otherwise unflappable detective’s face. He doubted McRyan was someone who was often put back on his heels.

Dixon walked back to Mac and put a hand on his shoulder. “Son, nobody knows this case better than you—nobody. Wire can’t give the briefing because she’s been working for me—you haven’t. She can’t be there, nor can I. The bureau is just getting up to speed on this and they don’t know the ‘ins and outs’ of it. All you have to do is run the case down from beginning to end. FBI Director Mitchell will likely ask you some very pointed questions. Give him direct answers, just like you always do.” Dixon patted him hard on the back. “You’ve got about three hours to prepare. No sweat.”

“Riiiiight,” Mac muttered as they walked to the car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“He’s alive. Everyone else is dead.”

Sunday morning, 3:32 a.m. The small FBI motorcade made its way through the now sleepy streets of Washington DC from Reagan National, with its destination being the Hoover Building.

Mac was alone now. Wire was not going to be in on the briefing of the FBI director. If the investigation, if that’s what it still was at this point, was going to end up going where Dixon wanted it to go, Mac would have to get it across the finish line.

On the flight to Washington, Mac and Wire walked through the case. Mac put together a PowerPoint on his computer, building from the outline on the whiteboard back in St. Paul. While they were doing that, the voting machine was tested in another part of the plane and the memory cards did exactly what Gabriel Martin explained they would. One of every twenty votes for Governor Thomson was rolled over to Vice President Wellesley’s column, so in Mac’s mind, they had solved what the whole cover-up was about, election fraud. He had his murderer, at least of Montgomery and McCormick and probably Stroudt as well. But someone let the killer off the leash and put the plan to manipulate the election results in motion and had been engineering the cover-up of its discovery. That someone looked to be Heath Connolly.

Wire and the Judge were absolutely convinced it was Connolly.

Mac wasn’t so sure.

After Mac, Wire, Dixon and Sally worked through the case timeline on the flight, Mac sat with the outline for a while. On his laptop he kept flipping through all the pictures of the Kentucky meeting and he kept stopping on one: Wire’s photo of the limousine, with the door open and a leg showing under the bottom of the door. Wire told him that as she took the photo, someone yelled out they had spotted Montgomery and Stroudt on the south side of the cabin. The person never got out of the limousine and it simply sped away.

Who was it?

Just another person with a small part to play in the whole process or was it someone more? One person knew and it was Heath Connolly.

The motorcade pulled in underneath the Hoover Building. As Mac got out of the Suburban, his phone beeped. It was a text from Duffy. Mac read it and mumbled a “shit.”

“What?” Agent Berman asked.

“Nothing,” Mac answered, wanting to digest this latest update. Mac was escorted through security and to an elevator that took them up to FBI Director Thomas Mitchell’s office. The director was in his office in the early a.m. casually dressed in khakis, a blue cardigan and white button down collar dress shirt. He looked the part of the senior lawman, however; tall, forceful, with salt and pepper hair cropped tightly to his head and perceptive eyes.

Agent Berman introduced Mac.

“Detective, your father was Simon McRyan, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mitchell gave a small smile, “He and I worked together a few times many many years ago. As good a police detective as I ever ran across.”

“Thank you for saying that, Director.”

“I also chatted with Charlie Flanagan about an hour ago.”

“At two in the morning, sir?”

“Yeah, the chief wasn’t too happy about that until he realized it was me calling. He’s an old friend. I asked him to give it to me straight about you.”

Mac winced a little, uncertain.

“You needn’t worry, Detective. He said if I thought Simon McRyan was good, wait until I meet his son.”

Mac smiled, just a little, relieved. “The chief is very kind, sir, and perhaps not always objective when it comes to me.”

“I know Charlie Flanagan, Detective,” Mitchell answered seriously. “He doesn’t bullshit and he said neither do you. So I’m very interested to hear what you have to say. I don’t have a good handle on what this is all about. Judge Dixon, another man I trust, gave me his version of events. But he is not objective in this matter. He has an agenda. My agents from Milwaukee and my people in the Civil Rights Division are telling me we’ve got a serious election fraud issue here. I am told the one person who can explain how it is we got to this point is you.”

“I can give you the big picture, sir,” Mac answered.

“Let’s have it.”

Mac looked over to the director’s conference table. “May I?”

Mitchell nodded and followed Mac to the conference table. Two agents also set the DataPoint Voting Machine, silver briefcase, memory cards and letter on the conference table as well. Mac opened up his laptop and sat down. Mitchell took a seat next to him and Special Agent Berman took another open chair.

“Mac, let’s put this up on the big screen,” Mitchell replied as he hit a button under the conference table and two panels on the wall slid open to reveal a large flat screen. The director pushed another button and a small console rose from the center of the table. An assistant appeared instantly with a cord for Mac to plug his laptop into the director’s audio visual system. Mac hit F8 and the image from his computer screen appeared on the screen.

“Shoot,” Mitchell said to Mac.

“This case started on Wednesday night with a meeting at this cabin, which belongs to Raymond Hitch, a businessman from Kentucky. The cabin is on Lake Barkley, which is located outside the city of Cadiz in northwest Kentucky.” Mac flipped to a picture from the meeting. “At this meeting were four people of special interest.” He worked left to right across the photo, “The first man, somewhat heavyset, is Peter Checketts, the owner and president of DataPoint Electronics, a technology company in Milwaukee that manufactures, among other things, electronic paperless voting machines. The second man back here in the shadows we think is a man named Anatoly Khrutov, an ex-KGB agent who since the end of the Cold War has been something of a fixer in Russia. To the right of Khrutov, standing behind this silver metal briefcase, is a man we’ve identified as Viktor Domitrovich, a Ukrainian citizen and reputed computer hacker. The last man is Heath Connolly, the manager of Vice President Wellesley’s campaign.”

“How were you able to identify Domitrovich and in particular this Mr. Khrutov?” Mitchell asked.

“With the assistance of the FBI, sir,” Mac replied. “Special Agent Duffy with the bureau’s Twin Cities office provided assistance on this front working with people here in DC. Domitrovich is well known to the cyber crimes people of the bureau. We think this is Khrutov.”

“Think?”

“This is the best picture we have and here is a bureau photo. The two men look alike and a retired FBI agent who worked Russia for the bureau for a number of years is pretty certain that is him. Duffy said 90% it’s Khrutov.” Mac handed Mitchell a hard copy of the picture of Khrutov and flipped to a new picture.

“There may well have been a fifth person who was supposed to be at this meeting,” Mac put up the photo of the limousine with the back door open. “For reasons I will explain in a few minutes, this person never exited the vehicle and we don’t know who this was.”

“What time did this meeting take place?” the director asked.

“About 11:00 p.m., sir.”

“Was Hitch at his cabin?”

“No sir, he was not,” Mac answered. “He is traveling out of the country, on business in China. We were able to reach him and he said Connolly called him on Monday and wanted to use the cabin and Hitch said fine. Connolly’s apparently used it a few times before and Hitch thought nothing of it. He’s not due back in the United States until next week.”

Mitchell nodded. “So on Wednesday night, six days before the election, at 11:00 p.m. at night, the campaign manager for the vice president was meeting with the owner of a voting machine company, an ex-KGB agent and a computer hacker at an out-of-the-way cabin in Kentucky?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.”

Mac had Mitchell’s full attention.

“Proceed, Detective.”

“These people were not alone at this meeting in Kentucky,” Mac flipped to a new picture. “The man on the left is Jason Stroudt and on the right is Adam Montgomery. These men are DC-based reporters who operate the political blog ‘The Congressional Page.’”

“I’ve heard of it,” Mitchell answered.

Mac flipped to an aerial photo of Hitch’s cabin. “Stroudt and Montgomery were also at this meeting, outside, perched in this grove of trees to the south of the cabin.”

“How do you know this?” Gates asked.

“Because of another person who was on scene outside the cabin,” Mac added a photo, “former FBI Special Agent Dara Wire.” Mac looked at Mitchell, whose eyebrows flared.

“How was it former Agent Wire was there?”

“For the past six months she’s been working for the Thomson campaign, largely watching and monitoring certain higher ups in the vice president’s campaign, with a specific focus on Heath Connolly,” Mac answered. “She tracked Connolly to this meeting. Ms. Wire had hoped to take in the meeting from the perch occupied by Stroudt and Montgomery. Instead she was forced to move to the north side of the cabin.”

“I assume it was Wire who identified Stroudt and Montgomery as being at the meeting,” the director asked.

“Yes sir. She found their vehicle parked down the road, took down the license number and later verified that they had rented it.”

“Do we know what was discussed at this meeting?” Mitchell asked.

“I think it may be more along the lines of what was intended to be discussed. It doesn’t appear that the meeting got too far along before it broke up.”

“Why is that?”

“Stroudt and Montgomery were discovered and chased from the area. The chase included gun shots.”

“Gun shots?” Mitchell asked again with upraised eyebrows.

“Yes, sir. Ms. Wire reported shots being fired and given the events that have unfolded since this meeting, I think we can safely assume that was the case.”

“Was she in any danger during this time?” Mitchell asked with concern.

“No sir, as I mentioned, she was on the north side of the cabin, away from the action and she told me they never knew she was there.”

“Good,” Mitchell answered. “What’s next?”

“Following the discovery of Stroudt and Montgomery, the meeting was hastily ended and all the players made a mad dash from the scene into SUVs and limousines as you can see in this series of photos taken by Wire,” Mac explained. “Here you see Connolly and Checketts in particular being ushered into vehicles that Dara reports immediately sped away from the scene.”

“What’s next?”

“The next significant event happens the following day,” Mac displayed a picture of The Snelling and of Stroudt dead on the motel room floor. “I caught the case at this point when Mr. Stroudt’s dead body was found at The Snelling, a rather seedy motel in St. Paul.” Mac displayed a picture of Stroudt’s body at The Snelling. “As you can see, Mr. Stroudt’s throat was cut from ear to ear. His time of death was around 3:00 p.m.” Mac related the discovery by a pizza delivery man and the motel manager.

“So Stroudt was in Kentucky on Wednesday night and was killed in St. Paul by 3:00 p.m. on Thursday?” Mitchell asked. “How did he get there?”

“Flew. Both Stroudt and Montgomery had return flights booked to DC from Nashville for Thursday morning. Neither of them ever showed for that flight. Instead, they drove the opposite direction, to St. Louis, where Stroudt took a Delta flight to the Twin Cities and arrived a little after 10:00 a.m. He rented a car at the airport. From there he went to a Grand Brew Coffee Shop in St. Paul for a few hours and then checked into The Snelling around 2:00 p.m. and was murdered an hour later.”

“Do you know by whom?”

“We think we do. I will get to the killer in a minute because Stroudt is not the only body he’s dropped, sir,” Mac answered. “Now, we were able to identify Stroudt from a Delta boarding pass we found in the motel room. However, none of Mr. Stroudt’s other belongings were in the room when we arrived.”

“What about his car?”

“It was dumped at a shopping mall a few miles from the motel, again with none of his personal effects inside.” Mac continued: “Upon identifying Stroudt, we tried to track down his business partner, Adam Montgomery. Apparently sensing danger from what he and his partner had seen on Wednesday night, unlike Stroudt, he wisely dropped from the grid sooner and tried to fly below the radar. He did not answer his cell phone and as we later learned, he ditched it for a burner phone. In St. Louis he borrowed a car from a distant relative and eventually drove to the Twin Cities, arriving sometime on Friday. Once in the Twin Cities, he called Sebastian McCormick, the deputy campaign director for Governor Thomson’s campaign, to arrange a meeting which took place at McCormick’s St. Paul home.” He flipped to a slide with pictures of Sebastian McCormick, Kate Shelby and McCormick’s house.

“Was there some relationship between McCormick and Montgomery?” Mitchell asked.

“No, but there was between Stroudt and McCormick, they went to law school together at the University of Virginia,” Mac answered. An aide walked into the office with two pots of coffee.

“Coffee?” Mitchell asked.

“Please.”

The director poured Mac a cup. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Right now, black,” Mac answered.

“That tired, huh?”

“You could say that, Director,” Mac answered with an exhausted smile. He took two quick sips of coffee and then pressed on. “When Montgomery arrived at McCormick’s house, he explained to McCormick and Kate Shelby, a deputy campaign manager for the Thomson campaign who was also there, that Stroudt traveled to the Twin Cities to get in contact with McCormick. However, before he could he was killed. Montgomery began to explain why he wanted to meet with McCormick when this man,” Mac put up a photo of McCormick’s killer, “came in the back of the house and shot Montgomery in the head and McCormick twice in the chest.”

“Who is that man?” Mitchell asked, standing and walking to the screen.

“Sir, we don’t have a name yet,” Mac answered. “Agent Duffy has been efforting that for us but has not yet been able to identify him.”

“That man killed McCormick and Montgomery but not Shelby?” Mitchell asked, confused. “How does she not end up dead?”

“Dara Wire,” Mac answered. “During the day on Friday, she was here in DC trying to find Stroudt and Montgomery and had been working with the Alexandria, Virginia, police in that regard. Stroudt’s home as well as the offices of The Congressional Page were broken into and ransacked, while Montgomery’s was not. So she decided to sit on Montgomery’s building and see what turned up. While watching, she noted what she thought were two different two-man teams watching the apartment building that abruptly left their surveillance detail, speeding away. She suspected that Montgomery had been located. She also knew, at this point, that Stroudt had been murdered and began to surmise that a cover-up of the Kentucky meeting was in motion. A little later on Friday, Wire and Judge Dixon flew back to the Twin Cities. When they landed, they each had voice mail messages from McCormick alerting them to the fact that Montgomery was coming to McCormick’s house. Wire intuitively knew the danger McCormick was in. She and Dixon sped to McCormick’s house. In fact, Judge Dixon called me while they were on their way asking me to get over there as well. I was en-route but Wire beat me there, realized what was going down and managed to get inside in time to save Ms. Shelby.”

“Where is Ms. Shelby now?”

“She’s in joint protective custody of the Secret Service and the St. Paul Police Department.”

Mac flipped back to the picture of the killer. “Wire shot this man in the chest three times and helped Ms. Shelby escape the home out the back before the killer’s backup got to the house.” Mac described the back alley shootout and Wire’s escape with Dixon and Shelby from the scene.

“Detective, this killer, is the man the media has reported is dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you found him, correct? How?”

Mac explained how he tracked down the killer to the off-the-books doctor. He didn’t mention Fat Charlie’s name but he didn’t need to, the director understood. “That’s pretty quick work, Detective.”

“It helps to know people who know people.”

“Sources are everything and good cops have them,” Mitchell replied, impressed. “Continue.”

Mac shifted gears.

“Wire and Shelby escaped McCormick’s house with Montgomery’s backpack, which included his laptop, camera and notebooks. An hour later, while I was working the crime scene at McCormick’s house, I was again contacted by Judge Dixon, who was with Wire and Shelby. He asked to meet and we agreed to do so at my family’s bar near downtown St. Paul.”

“Why at your family’s bar?” Mitchell asked quizzically. “Why not police headquarters?”

“That would have been my first choice as well, sir,” Mac answered, taking a sip of coffee. “However, Ms. Wire wasn’t in the trusting mood at that point. Dixon and Shelby told her that they could trust me. Wire insisted on a meeting place, other than headquarters, where I could trust everyone.”

“And that’s your family bar?”

“Our bar is many things, including a cop bar. On a Friday night, sir, it’s full of police, all of whom I trust, so yeah, other than HQ it was the place to go,” Mac answered. “As we were meeting up on the street outside the pub, we were attacked drive-by shooting style by men riding in a panel van and Chevy Suburban, two of whom Ms. Wire and I managed to mortally wound while returning fire.” McRyan described the shootout and chase that lead to the Suburban, which exploded, leaving another two men dead.

“I saw something about this on the news, didn’t I?” Mitchell asked.

“You probably did, Director,” Mac replied. “Although I’ve been so consumed with this case, I haven’t seen any of the news reports on that.”

“Can I step back for a moment, Detective McRyan?” Mitchell asked. “How was it the shooters knew to find Wire and Dixon at … what’s it called?”

“McRyan’s Pub.”

“Right, how did they find you there?”

“We think it was through a LoJack tracking system in Montgomery’s laptop.” Mac described how Jupiter found the LoJack tracking system on the computer.

“So whoever these men are working for, they were able to get into LoJack’s system and track the computer? That’s not something the average person can do. That requires certain … resources … and … skills,” Mitchell commented, his arms folded, giving it some thought.

“That was our thought as well, Director,” Mac added.

“Detective, you mentioned the laptop, camera and notebooks, what did you find there?”

“We were able to get into Montgomery’s laptop and found that he conducted extensive web searches on DataPoint and their voting machines. It was actually through the DataPoint website that we identified Checketts as one of the men at the meeting in Kentucky. At this point, our investigation shifted to Milwaukee.”

Mac poured himself another cup of coffee and this time put in a little cream and sugar. He took a sip and then changed to a picture of Checketts’s house. “After we found our killer in Eden Prairie, I, along with former Agent Wire, traveled to Milwaukee to investigate further, looking to speak with Mr. Checketts.”

“How did you get to Milwaukee so quickly?”

“Judge Dixon arranged a flight.”

“Did he now?” Mitchell replied, a whimsical smile on his face.

Mac shrugged his shoulders. “If it makes you feel any better, he cleared it with Chief Flanagan before I accompanied Ms. Wire to Milwaukee.”

“And how is it that former Agent Wire suddenly became part of your investigation?”

“My partner was wounded in the shootout outside my family’s bar,” McRyan replied. “Our other detectives remained back in St. Paul to watch over our killer in the hopes that his friends tried to retrieve him before his death. Ms. Wire offered her assistance. She is quite capable.”

“Yes she is,” Mitchell answered knowingly.

“The next morning, along with two Milwaukee detectives, Wire and I went to the home of Peter Checketts where we found him dead, hanging from an exposed beam over his family room.” Mac put up a photo of Checketts hanging. “At first blush it appeared to be a suicide. Mr. Checketts is apparently in considerable personal financial distress. He was significantly indebted to a couple of casinos in Las Vegas. So at first, it looked like a suicide.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

“No. It looks like his death was staged as a suicide and he was murdered.” Mac added details about Checketts’s personal finances as well as the footprints leading to the house. “Add to that the fact that Checketts is dead and this Domitrovich and Khrutov are dead.”

“Domitrovich and Khrutov are dead?” Mitchell asked, surprised, sitting up in his chair now.

“Yes, sir. Domitrovich was found in his Kiev apartment with a bullet in his head on Friday and just a few minutes ago, just as I arrived here at the Hoover Building I received a text from Agent Duffy that Khrutov was found dead at his dacha northwest of Moscow, also a bullet in the head, killed execution style. You add that with Checketts, not to mention the deaths of Montgomery and Stroudt and McCormick, and someone is covering up.”

“You’re right,” Mitchell answered, looking again at the photos of Khrutov and Domitrovich, shaking his head. “Care to tell me what is being covered up?”

“Election fraud that could have massive consequences on Tuesday’s election,” Mac gestured towards the voting machine that was sitting on the end of the conference table. “Let me show you how,” Mac put up a new picture. “This is Gabriel Martin. He was the chief information officer for DataPoint. At about the same time as the meeting was taking place in Kentucky at the Hitch cabin Wednesday night, Martin was killed in Milwaukee. I have some video,” Mac pulled up the video supplied by Detective Ring and played it for the director. Mac pointed to the screen to a man standing in the median of the street, “This is Wednesday night. This man is Gabe Martin and I’ll just let this roll.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Mitchell muttered.

“That was with intent,” Mac stated. “The Suburban makes no evasive move. After finding Checketts dead and learning of Martin’s murder, we went to DataPoint to interview key staff about the two men to determine if the staff knew of any reason why anyone would want to kill them. Turns out Mr. Martin was dating his secretary, a woman named Ginger Bloom. The night before his death, Mr. Martin gave Ms. Bloom an envelope. An envelope she was to give to Adam Montgomery if anything happened to him.”

“I assume,” the director asked, “that we’re talking the same Adam Montgomery that …”

“Yes, sir,” Mac answered. “Montgomery and Martin were friends and apparently shared an appreciation for the integrity of the election process. Ms. Bloom tried to contact Montgomery after Mr. Martin was killed but was unable to reach him. That was on Thursday and Friday, largely the same time period in which we were trying to find him as well.” He hit a key and brought up the picture of the envelope. “When I told her that Montgomery too had been murdered, she gave me this envelope. Inside was a key to the padlock for storage locker number 137 at Kenosha Self-Storage.”

Mac displayed a picture of the storage locker.

“We opened the locker and found this inside,” he advanced to the next picture which showed the DataPoint voting machine, four memory cards and the envelope containing the letter. He then pointed to the right of the video screens. “The voting machine we found is right here.” McRyan then held up a copy of the letter, “The original of this letter and the memory cards are in the evidence bags up here at the front of the table. In short the letter explains that Mr. Martin discovered five replacement memory cards in Checketts’s office for DataPoint voting machines that were recently delivered to Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia. The new machines went out a number of months ago but there was a manufacturing issue with the memory cards. To fix the problem, the company manufactured new memory cards with a new subcontractor. The four cards in the storage locker are from that batch of new memory cards. According to Martin’s letter, on each memory card is a virus that at noon on Election Day would cause one of every twenty votes for Governor Thomson to be rolled back and put into Vice President Wellesley’s column.”

“That’s a five percent swing, which in a tight election …”

“Would be all the difference in the world,” Mac answered.

“Sir, if I might,” Agent Berman interjected. “On the flight to Washington we verified

that these four remaining memory cards do exactly what Martin says they would. They roll back the votes. No question.”

“This is what we think the case is all about, Director,” Mac pressed. “Someone has put in motion a plan to manipulate the voting machines in these key states to push the election to the vice president and has murdered at least seven people to keep it from being exposed.”

Mitchell sat back in the leather conference room chair, closed his eyes and absorbed the enormity of what he’d just seen and heard. He sighed and looked to Mac. “Detective McRyan, I have a follow-up question or two. Do you think this is limited to just the three states you mentioned earlier?”

“I have no way of knowing, Director. These four remaining cards are part of the batch that went out to those three states, so I suspect it is limited to those states, but if I might offer an opinion.”

Mitchell nodded.

“I’d check any DataPoint machine just to be sure. We’ve found this, who knows what else might be out there. We might have just hit the tip of the iceberg for all we know.”

“I agree, Detective. We can’t take the chance,” Mitchell answered and Mac breathed a sigh of relief. He’d convinced the director. Not that he was working for Dixon, but that would make the Judge happy who would now have a field day leaking to his favorites in the press corps.

Mitchell stood up and called in his assistant. “Get me Attorney General Gates on the phone.”

“Sir, its 4:00 a.m.,” the assistant complained, not relishing calling the attorney general.

“I don’t care, he needs to hear this and we need to get moving,” Mitchell replied. “Next, we need to get the secretaries of state for Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia lined up for a telephone conference. I understand they’ve been alerted already. Let’s get them teed up.” Mitchell next looked to Berman. “After that, with regard to the DataPoint machines, we need to get on a call with all of the secretaries of state for states that have these machines and have them inspected and tested, let’s get that process started. Now, I tend to think, or maybe hope, that only these three states are impacted, but who knows. Assuming for the moment that it is only these three states, can we get new memory cards in time for Tuesday?”

Nobody in the room knew the answer.

“We need to find that out like fifteen minutes ago,” Mitchell stated. He picked upon his phone and made a call. He put his hand over the receiver, “Election fraud is a Civil Rights Division Issue so I’m calling the deputy director for that division.” Director Mitchell spent a few minutes on the phone with a groggy deputy director. Mitchell said, “Yes, I’m serious,” more than once. Once his phone calls were complete, Mitchell looked at Mac.

“So Mac, there’s one thing we haven’t tackled,” Mitchell stated, sitting back down in his chair, looking Mac straight in the eye. “Who’s behind this? Is it Heath Connolly? Is the vice president’s campaign manager fixing the election?”

Mac hedged a little. It looked like Connolly was running the show but he wasn’t entirely certain. That one photo from Kentucky, the limousine that arrived last, still gnawed at him. There was someone yet unaccounted for. But if there was another player, or if that person, and not Connolly, were in charge, there was still only one person who could answer the question. “Connolly is the most likely for one specific reason.”

“Which is what, Detective?” Mitchell asked.

“He’s still alive. Everyone else is dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Electing to Murder.”

The director and Mac briefed Attorney General Josiah Gates a little before 5:00 a.m. Gates had served as attorney general for the past two years and was a close personal friend of Vice President Wellesley. The attorney general had a reasonable expectation of holding his job if his good friend were elected. So it was with a little surprise and much to Mac’s great relief, Attorney General Gates had no intention of keeping his job via potential election fraud.

A half hour after the briefing, Mac sat and listened as Mitchell and Gates held a conference call with the secretaries of state for Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia. By a little after 6:00 a.m., each state was already starting the process of arranging to test their DataPoint machines. By 6:30 a.m., the secretaries of state for the other DataPoint states had been brought into the loop as a precaution and would be testing their machines as well.

At 7:00 a.m., Attorney General Gates and FBI Director Mitchell left to brief President Barnes. Thankfully, Mac did not have to give that briefing. “No offense, Detective, because I suspect you’re most concerned with the murders,” Attorney General Gates stated seriously, “but the president will have to be most concerned about the elections on Tuesday.”

“Understood,” Mac answered, and he did. “Sir,” Mac asked FBI Director Mitchell, “will you be needing me for the next few hours?”

“No, Mac,” Mitchell answered with a small grin, having anticipated McRyan’s question. “My driver is downstairs and he will take you to the Marriott. I already have a room reserved for you. Go crash. I’ll probably want you back here when we get Connolly in.”

Mac didn’t hesitate. He went to the Marriott, checked into his room, crashed on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

While he slept, a lot happened.

Following his early morning briefing, the president moved decisively, issuing an executive order to have all DataPoint machines inspected. A follow-up conference call with the secretaries of state occurred at 8:00 a.m. and by 9:30 a.m., results started flooding into the FBI office of Civil Rights that in fact the rollback virus was on the memory cards for the DataPoint machines in the three keys states. The good news was that in other states with DataPoint machines, it didn’t appear there was an issue, so the rollback virus was limited to Iowa, Wisconsin and Virginia.

A conference call was then held at 10:15 a.m. with the campaigns wherein the rollback virus was disclosed and the measures that needed to be taken were explained. For the machines to operate properly, the memory cards had to be replaced. The scramble was already on to manufacture the cards. The previous manufacturer DataPoint used for the memory cards was contacted and agreed to immediately begin production of the memory cards, at an extremely high markup, of course.

And then there was the media.

The early morning briefing by the FBI director and attorney general was not on the president’s original schedule. When the FBI director and attorney general show up unannounced, something is up. That caught the attention of the White House Press Corps and they picked up the scent quickly. That gave the Judge an opening to start the ball rolling on DataPoint. Word of the conference call with the secretaries of state leaked and it appeared on a political reporter’s Twitter feed, followed by a quick Huffington Post blog post that went viral within minutes. It even made its way onto the Sunday morning political shows as breaking news. It was all the pundits could do to avoid looking at their cell phones while debating who would win on Tuesday night. Even the great George Will wasn’t sure what to say.

Following the morning shows, Barnes Administration and Thomson campaign sources, mostly off the record, confirmed that there was a significant problem with and tampering of the voting machines in three key battleground states. The Wellesley campaign was oddly silent and simply was providing “no comment,” and for good reason. At 11:30 a.m. eastern time, the attorney general and FBI director held a press conference and disclosed the attack on the electoral system, explaining what the virus would do and what its possible impact would have been.

Neither the attorney general nor the FBI director minced words. The murders were tied to the manipulation of the system, indicating the attack had both domestic and foreign components. However, the implication was clear. Someone who was a supporter of Vice President Wellesley had conspired to manipulate the election results and murdered seven people in the process.

The media, already in overdrive two days before the election, went ballistic with wall-to-wall coverage. Never had the actual mechanics of voting machines been so thoroughly and quickly dissected as was now being done on FOX News, NBC News Channel and CNN. With the help of smart boards, the networks demonstrated what the impact of the rollback of one vote of every twenty for Governor Thomson would have been in those three states, assuming the current polling numbers and projected voter turnout. Clearly the manipulation would have caused the states to slip to Vice President Wellesley.

The headlines were predictable.

Electoral Theft.

Rolling Back Democracy.

Manipulating the Franchise.

Hacking Democracy.

Virus Politics.

The one that caught Mac’s attention was the FOX News headline—”Electing to Murder.” To him, that captured what the case was really about, the victims. It was also the headline that led to the question: “Who was behind this?”

That part of the story had yet to be told, but the media was asking and digging.

Attorney General Gates and Director Mitchell were clear that they did not have a suspect although there were people of interest they were looking to talk to and would do so very soon. In actuality, it was one person of interest—Heath Connolly. Connolly’s name was never uttered but his name started percolating to the surface within fifteen minutes of the end of the press conference. Judge Dixon at work again. Khrutov’s name leaked as well and that escalated the story further, Russians and Republicans conspiring to fix the presidential election.

The reaction of the Political Left was outrage and one of let’s not jump to conclusions on the Political Right.

The problem for the right was it was hard not to jump to a conclusion because it was all so obvious to see. Damage control mode was the operating mantra of the vice president’s campaign as well as Senate and Congressional Republicans. The vice president himself had met with reporters immediately after the press conference and said anyone involved needed to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

“Does that include if this involves someone in your campaign?” an ABC reporter asked.

“Without question.”

Five minutes later came the first report of Connolly’s name.

Once Connolly’s name came out, the interview of any Republican on any political show, even FOX News, was uncomfortable to watch.

After his nearly four hours of sleep, Mac took in all of this chaos from the couch of his suite at the Marriott a few blocks from the Hoover Building. A quick shower and some good room service had him feeling somewhat refreshed. Now, 1:00 p.m., he was lounging in a bathrobe and his boxers watching a football game, when there was an expected knock on his door which he opened to find Wire. She’d gone to her Arlington, Virginia, home to get some rest, a shower and she offered to buy some clothes for Mac, who’d flown to Milwaukee and then Washington with nothing but the clothes on his back.

The few hours of rest had done her well and she looked good. Skinny blue jeans accentuating her long shapely legs, tight black top, black leather jacket, makeup and her long black hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. “I say this as a man utterly in love with his girlfriend and without any hint of lecherousness, but Dara Wire, you clean up really nice.”

“Thanks,” Wire replied with a bright smile, appreciating the compliment. “Here you go,” she handed him two bags that contained two pairs of jeans, a package of boxers, socks, T-shirts and two Henley shirts, one gray and one black.

“Thanks, partner,” Mac replied as he darted into the bedroom although he left the door open a crack so they could talk.

“So you’ve seen the news, I take it,” Wire asked, dropping into one of the soft leather chairs.

“Cripes. My cell phone has been going crazy. Sally, the Judge, Riley, Rockford, Lich, Jupiter, heck, even my mother, it’s been unbelievable. I turned on the football game just to get away from it.”

“You call anyone back?”

“Sally,” he replied with a sheepish voice.

“Of course. You are so damn smitten.”

“I know. Anyway,” getting back to the political talk, “can you say October surprise?”

“This isn’t finding out about Bush’s DWI three days before the election,” Wire replied as she looked to her left towards the bathroom and caught a quick glimpse of McRyan’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, the separate bedroom door into the bathroom wide open. He was naked except for his boxers. She could make out his ripped physique and thought no wonder Sally Kennedy was in so deep. “So Connolly is coming in when?”

“He’ll be arriving sometime around 2:00 p.m. He’s on an FBI jet coming back from Ohio. His lawyer has already been in contact with the Justice Department and will be there.”

“He surely won’t be coming to town unnoticed.”

Mac laughed, “No, no he won’t. The Judge saw to that.”

“Are you in on the interview of Connolly?” Wire asked. She was, after all, an employee of the Thomson campaign.

“Not in the interview itself but I get to watch,” Mac answered. “Which is fine, by the way. If you think about it, Dara, I’m a homicide detective and our homicides are closed for the most part. We have this guy back in the Twin Cities and the two from last night in Milwaukee who either murdered or were certainly involved with the murders of Martin and Checketts, so to a certain degree, my job is done.”

“Don’t you want to know who is behind this, though?”

“Hell-to-the-yeah,” Mac answered enthusiastically as he emerged from the bedroom dressed in jeans and a black Henley and white undershirt. “But election fraud and manipulating voting machines is the FBI’s beat, not mine. If the bureau figures out who’s behind this voting machine business, we’ll know who the shot caller was on the murders and we’ll get closure.”

“We know who’s behind the voting machines. It’s Connolly.”

“Maybe,” Mac answered.

That drew a stern look from Wire. “What do you mean maybe?” she growled.

“Exactly that,” Mac answered. “Maybe. Look, Dara he’s involved up to his well-coiffed sideburns, I’m just not completely convinced he’s the one calling the shots is all.”

“Why not?” she asked hotly.

“Easy, Dara,” Mac replied calmly, “easy. I know how you guys feel about Connolly. But you and the Judge are so wrapped around the axle on this guy that you may be making him bigger than he is.”

“What do you mean bigger?”

“He’s Satan in your eyes, and he may be. But seven bodies have been dropped. Someone has been paid a lot of money and expended a lot of resources to make this all happen. Campaign managers don’t have that kind of scratch.”

“Where have you been?” Wire mocked. “Look at all the money in politics. These damn Super PACs and all the money they’re spending. He can have that money with a snap of his fingers.”

“Okay, but from whom? And let me tell you something, rich people don’t just give that kind of money away without knowing where it’s going, Dara, or having a say in how it’s to be used,” Mac replied. “You don’t end up being or staying rich that way. I know you think Connolly’s the great and powerful Oz, but I’m sorry, he doesn’t get this big pot of money without having to answer to someone on how it’s spent and on what it’s spent.”

Wire fumed and Mac understood it. She and the Judge had been on Connolly for months and were fully invested in the belief that he was responsible for everything, that he was responsible for Sebastian’s death. Mac was being objective, remaining open to all possibilities. They might be right, but he might be right too.

“Look, Dara,” Mac said, sitting down. “Connolly’s deeply involved and that son of a bitch is going down. But we need to have an open mind that there could be someone higher up the food chain.”

“Like who?”

Mac sat back on the couch and crossed his right leg over his left, “How about the person who never got out of the limousine?”

Wire looked at him skeptically.

“Tell me again about when the limousine arrived,” Mac asked.

Wire sighed with disgust but then stopped abruptly and sat back into her chair. She closed her eyes and thought back to when the limousine arrived. “I was on the north side of the cabin at that point.”

“So that limo was the last to arrive, right?”

She nodded. “Yes. A man came running out of the house and opened the door for him.”

“The man who came to the car, tell me about him.”

“He was part of the security detail.”

“Was he just one of the guy’s or was he in charge?”

Wire nodded, “I think he was in charge. I’d seen him giving orders earlier.”

“Okay, so the man in charge of security came out and opened the door for the limousine.”

“Yes.”

“But the man didn’t get out. His leg was out, on the ground, as if he was going to get out, but he didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Wire stood up and walked to the hallway entry way into the hotel room. She stood at the end of the hallway, against the wall and looked back into the room at Mac, just as if she was looking around the northwest corner of the cabin on Wednesday night. She got down on one knee and held her hands up as if she were holding a camera. “The door was open. Then I saw a leg and I was snapping a photo and then I heard someone yell ‘there’s someone up there.’”

“In the direction of where Stroudt and Montgomery were up in those trees, right?” Mac asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Shots were fired.”

“Right away?”

Wire closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She was replaying Wednesday night in her head and the sequence of events. She opened her eyes and smiled at Mac, “No, the shots weren’t right away, there was a delay. Not a long one but there was a delay.”

“The delay was perhaps because someone had to give that order, right?” Mac asked, leading her.

Wire hesitated and then a look of understanding appeared on her face, “Right. The security man looked down into the car,” she closed her eyes again. “He said something to the man and then he …”

“… Gave the order,” Mac finished.

“Yes. The order came from the limo and then the man yelled: ‘Don’t let them get away.’” Wire nodded and looked at Mac, a creased smile on her face. “That could be the case. You could be right.” She stood up and walked back to the couch and sat down. “Of course, it’s too bad you won’t be in the interview to ask Connolly about it.”

Mac shrugged. “I’m not worried about it,” he answered as he opened a Diet Coke. “There is a good reason not to be in this interview.”

“What’s that?”

“Connolly’s not going to talk—not yet.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

“God help him if he is.”

“Iowa, I need you to help me bring about the kinds of changes our country needs, good schools, a fair wage and a clean environment. Only with your help and your votes can we make that happen. You’ve seen what’s happening in our country, you’ve seen what these Super PACs are doing with this negative advertising, telling these lies. You’ve seen that someone out there is conspiring to steal your vote, manipulating voting machines.” Thomson pounded the podium, “Are you going to let them?”

“Noooo!” the crowd of 17,000 in Des Moines Wells Fargo Arena roared.

“Are you going to let them!” Thomson implored again.

“Nooooooooo!” the crowd screamed louder.

“I can’t hear you,” the governor encouraged, holding his hand to his ear.

“Nooooooooooooooooo!”

“I didn’t think so,” Thomson growled back, exhorting the crowd with his right fist, the combative wrestler showing through. “If the day’s events have taught us anything, anything at all, it is we can’t take this for granted, folks. We can’t. We can’t afford it. There is simply too much riding on this, our economy, health care, education and our environment. My friends, get out and vote on Tuesday. Get your friends and family out to vote. Protect your rights and let’s take back the White House, Iowa! Thank you!”

The crowd screamed its approval as Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run roared over the arena sound system. Flags and placards waved and balloons dropped as Governor Thomson and his wife waved and smiled to the crowd.

The governor made his way back off the stage, shaking hands and giving hugs to the various local politicians and officials, people who’d been working for him the last eighteen months of the election, the people who delivered the caucuses back in January that got him rolling towards the nomination. A state that he had to have on Tuesday, and with what he and the Judge had learned in the last twenty-four hours, one they could have easily lost if it weren’t for the discovery by McRyan and Wire over in Wisconsin.

Judge Dixon and Sally Kennedy were waiting for Thomson at the end of the stage. When the governor reached them, the Judge said, “They loved you.”

“Great crowd,” Thomson replied happily. “They were really responding.”

“The people are fired up over this election fraud story, sir,” Sally Kennedy stated. “They want blood over this. They’re pissed off.”

“Sally’s right, Governor,” the Judge added. “Speaking of which, I think we should take a few questions here backstage, kind of impromptu. The media is waiting and we have a few questions planted for you.” Dixon explained who the governor should respond to.

“Let’s do it,” the governor replied and his campaign manager and friend led him underneath the arena and then turned him left down a cordoned off walkway which led towards his limousine. The reporters were penned in an area off to the left. Thomson abruptly veered that direction to the surprise of many of the media horde. The mass of the media quickly recovered and started shouting questions. The governor found his first questioner and gestured, “Heather.”

“Governor Thomson,” Heather Foxx with NBC asked. “What is your reaction to the press conference held by Attorney General Gates and FBI Director Mitchell?”

“Heather, I have several. I’m outraged at the attack on our electoral system and the deaths that have occurred because of this. We are free to disagree in this country and use every legal method to have our voices heard. However, to manipulate the votes, to tamper with voting machines to overturn the will of the people and then to murder to cover it up is beyond the pale. Whoever is behind this is not only guilty of election fraud but they are a murderer. That person or the persons behind this face a very dark future for they will face the full wrath of the American people.”

“Governor, have you had a chance to speak with Attorney General Gates or FBI Director Mitchell?” Sandy Bay of CNN asked.

“Sandy, I have not but I hope to sometime soon. As you know, I did get a quick call from President Barnes, which I greatly appreciated. He, as I, was shocked and dismayed by the audacity of what has taken place here. He has acted quickly and decisively to get to the bottom of this and because of the quick actions of his administration, it looks as though we can avoid issues with voting on Tuesday. The FBI, which has jurisdiction over election fraud, is using all of its vast resources to investigate this case and bring those responsible to justice. But having said that, let me just say that what I am truly gratified by and thoroughly impressed with is the work of the St. Paul and Milwaukee homicide detectives in this investigation. I think in the days to come we’re going to learn a lot about the bravery and brilliance of these people in discovering this conspiracy and saving the integrity of our electoral process. We are going to owe them a huge debt of gratitude. We’re also going to learn about the bravery of some others who were murdered as part of this conspiracy, people who, whether wittingly or unwittingly, made the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good. As this story unfolds, I hope those people are not forgotten in the wash of all of the politics.”

“Governor,” Dan McLean of the Washington Post asked, “have you learned at all who is behind this?”

“Dan, I have not,” the governor answered. “It is my hope that now that the investigators involved in this case have discovered what this conspiracy is all about, they will now be able to turn their complete attention to determining who is behind all of this, both the manipulation of the voting machines, but more importantly, the murders.”

“Governor, a follow-up question,” McLean pressed. “We’re hearing reports that Heath Connolly is a person of interest in this investigation, do you have any comment?”

“God help him if he is.” Governor Thomson waved to the reporters and fell in with his Secret Service detail and Judge Dixon as they marched towards the motorcade.

“Just right,” Dixon said quietly as they made their way to their limousine.

* * *

At 1:53 p.m., Heath Connolly arrived at the Hoover Building in the backseat of a Suburban. The political operative held up a manila folder to shield his face from the photographers and to avoid the cameras of the news media as they pulled in under the Hoover Building.

Ever since Kentucky he’d been walking on egg shells, worried that this time would come. This was particularly so when he learned that the Bishop’s men failed to retrieve the last of the evidence at McCormick’s house. When that all fell into the hands of the authorities, he knew this moment was coming.

The vice president was incensed.

The arrangement between Vice President Donald Wellesley and Heath Connolly was never one of mutual admiration or desire. Vice President Wellesley was the next in line for the Republican nomination and there were no real serious challengers for the job. Heath Connolly was the best political operator in the Republican Party, had never lost an election, was good friends with Donald Wellesley Jr. and there were no real serious challengers for the job.

Yet, while the pairing seemed like a natural combination on paper, the two men were very different.

Vice President Wellesley was a gentle man, a quiet leader and someone who didn’t believe every Democrat was evil. His career was one of building bridges, working across the aisle and being bipartisan. He believed how you won mattered as much as winning. The vice president truly believed in the nobility of politics and was willing to work with anyone who held the same view, regardless of their political convictions. There was always a way to find common ground for the good of the country.

Connolly was the antithesis of the vice president. Heath Connolly was a brawler, a political pit bull who believed the ends always justified the means. Winning was everything, no matter the cost. The political operative could have cared less about being bipartisan, he was a partisan. In his world there was no common ground. There was only the ground he’d won by pounding his opponent mercilessly into submission.

In one way it was yin to yang. In another, one man’s values clearly were not a match for the other.

Connolly lied and professed his innocence to the vice president.

The vice president called bullshit.

“Heath, you screwed us with that fiasco in the Florida Keys and all those Super PAC people. Now you doubled down on that mistake and got yourself involved in election fraud and murder.”

It was not difficult, in what was undoubtedly the last conversation the two men would ever have, for Vice President Wellesley to tell Connolly, “Get on that FBI plane to DC and don’t come back. You’re fired and if it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll see that you never work in Republican politics again. That is if you can find a way to keep your ass out of prison, a place to which, if even half of this is true, I’ll only be too happy to see you go.”

Now, he was in self-preservation mode as the car pulled underneath the Hoover Building and came to a stop by a set of double doors. His lawyer, a DC heavyweight named Vincent Chase, greeted him as he exited the Suburban. There were two conversations between them earlier in the day and they had a plan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Think about the fact that you’re next.”

Mac took a seat next to an FBI technician who would run the recording of the interview with Connolly. They were sitting next door to the interrogation room. The interrogation room itself was visible through the one-way mirror. On the wall opposite the door there was a panel of monitors and other technical and recording equipment. The technician gave Mac a quick rundown of the equipment, cameras and capabilities of the system. In St. Paul, they had a single camera in the interview room and the monitor would be next door in what they called the box, where they could also watch the interview through the one-way mirror. This was just slightly more hi-tech. Mac thought he could get used to this sort of technology.

Mac, the technician and two other agents made small talk when Director Mitchell and Attorney General Gates entered the room. “At ease,” Mitchell said dryly, sensing everyone had suddenly tensed. “Connolly’s here so we thought we’d take in the show.”

From what he thus far observed of Director Mitchell, Mac decided he liked the guy. He was all business and all about the case. He wasn’t full of himself and acted like the agent he once was. Undoubtedly the man had to play politics and play them well to rise to the level of director and this case was political dynamite. Nevertheless, he was playing this one straight, on a fast track but by the book. Attorney General Gates was doing the same, which had been a little bit of a surprise. Nevertheless, he was close to the vice president and Mac needed to see more before he felt he could trust him.

Everyone in the room focused their attention on the monitors as Connolly and his lawyer entered the interview room, followed by Special Agent Berman from Milwaukee and Special Agent Colin Speck from the FBI Civil Rights Division.

“What do you know about Chase?” Mitchell asked Attorney General Gates.

“Great lawyer, boat loads of courtroom experience, knows the town and the political score,” Gates answered, a Washington power lawyer in his own right before accepting the attorney general position. Gates understood the type. “He once was a highly regarded prosecutor. Then about ten years ago he went into private practice to cash in, which he has. He’ll take just about anyone who can pay his rather sizable retainer. Hell, he’d represent Pol Pot for a big enough fee. He likes publicity, no matter the defendant,” Gates added derisively. “But he’s good, very good. At trial, look out, he’s a winner.”

Mac was a spectator at this point, looking to see if the FBI could help bring further closure to his three murders in St. Paul and perhaps some assistance with the two murders in Milwaukee as well. He would have liked to have Wire with him given her bureau background. For now, that was a no go. She worked for the Thomson campaign and she could not be present. Mitchell, playing this one by the book, would not have it, at least yet. She would have to settle for Mac’s summary later.

The participants in the interrogation settled in as Berman walked through some preliminaries. Mac zeroed in on Connolly. He focused on his eyes and face. Connolly appeared relaxed and perfectly at ease. He did not seem the least bit worried and it wasn’t false bravado either. The political operative seemed utterly at peace with himself, almost serene. He wasn’t sweating this.

“Let’s see if we can get this guy to talk,” Gates muttered.

“Berman and Speck are both pretty good in the room,” Mitchell suggested.

Mac rocked back in his chair with his arms crossed and thought to himself, “He ain’t talkin’.”

* * *

“Finally,” Ed Duffy exclaimed into the telephone as he looked at his computer screen at the face of McCormick and Montgomery’s killer, the face of Francois Foche. “That’s our man.”

The picture was ten years old but when matched with the one taken by Wire and the ones Mac took before he died, it was a match. In looking at the photos, Duffy could tell that Foche had undergone some plastic surgery around his nose and chin, but the eyes and mouth were perfect matches. He was the killer, no doubt.

It had taken two plus days and the work of several analysts and technicians with the bureau, Homeland Security and the CIA, but he finally had an ID on McCormick’s killer for McRyan.

He reached for his cell phone.

* * *

Mac excused himself from the room and stepped into the hallway. “Ed, what’s up?”

“I have your killer, Mac,” Duffy answered happily. “His name is Francois Foche.” Duffy gave Mac a brief rundown on Foche’s background. “I’m sending you an e-mail folder and I’ll include the director and attorney general as well.”

“Can you send it to Riley and Rockford as well?”

“Will do.”

“And Ed, one other thing?”

“Name it?”

“Now that we know who he is, let’s find out who his friends, associates, employers are or have been. We need this guy’s total history since he left French Intelligence.”

“Are you looking for someone in particular, Mac?”

“I am.”

“Who?”

“I’ll know who when you find him, Ed,” Mac answered thinking back to Friday night’s shootout outside the pub and the man in the panel van.

“I’m on it, Mac.”

Mac stepped back into the communications room. “Who was that?” Mitchell asked.

“Special Agent Duffy back in the Twin Cities. We finally have an ID on my killer.”

“What’s his name?”

“Francois Foche, formerly with French Intelligence,” Mac reached in his backpack for his iPad. “Duffy is sending me this guy’s background. I should have it in a few minutes and he’ll be sending it to the both of you as well. Where are we at with Connolly?”

Gates snorted, “Chase is setting the ground rules. Filibusters have been shorter.”

Mac nodded. “Then I’m going to make a couple of calls.” He stepped back out into the hall and dialed the Judge.

* * *

Judge Dixon looked at his watch, 2:47 p.m. They were flying over Indiana, on their way back to Ohio, with a stop in Columbus and then on to Cleveland. Tomorrow they were going airport hopping.

While not wanting to distract the governor as he prepared for his next speech, this was information he should have before a call was made to McCormick’s mother. The Judge pulled the governor to the front of the cabin of the 747 away from the bulk of the staff. “McRyan has identified Sebastian’s killer, a man named Francois Foche,” the Judge opened a folder and showed Foche’s picture and background to the governor who took out his reading glasses to scan the material.

“Former French Directorate of Intelligence?” the governor asked, looking up from the material, taking off his glasses.

“He was, until about ten years ago. Looks like things went bad on an operation in Afghanistan and he was sent back to Paris in shame to become a desk jockey. Shortly thereafter, Foche, the name, disappears. Foche the man has been up to something for that time and the FBI and other agencies are trying to piece it together now that they know who he is. He wasn’t operating by himself so we’re hoping to find a few others in his past that might help us.”

The governor nodded. “I should call Sebastian’s mother.”

“Let me handle that,” the Judge answered. “After I talk to her then maybe you could give her a call, but let me do the heavy lifting on this.”

Thomson nodded as he continued to look at the picture of Foche. “Too bad he’s dead,” the governor stated. “He could have answered a lot of questions.”

* * *

The text from Wire asked: How’s it going?

Mac provided a succinct reply: Shitty!

The interview with Connolly had gone on for two hours now and it was not going anywhere. Berman and Speck went at Connolly and to a certain degree, Chase his lawyer, every way they knew how and every way Mac, the director or the attorney general could think to go and Connolly wasn’t giving them anything.

It wasn’t a surprise to Mac. He didn’t think Connolly would talk. They didn’t have any leverage. He was at a clandestine meeting in Kentucky but the only known person from the meeting still alive was Connolly. Connolly asked what proof they had he was at the meeting and Berman showed the photos, to which Connolly replied, “So what? I was at a meeting during an election.”

“With two Russians and the president of a company that manufactures and distributes voting machines for half the country,” Agent Speck replied.

“Is that illegal?”

“It is if you’re conspiring to fix the Presidential Election.”

“Here it comes,” Mac muttered.

Connolly: “What proof do you have of that?”

None.

They had no proof. They had supposition and suspicions but no hard evidence. There was one picture of Domitrovich at the meeting holding something in his hand. Despite his best efforts, Jupiter had been unable to blow up the photo to make a definitive determination. Mac was certain it was a memory card but that was more based on an educated guess than any certainty based on the picture. It was really impossible to tell. It was too easy to argue that Domitrovich could be holding any number of things, including a memory card, or so the argument would go. Berman went that route and Connolly laughed it off, “Is that all you got?” Connolly wasn’t in St. Paul. He wasn’t in Milwaukee. All he’d done is take a meeting in Kentucky.

“Bullshit,” Gates and Mitchell muttered in unison from the technical room.

“Complete bullshit,” Mac agreed. “But the only ones who could call him on it are dead.” McRyan looked at his cell phone, which was buzzing. He had a text from Riley. He started reading through it and then his eyes went wide.

Mitchell noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Mac?”

“I have a question I want to ask Connolly.”

* * *

“Why were the Russians there?” Special Agent Berman asked. She was getting frustrated but continued to doggedly pick at Connolly.

“Are we going here again?” Chase growled. “I’m very close to ending this, Special Agent Berman.”

“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Berman replied, holding her ground.

Chase looked to his right at Connolly and nodded.

“Like I said before, it was never really totally clear to me,” Connolly responded lightly. “It seemed as if they had someone who wanted to work with Peter’s company and some approvals through the government might be required. Since I would likely be working so closely with the vice president were he elected, they thought I might prove helpful.”

“Right,” Speck answered with derision. “You really expect us to believe that?”

“Say what you want,” Connolly replied. “But I arrange or take meetings from people, foreign and domestic, all the time, people who want to get access to the people I work for and with. This was a meeting like the others.”

“Except for the fact that everyone at that meeting, with the exception of you, is now dead,” McRyan chirped as he barged into the interview room.

“Who are you?” Chase asked.

“This is Detective Mac McRyan from St. Paul,” Berman said, introducing Mac. “He is handling the murders of Sebastian McCormick, Jason Stroudt and Adam Montgomery.”

“Ahh, so this is the Detective McRyan we’ve heard about in the media,” Connolly said breezily, totally at ease. He was comfortable, his face relaxed, hands folded over his waist, left leg crossed over the right. He didn’t think the government had anything on him.

It was time to change that impression.

Mac leaned down on the table and Connolly looked up to meet his face. McRyan’s eyes bored in on Connolly’s. “Who’s the Bishop?” Mac asked in almost a whisper.

Connolly’s eyes went wide and his body went momentarily rigid. He tried to quickly recover but Mac saw it, Chase saw it, Berman and Speck saw it. Everyone saw it—fear.

Mac had Connolly’s undivided attention.

“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Connolly,” Mac pressed. “Who is the Bishop?”

“I … I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the political operator answered, trying to regain his composure.

“You do,” Mac answered, still leaning down on the table. “You do. And he scares you, he scares you a lot. And you know what? He should.”

McRyan slammed a picture of the Kentucky meeting in front of Connolly and Chase.

He pointed at the young Ukrainian in the picture, “Domitrovich is dead, shot between the eyes two days ago in his apartment in Kiev.”

Mac moved his finger. “Khrutov was found dead in his dacha outside of Moscow earlier today, executed.”

Then Mac moved his finger to Checketts. “Peter Checketts was murdered yesterday in Milwaukee. Now your friend the Bishop had his men stage it to look like a suicide, but he was murdered, no question.”

Mac reached into a folder and took out four more pictures. He went through them one by one, his voice biting, angry.

“Jason Stroudt—dead.”

He took out another picture, “Adam Montgomery—dead.”

Then a third, “Sebastian McCormick—dead.”

Then a fourth, “Gabriel Martin—dead!”

“They were all murdered. Murdered in cold blood and you know what, Mr. Connolly?”

“What?”

Mac smiled, a cold-hearted almost evil smile, as he leaned down to the table. He took one last picture out, it was of Connolly. Mac put his finger on the picture: “You’re next,” he said in almost a whisper.

“Is that a threat, Detective?” Chase demanded.

“Not a threat, at least not from me. I’m just pointing out the hard reality for your client, Counselor,” Mac answered, his eyes never leaving Connolly’s. “The threat is being sent by the man Connolly has been working with or maybe even for. That man has clearly determined that there will be no loose ends. And there’s only one loose end left,” Mac pointed at Connolly, “and that’s you, Heath.”

Mac peered into Connolly’s eyes and took the measure of the man. The message was sent but it would need time to be truly received by the political operative. He was afraid, Mac could see it in his eyes, but he wouldn’t break—not yet. Heath Connolly was a political animal. He would need some time to process all the angles, figure out the only way to stay alive and once he did, he’d be back.

It was time for Mac to go, so he pushed away from the table, put the pictures back into the manila folder and walked over to the door, but he didn’t leave without a cold warning.

“Mr. Connolly, whoever hired all these men involved in these murders, whoever that man is that you think you’re protecting, he’s going to come for you next and right soon. You might want to think about that tonight while you retire to your comfortable Watergate Apartment.” Mac opened the door to leave, but looked back at Connolly one last time, an evil grin on his face. “Think about the fact that you’re next.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Ahh, the Dude abides.”

McRyan stepped back into the control room to find Director Mitchell and Attorney General Gates waiting with bemused expressions on their faces.

“Jesus, Detective,” Mitchell blurted with a wry smile on his face.

“I like the theatrics,” Gates added. “Your prosecutor girlfriend must have rubbed off on you a little. That was like the end of a really good cross examination.”

Mac shrugged his shoulders. “Sirs, you saw what I saw. This might not be how the bureau would have done it, but he was sitting in there all smug and comfortable. It was time to rattle his cage.”

“Consider it rattled,” Gates replied with a smile and then asked, “So who is this Bishop?”

“I don’t know,” Mac answered.

Mitchell and Gates gave Mac a quizzical look, “What do you mean you don’t know?” Mitchell asked, confused.

“I don’t know,” Mac replied, shrugging his shoulders. “We need to figure it out. Bishop is code for something.”

“Where did you get this ‘Bishop’ from then?” Gates inquired.

Mac calculated his response in his brain. Riley gave him the name but it came from a place he wasn’t ready to reveal. He trusted Mitchell but he wasn’t sure about Gates yet. So for now, he needed to use some other pieces to keep them at bay. He grabbed his iPad out of his backpack and pulled up Wire’s pictures from Kentucky.

“I’ve been thinking since last night that this thing doesn’t stop with Connolly, that there is someone else higher pulling the strings.” Mac opened a picture up on his iPad. “This picture is from the Kentucky meeting, I showed this to you both earlier. I talked about it with Dara Wire before I came over here.”

Mac recounted his discussion with Wire and her taking of the pictures when the last limousine arrived in Kentucky, the foot briefly coming out the door, the order to shoot at Stroudt and Montgomery being given.

“This man never gets out of the limousine. He starts to but he doesn’t get out because Stroudt and Montgomery are discovered. There is a few seconds delay before Stroudt and Montgomery were fired upon and chased. That delay tells me that an order was given. Wire is certain that the man who was holding that door open was in charge of security at that scene. Wire said that Montgomery and Stroudt were discovered. When that happened, the security man spoke down into the limousine and then a few seconds later shots were fired. I think that order was given by the man in the limousine.”

“Okay, fine,” Mitchell said, but then asked, “how does that get the name or moniker of Bishop?”

Now it was time to tap dance. “While we were sitting here watching Connolly be interrogated, one of my detectives in St. Paul called. He was looking over the notebooks that Montgomery had in his backpack that Ms. Wire was able to get away with from McCormick’s house in St. Paul. He found a couple of notations in quotes regarding ‘the Bishop.’ I remember seeing them as well but they meant nothing at the time. I had no context for them. However, between what Wire and I talked about and my detective mentioning the reference to ‘the Bishop,’ I took a chance.”

“A pretty damn big one,” Mitchell declared the disbelief evident on his face. “I mean, that’s pretty thin.”

“That’s not thin, Mitch, it’s emaciated,” Gates growled. “You took a big chance, son. What if you were wrong, Detective?”

“I wasn’t,” Mac answered. “You saw the look on his face, Connolly nearly shit his pants. We need to start looking at who ‘the Bishop’ is.” Mac hoped that would be enough to mollify the two men for now.

Gates and Mitchell shared a look and then both shrugged their shoulders. What could they say; McRyan’s gambit worked. “I’ll get a team on this Bishop,” Mitchell said. “See what we can come up with. In the absence of more information, my guess is a search with only ‘Bishop’ or ‘the Bishop’ will turn up a ton of information. It’ll take some sifting.”

“Or another piece to tie it all together,” Mac added and then got back to Connolly. “In the meantime, can we offer protection to Connolly?”

“He’s not in our custody, Detective,” Gates answered. “He hasn’t given us anything in return for protection, so that is not something I’m inclined to give.”

“How about providing some unofficial monitoring then?”

Gates turned his gaze towards the FBI director. “What do you think?”

“I think we put some people in his building and keep an eye on him,” Mitchell decided. “And Detective McRyan, for the record, I think we could probably stand to rattle a few more cages around here.”

* * *

At a little past 7:00 p.m., Kristoff pulled into the parking garage underneath the Watergate South condos and parked. He made his way to the lobby, checked in at the security desk and then took the elevator up to the eighth floor and to the condo unit at the end of the hallway. He knocked on the door and was admitted by the Bishop himself.

“Good evening, Nicholas, welcome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kristoff replied.

The condo unit was, like any other place he’d met the Bishop over the years, impressive, stunning, ornate; in other words, perfect. Two stories, large open windows, immaculate furnishings, the best money could buy. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace and a bottle of red wine open on the table. The boss was having a glass and poured one for Kristoff who inhaled the smell of a delightful Cabernet. He took a long sip and savored the taste before he swallowed. “Lovely.”

“Come with me over here,” the Bishop waved to the large bank of windows looking to the east, the top of the lit Washington Monument visible in the distance over the other Watergate condo building, Watergate East. “We are on the eighth floor here, my friend. As you look directly across the courtyard here to the east building, on the eighth floor and wait for it.”

Kristoff watched as a light was turned on across the courtyard at his same level in the east building.

The boss handed over a set of binoculars. “Who do you see?”

The killer put the binoculars to his eyes. “Heath Connolly.”

“Yes. That is the only home he owns. I am aware of no others. He’s lived there ten years and I’ve never known him to live anywhere else.”

Kristoff put the binoculars back to his eyes and took in the layout of the apartment from across the expanse of the large courtyard. There was only one way of entry. It was the second unit from the end of the building and Kristoff expected that there was a stairway at the end of the hall. “I’ll just have to find a way into the building,” he said quietly.

“No, you won’t,” the Bishop answered. “You’ll only need to get out.” The Bishop handed Kristoff a key card and a set of keys. “Two floors above Connolly’s place is an empty apartment. The key card gets you in the building and the keys get you into the apartment. From there, I will leave it to you as to how you wish to handle this.”

Kristoff looked at the apartment two stories above. “What do you know about the apartment immediately below?” The lights were on inside and it looked like a man and woman were inside.

“That unit is owned by two K Street lobbyists who also regularly attend events at the Kennedy Center, including the opera tomorrow evening.”

* * *

Connolly let himself into his condominium and locked the dead bolt. The first thing he did was go to his bedroom and to the top dresser drawer. He took out his Browning 9mm, checked the clip and carried the gun back to his wet bar in the living room. He poured himself a glass of bourbon and sat down in his easy chair, set the gun on the coffee table in front of him and turned on the television.

Sunday night was usually as dead a time as there was for politics. However, with less than two days to the election and a scandal breaking by the minute, all the A-level cable and network talent were on the airwaves. The first polls would be out in the morning. Going into the day, Thomson was leading the vice president by three points nationally and anywhere from three to four points in the key states of Iowa, Wisconsin, Ohio and Virginia.

That would not be the case Monday morning.

The leads would be bigger and insurmountable.

The media had been merciless on the vice president, the Republican Party and now the speculation was running rampant about him. Tuesday would be ugly. Connolly harrumphed and shook his head. The damn Florida Keys, that meeting ruined everything. It brought the Bishop into play, into power to really make a play and Connolly couldn’t get away from him. Connolly knew the electoral map, knew what the polling data showed and knew something different would be required to win. The Bishop was only too willing to provide the something different. He had too much to lose with a Thomson presidency. He was as motivated, if not more so, to get the vice president to the White House. Of course, now, Connolly was the one paying the price for the Bishop’s actions.

Connolly sat in the dark, sipped his bourbon and contemplated what his future would hold. Politically, he would be a dead man, at least for a while, probably for a good long while, but if there was ever a second act in anything, it was in politics.

It reminded him of Nixon.

Richard Nixon became relevant in his later years, a man people sought counsel from and who became a wise sage despite his disgraceful exit, the only man ever to resign the presidency. He was disgraced when he left office. Yet the man found a way back to prominence, largely because he knew China and the Soviet Union so well. He wrote books, gave lectures and even occasionally sat for interviews. But he came back. When he died he’d regained a certain level of respect.

Richard Nixon became his immediate political model.

Connolly had political wisdom to share. Nobody understood the electorate, down to state, county or city, nobody knew it all better than him. He would have to get through this patch of trouble and lay low and out of sight. He had plenty of money and didn’t really need to work except for the fact that politics was all he really had. No wife, no children, no real hobbies. He lived and breathed politics and winning races.

He was watching Chris Mathews rail on MSNBC. The last thing anyone in Connolly’s position would seemingly want to do is watch politics. Yet he couldn’t turn the television off. He would have to find his way back in and in time he would. He’d never get to run a campaign again, but he could perform consulting work, sit in the background and for a price offer advice. Nobody knew the electoral map like he did. In time, he could even put together a Super PAC like Rove did. No matter your sins in politics, if you were good, people would seek you out, and despite his mistakes, Connolly was good.

As for the Bishop, he needed to reach out to the man. Connolly held his mud tonight. His only slight slip was when McRyan came in. He’d looked up the St. Paul detective the other day and he had a colorful and interesting background. When he came into the room he didn’t find McRyan as physically imposing as he imagined he would. The man was fairly tall, six foot one, but he was more wiry than bulky. It was his eyes that were intimidating. Those cold icy blue eyes told Connolly that McRyan was a threat. They showed determination, will and they were piercing, as if he looked right into his soul. There was no doubt he would keep investigating this case. He had the scent of the Bishop now and if his history was any indication, he would not stop until he found out who the Bishop was.

Connolly took a sip of the bourbon and closed his eyes.

Should he try to play the Bishop or McRyan?

If he went to McRyan, he could try to leverage the information to avoid a jail term. Problem was, that would not prevent the Bishop from calling off his men. If anything, that could make the Bishop all the more determined to fulfill McRyan’s prediction.

If he went to the Bishop and convinced him that he wouldn’t crack, that he wouldn’t break and that he would never give him up, he could ride out the storm.

He took another sip of his drink and contemplated his options, running the scenarios through his mind.

Ultimately, in his mind, going to the Bishop seemed like the better play. There was still some time. He wasn’t dead yet and he had a few cards left to play. There was still time, he told himself, still some time to survive this.

* * *

“You said what to Connolly?” Wire asked in disbelief, laughing.

“I said: You’re next,” Mac answered, taking a sip from his Seagram and Seven.

“Oh my God,” Wire replied, smiling ear to ear. “I wish I could have seen that prick squirm.”

They were sitting in the bar at the Marriott having a post dinner drink, or at this point a fourth post dinner drink. Wire’s two brothers and their wives joined them for a late dinner and Mac and Wire cryptically filled them in on the investigation. Not until her family left and they decided to have a nightcap in the bar, could they really talk about Connolly’s interrogation.

Mac took a look at Wire’s drink, “A White Russian now?”

“No, a Caucasian.”

“Ahh, the Dude abides.”

“The Big Lebowksi, top ten all-time movie,” Wire smiled. “Of course, I suppose you Minnesotans think Fargo is the Coen Brothers best.”

“Ya you betcha,” Mac answered in his best Margie voice. “I do like Fargo a lot but I’m a little more partial to No Country for Old Men. Javier Bardem is absolutely scary in that.”

Wire transitioned topics back to the election. “So like my brothers asked me, let me ask you, Mac McRyan, what’s it feel like to know you saved the election for Governor Thomson?”

“I liked your answer at dinner. It’s great to have figured that out but really this is about the murder victims. It’s about people like Sebastian or Gabriel Martin. We still don’t know who was really behind it; we don’t know who this Bishop is. Until we do, I won’t feel like I have complete closure on the murders. We won’t have justice.” The victims were always the priority for Mac. It was something Mac’s father used to say: we are the voice of the dead. Michael Mackenzie McRyan had taken that lesson to heart. That’s what being a homicide detective was all about—the victims.

“For the victims,” Mac toasted.

“For the victims,” Wire replied, returning the toast.

“Speaking of closure, did you mention this Bishop name to the Judge?” Mac asked.

“I didn’t,” Wire answered and then looked at her watch, which told her it was approaching 1:00 a.m. “But it’s too late now. I’ll give him a call in the morning and see.”

It was late.

“Dara, are you driving home?” Mac asked. She’d put away at least four more after her brothers left.

“Driving? No. I’ll take a cab home. Could you drive my Land Rover out to me tomorrow and I can drive you back in?”

“Sure,” Mac answered and took the keys from her.

Wire reached back in her purse and pulled out her wallet but Mac stopped her, “I’ve got this.”

“Mac, you bought dinner,” she protested. “And not just for me but my family, I can’t let you do that and buy the drinks. You’re going to be out like $800 tonight.”

Mac grinned sheepishly. “You know the chain of Grand Brew Coffee Shops in the Twin Cities?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen them around,” Wire answered, a questioning look on her face. “What about them?”

“Well, there are nearly two hundred of them in Minnesota, Wisconsin and Iowa. I own, or did own, fifteen percent of the entire business until this week. We sold it.”

“Oh my God,” Wire smiled. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to live check-to-check anymore, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve had a heck of a week.”

Mac smiled, “Indeed. So I think I can handle a night of dinner and drinks,” he said as he gave the bartender his American Express card. A minute later, the bar tab taken care of, he walked Wire out the front of the hotel and deposited her in a cab.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“It will be done.”

Monday, November 4th

Mac woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. He pushed himself up and took a look at the clock radio on the nightstand, 9:34 a.m., a little under seven hours of sleep. More would have been better. He took a look at the display on the phone and it was Sally.

“Hey,” he said, groggy, his head pounding. He might have had a few too many. No, there was no might, he did have too many. He needed water, lots of water.

“Hey yourself,” Sally answered, all bubbly. “Rough night there, superstar?”

“Dinner and a lot of drinks with Wire and her family,” he replied. Mac sensed the excitement on the other end of the line. “What’s up, babe?”

“You really are just getting up, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, Sal, I was sleeping really well until you called.”

“Oh my God, you haven’t seen the polls yet, have you?”

Mac sat up and rubbed his eyes with his right hand and yawned. “No, honey, I haven’t.” He hunted around for the remote on his bed and found it down by his feet and clicked on the television and flipped to CNN. “From the tone of your voice, they must be good.”

“We’re up anywhere from seven to eight points nationally and the leads are following in the swing states, Mac!” she screamed, a raucous crowd in the background, she was at a campaign event. “In Iowa we’re up eight, Wisconsin nine, Ohio six and Virginia we’re up six as well. There are even a few other states we thought were lost causes and now we’re in the hunt there. We’re even in Arizona and Missouri, and that’s just polling today. This could be a wave election all of the sudden.”

Mac flipped over to MSNBC, which was scrolling through the state polls based on their own Wall Street Journal/MSNBC polling and they mirrored what Sally was saying. “You’re gonna win, honey.”

“We’re gonna win.”

Mac smiled at the joy in her voice. He loved hearing her so happy.

“We’re gonna win and you made sure it would happen,” she said.

Mac shook his head, “No, no, no honey, we just made sure the playing field was level, that’s all; you guys won the election.”

“As usual, you sell yourself short,” she replied sarcastically. “You and Wire, you two saved this thing, Mac. You saved it. Sure we did the work to win, we are ahead and we should win, we deserve to win. But you two made sure all that work paid off. It is going to have a huge effect on the country. Massive. Now we’re going to win and we’re going to win huge.”

She was right. The discovery of the election fraud related to the murders was having a huge effect on the American electorate and in Mac’s mind that made a certain amount of intuitive sense. Regardless of whatever it was in the United States, politics, sports, business, whatever it was, people had an overall sense of fair play. Could you bend the rules? Sure. Could you break them to take something that should go to someone else? No. That particular American ideal was playing out in the polls and not just in the presidential race, but it appeared to be having an effect down ballot as well. The polls for several close Senate races were showing a swing to the Democratic column. Voters were going to take the scandal out not just on the vice president, but the Republican Party in general. Sally was right; Governor Thomson was heading for a decisive victory.

“You know, honey,” Mac said, “you’re right this could be a wave election but …”

“But what?”

Mac exhaled. “I don’t know. This whole electoral fraud thing was pretty isolated to the presidential race, Sally, so the swing there is understandable. I have a feeling a bunch of Republicans, through no fault of their own, are going to get caught in the wave.” That impact affected Mac’s sense of right and wrong. Innocent people were going to lose their races because of the acts of someone else. He didn’t necessarily like that result.

Sally was unbothered by it. “That’s politics, Mac. What the top of ticket does or doesn’t do impacts races up and down the ballot. That’s what’s happening here.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am,” he could hear her smiling on the other end of the line. “I can’t wait to see you. When are you going home?”

“Not sure,” Mac answered, taking a sip of water and wishing for some Ibuprofen for his headache. “I’m going into the Hoover Building later to check in and see if we’ve made any progress on figuring out who this Bishop is. Do you know, did Wire talk to the Judge about that?”

“I think she talked to him just a few minutes ago,” Sally replied. “Hang on.” There was a huge roar from the crowd in the background and Mac could make out the sound of Thomson’s voice. He wasn’t even sure where they were so he flipped the channels and CNN was covering the speech. They were in Toledo, Ohio. “Mac, here’s the Judge.”

“Mac, how are you son?”

“Fine, sir, just fine.”

“Dara told me you guys were up pretty late cocktailing,” Mac could tell the mood of the Judge was light. Certain victory had a way of doing that. If he didn’t know any better, there was a cigar in the man’s fingers.

“We definitely had a few, Judge.”

“Well I should hope so, you two deserved it. Send me the tab.”

“It was pretty big, Judge.”

“So much the better,” he replied heartily and then changed gears. “I’m sure Dara is planning on calling you. Sally asked about this ‘Bishop’ business. I don’t know who that is, son. The only recollection I have of that name was a case when I was the attorney general that came up in the last few months of my term. I think it was Younger Investments. The case dealt with a Hedge Fund Manager, which was Younger, and redemptions and how the Hedge Fund had redemptions well in excess of its assets.”

“I kind of remember this,” Mac replied, he routinely followed the market. “Maybe not that specific case, but wasn’t there a bunch of cases of market timing?”

“That’s right,” the Judge replied. “There was a market timing element of this as well and an international component, buying on the Japanese Exchange based on the closing price on the US Exchange. In any event, I recall there being this mystery man called ‘the Bishop’ in that case. This Bishop was an unidentified investor who benefited from the scheme. However, before we could really figure out what was going on, the Hedge Fund manager was dead and by the time we left office, we never identified who this Bishop was.”

“The key witness was dead before you could get to him. That sounds awfully familiar,” Mac deadpanned.

“I hear you, son,” Dixon replied. “I think that case died on the vine with my successor. That’s three AGs ago now, well before Gates’s time. I mentioned that to Dara not fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps Gates could look into that case and that might get you on the road to figuring out who this Bishop is. It might not even be the same guy, probably isn’t, but it’s the only reference to Bishop or the Bishop that I ever ran across or at least remember running across.”

Mac heard another roar in the background. “Thanks, Judge. I’ll mention that to Gates and Mitchell and we’ll see where it leads.”

“Very well,” the Judge answered. “Listen, Mac. After Tuesday, you and I need to sit down and have a few drinks when this is over. Sally too.”

Mac wasn’t sure where that was headed and didn’t really want to think about it at the moment but you don’t say no to someone like Judge Dixon. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, here’s Sally.”

“Where to next, Sal?” Mac asked.

“I just got the itinerary. We made some changes based on the sudden polling swings. We’re going for it. From here we’re going to Tampa, then back to St. Louis and believe it or not, we’re going west, we’re hitting Phoenix late tonight.”

Sally was like a kid at Christmas. The euphoria was clear in her voice. Three months ago she was a damn good county prosecutor who took a leave to help a close friend on the campaign for president. In the last two weeks she’d found her way into the inner circle and she had the political bug now. Mac suspected she would not be returning to Ramsey County. Things were going to change, but that was for later. For now, she needed to enjoy the moment, “Sally, have fun, enjoy yourself, take lots of cell phone pictures.”

“Mac, this is amazing. I can’t believe I’m a part of this. Tomorrow is going to be awesome. You better be back by then.”

“I hope to be.”

“Good,” she replied, and then her voice went a little quieter. “Because I have a big welcome home planned for you.”

* * *

Connolly stood on his balcony, overlooking the courtyard and out to the Potomac River, the gold, rust and yellow of the leaves of Virginia glistening against the sun in the distance. He could even make out a rower pushing to the north on the river, getting in an early Monday morning workout.

In his hand he held the burner cell phone.

* * *

The Bishop answered on the second ring. “How are you my friend?” he asked with concern.

“I am doing okay this morning,” He could hear the relief in Connolly’s voice. “Fine, in fact, all things considered. And you? Obviously things are not going to go the way we’d hoped tomorrow.”

The Bishop sipped his coffee, sitting deep in the dark condo, looking out to see Connolly standing on his balcony, a cup of coffee in his hand. Having spent the past two hours watching the political shows, he knew the election was over, Thomson would be president. After all, when FOX News said it was over, the Bishop knew it was. “No, my friend. They will not. Our plans went awry.”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

The Bishop decided to get some information from the political operative. “I understand you were not helpful to the FBI yesterday.”

“No, I wasn’t, not at all,” Connolly replied urgently. “However, you know the St. Paul detective working the case?”

“McRyan?”

“Yes, him. He has your name somehow, not your real name, but he knows there’s a man named the Bishop involved. How he knows I don’t know, but he knows.”

The Bishop grimaced. He had not learned this piece of information. And while he doubted anyone in the government knew ‘the Bishop’ meant him, with a moniker they could potentially work their way back to him. Few men alive knew of him as the Bishop. Connolly was one, Kristoff was another.

“What does your attorney have to say?”

“That the government has nothing on me really. They have a picture of me, Khrutov, Checketts and Domitrovich and those three are dead. Otherwise they have nothing to tie me to the DataPoint machines. I’m a dead end for them.”

“They could be watching you.”

“I suspect they are. They are probably watching the building but they certainly don’t have anything close enough to get some sort of search warrant or conduct any sort of wiretapping on me,” Heath replied. “We sat there for four hours last night and all they really have is the picture and nothing else.”

“They’ll come back at you again.”

“They will,” Connolly answered, the confidence growing in his voice. “But they have nothing and I will not give them anything and I want you to know that, I need you to know that.”

Connolly was worried about his life. The Bishop could sense it in his voice. It was the reason for the call, it was the reason he decided to take it. Connolly had his guard up and the Bishop would just as soon have it down. “You needn’t worry, my friend. We’ve been friends a long time. I know you’ll stay strong and you have to know that I will take care of you. Don’t worry about work or money. I can supply plenty of both. There will be other election cycles and we shall plot our comeback together. In the meantime, things will die down and the investigation will lead nowhere. Trust me.”

“I am glad to hear you say that,” Connolly replied and the Bishop, with the powerful binoculars to his eyes, could see a wave of relief wash over his face.

“No worries, Heath. We are good. I must go, but hang tight. I will be in touch.” The Bishop hung up and watched Connolly put the phone in his pocket, exhale and look to the sky in relief with a light smile on his face.

A minute ago his guard was up.

Now it was down.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“I’ve seen that man.”

Mac and Wire enjoyed an early lunch at a small homey café in Arlington, a place she’d discovered four years ago and tried to make it to at least once per week when she was home. The food was tremendous, excellent coffee, even better iced tea, and it felt like a Saturday or Sunday back home when he and Sally would take the paper and go to Mac’s favorite place, the Cleveland Grille, to eat and relax.

They actually discussed the election for a good long while, Mac relating his conversation with Sally and the Judge. Wire said she’d spent a couple of hours watching the election news as well. They both knew their investigation would garner a lot of media attention in the days to come, particularly once tomorrow’s election was over. Neither of them really relished the thought of the media poking around in their lives.

“Trust me,” Mac said, “it’s not a lot of fun, but my advice is to find someone you can trust and talk to them, get it out and then politely refuse to talk to anyone else. If you say it all at once, people will lose interest pretty quickly.”

“That work for you?”

“Yeah, there’s this reporter, she’s actually with NBC News now, Heather Foxx.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Wire stated, rolling her eyes.

“What?”

“She’s kinda hot.”

“Yes she is,” Mac replied sheepishly. “But she’s also very good and I found she can be trusted.” Mac told Wire about the case where he crossed paths with Foxx, a double kidnapping that involved Chief Flanagan’s daughter and the daughter of a prominent lawyer. “In any event, Heather actually helped out our case a little bit. So in return, I gave her a sit-down one-on-one and she did it right and that was that. I didn’t exactly play that case entirely by the rules but she steered fairly clear of those areas and once I’d talked to her there was really nothing left to say. She’s on the trail with the Thomson campaign now for NBC. If I end up having to talk with someone in the media about the case, I’ll probably talk to Heather.”

Wire took that advice to heart. “Maybe she’d talk to me too.”

“Heather?” Mac asked. “For sure. She’s ambitious as hell but she’s pretty discreet, at least with stuff like this.”

“What isn’t she discreet about?” Wire asked, catching the hint.

“Trying to bed me,” Mac replied casually, stuffing a fork full of ham and cheese omelet into his mouth.

A big smile came across Dara Wire’s face and she had to ask, “Really, Heather Foxx has been after you?” She was skeptical.

“I’m hurt,” Mac answered mockingly.

“Seriously? She was after you?”

“For a time, when she was working local news in the Twin Cities,” Mac answered nodding. “The fact I was with Sally didn’t seem to matter to her. She came onto me a number of times. It got a little awkward once or twice.”

“She had to be hard to resist.”

Mac nodded and smiled. “Yeah, she kinda was. A night with her would be one to remember.”

“But you never …”

Mac shook his head, “I know what it’s like to be cheated on, and I couldn’t do that to Sally. I didn’t want to do it.”

“Were you married?”

“Once,” Mac answered looking down. “I caught my ex having an affair with a partner in her law firm. Sally was married too and she thinks her ex, also a lawyer, did the same thing to her.”

“So you both have that baggage.”

Mac sat back in the booth, exhaled and nodded lightly. “The experience of it was devastating to both of us. So I just could never do that to her. I don’t think I could live with myself if I did.”

Wire smiled her approval, as she poured more coffee. “Sally is a lucky girl.”

Mac shook his head, “I’m the lucky one.”

“You both are,” Wire said. “I’m envious of you both. Don’t ever screw it up, McRyan.”

“I tell myself that every day.”

Mac was due back at the Hoover Building in a few hours and he wanted to get Wire into the investigation. She deserved it and he felt a little like he was on his own dealing with Director Mitchell and Attorney General Gates and could use the support of a partner. So when he called into the FBI director with the tip on the Bishop, he attributed it to Wire getting the information from Dixon. Mitchell said she should come in with him. “If you’re going to tell her everything to begin with, she might as well be here,” the director snickered. Mac let it roll off his back, his mission was accomplished.

“So you’re in,” Mac said. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re on the outs with the bureau to begin with?”

“Ever heard of the Giordano Crime Family in New Jersey?” Wire asked, sipping her coffee.

Mac shrugged, “Not really, sounds like the name of every other crime family.”

Wire tilted her head sideways. “I suppose it does. Anyway, about four years ago I had a guy undercover in that family, his name was Giovanni Franchesca. Somehow, the fact I had a man in the Giordano’s was discussed at a Washington DC cocktail party by none other than Donald Wellesley Jr.”

“The vice president’s son? Seriously?” Mac asked, surprised, as he filled her coffee again, settling in for the story.

“Yeah, he’s the one,” Wire answered bitterly, mixing sugar into a fresh cup of coffee.

“How’d he know about your guy?”

“Wellesley Jr. was tight with the then attorney general who was spouting off one night in his office about the case and how close we were getting to breaking that family open. The AG in his infinite wisdom mentioned we had the undercover in the family.”

“Nice,” Mac grunted with disgust.

“Exactly,” Wire added, shaking her head, looking out the front window. “About the only thing the AG didn’t do was disclose my guy’s name. In any event, at the cocktail party were a number of people in the New Jersey Congressional Delegation.”

“You’re kidding,” Mac blurted in disbelief, now knowing exactly where this was going.

“I kid you not,” she replied, exasperated. “Someone from that group, we never did find out whom, got word back to the Giordano’s and a week later my guy’s floating in the world’s greatest body depository.”

“Ahh, the Hudson.”

“He was beaten to death.”

“You were upset,” Mac said, leading her along. He saw the darkness slowly float into her eyes as she told the story. He wanted to know it all now.

“You have no idea,” she replied darkly. “I didn’t know who from Jersey told the Giordano’s but I found out it was Wellesley Jr. who let word slip at the party.”

“So what did you do?”

“I followed him for three days until he went to a small out of the way bar in DC. When I approached, I didn’t look like I presented a danger. The Secret Service didn’t even bat an eye when I walked in the bar. I went in the front door, locked it behind me and walked right up to Wellesley and told him Franchesca was a friend of mine. I one punched Wellesley’s friend out of the way and then proceeded to beat the living daylights out of Donald Jr. For a minute or maybe longer, Mac, I just beat him about the face with my fists, feet and elbows. I just kept going and going and going.”

“You lost control, right?”

She nodded, “I was in a rage, completely out of control. I almost killed him. I might have killed him had the Secret Service not finally got inside. His face looked like hamburger when I was done with him.”

Mac smiled, “That fits.”

“What?”

“I remember something about the vice president’s son dropping out of sight for a number of months and nobody knew where he’d been. When he resurfaced people commented that he looked a little different. Now I know why,” Mac looked her in the eye, nodded and grinned. “Good for you.”

Wire rubbed her face. This wasn’t a story she often told. “I guess he had to go through several surgeries on his face to get things back in position, so to speak. Whatever,” she added dismissively. “He got off easy compared to Giovanni.”

“So you left the bureau.”

“Well, I wasn’t really given a choice. I was looking at more trouble than that but the Judge stepped in and looked after me and brokered a deal.”

“Judge Dixon is a good man to have in a storm.”

“Absolutely. My deal was I walk away and the Wellesley Jr. story stays quiet. Had that come out, it would have been a severe black mark for the vice president, who certainly was looking to run for the top spot in the next go around. You can only imagine how hard it was for the Judge to sit on that during the campaign, but the Judge is a man of his word.”

“Remind me,” Mac said, sitting back in his booth with a broad grin on his face, “to never cross you.”

“You do and I will kick your ass.”

“I do believe you would.”

As Wire drove them back into DC and the Hoover Building, they moved back to talking about the case. “You ever think we’ll find out who this mysterious Bishop is?”

“We need to find some leverage to use on Connolly to get him to tell us,” Mac answered. “He has to be given a reason to talk.” He changed topics. “How’s your relationship with Director Mitchell?”

Wire stared straight ahead, “Okay, I think. He wasn’t the director when I was forced to leave. But I knew him, respected him. I always thought he was a pretty straight shooter. What do you think of him?”

Mac squinted and tilted his head, “I have limited experience with him obviously, but I agree, straight shooter. Gates, I don’t know about him yet.”

“Lawyer,” Wire answered. “They never shoot straight. They hedge and play the angles.”

“I live with one, don’t I know it.”

They both laughed.

Wire pulled in underneath and found a parking space. They made their way in, through security and up to the director’s office, where they were let in to find the director and attorney general. Director Mitchell went immediately to Wire. “Former Special Agent Wire, it is good to see you,” he welcomed, extending his hand.

“Thank you, Director.”

“This is Attorney General Gates.” Wire and Gates shook hands.

“Feel odd to be back in the building?” Mitchell asked with a smile.

Wire smiled shyly. “A bit.”

“Where are we at on Bishop?” Mac asked, getting right to it as he usually did.

“We don’t have anything new on that,” Gates replied, “at least not yet. I have people still looking into the case Ms. Wire mentioned to you this morning. The moniker or name of Bishop shows up, but as you reported, it was never determined who that was. I’ve got people re-looking into the case, but it’ll take some time.”

“However,” Mitchell interjected, “we’ve been digging into your dead killer back in the Twin Cities, Francois Foche. We brought Special Agent Duffy back into this and we’ve been accessing other resources and have developed a good biography on Foche. So let’s go take a look at that.”

Director Mitchell led them down the hall to a special meeting room. On the far wall was a screen split in two. On the left side of the screen was the face of Ed Duffy. “Good afternoon, Special Agent Duffy,” Mac welcomed.

“And to you, Detective McRyan. How ya doing, Mac?”

“I’m hanging in there.”

Mitchell made other introductions and then looked to the screen with Duffy’s face. “Special Agent Duffy, please start the brief.”

“Yes, sir,” Duffy began by showing a picture of Foche. “Francois Foche had been with the General Directorate for External Security for France for many years.” Duffy spent a few minutes reviewing Foche’s background.

“Ed, where did you get all this?” Mac asked.

“French Intelligence shared with us through the CIA,” Director Mitchell answered for Duffy and looked at Mac and Wire. “That doesn’t leave this room.”

Mac and Wire nodded.

“Special Agent Duffy, please continue.”

“Yes, sir. Foche was a field agent and had a very good career. However, there was a French and United States joint intelligence and military operation in Afghanistan in 2002 that went bad. Foche’s superior officer, a man named Nicolas Kristoff, ran the operation but it failed. There is some question as to how it went bad and unfortunately, it appears that there may have been a security breach on our side of the operation. Nonetheless, Foche and his superior, Kristoff, walked thirty men into an ambush in Kandahar.”

“Let me guess,” Mac speculated. “Foche and Kristoff took the fall in France for the operation going bad.”

“So it appears,” Duffy replied. “After the failure of the mission, Foche and Kristoff were reassigned back to Paris and not long after, they retired from the Directorate and were never heard from again.”

“Never heard from?” Wire asked.

“Yeah,” Duffy replied, nodding his head in agreement. “It was as if they disappeared. The pictures you and Detective McRyan provided us on Foche show that he’s had some work done to change his appearance slightly. It looks like some nose and chin work but we’re certain that it’s Foche that you have.”

“How about this Kristoff, he disappeared as well?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” Duffy replied. “Here’s a picture of Kristoff.”

The picture went up on the screen to the right.

“I’ve seen that man!” Mac exclaimed, standing up and marching to the screen displaying Kristoff’s picture. “It’s the eyes. I’ve seen those eyes.”

“Where, Detective?” Director Mitchell asked.

“St. Paul. He was the face in the panel van in St. Paul, outside my family’s pub. He was in the panel van shooting at us. I locked eyes on him for a second or two. That’s him.”

“Foche and Kristoff were still working together then,” Wire said. “The question remains for whom?”

“Let’s go ask Connolly,” Mac suggested.

“On what basis do you go back after Connolly?” Director Mitchell asked.

“Kristoff was Foche’s superior with French Intelligence. He’s probably Foche’s superior now. So he was at McCormick’s place in St. Paul,” Mac said looking at Wire. “You said you could sense Foche’s friends coming when you shot him at Sebastian’s house, right?”

“Yes,” Wire answered. “He was wired for communication and I could hear people approaching.”

“Guaranteed Kristoff was one of them,” Mac stated with conviction. “Then later he’s in that van trying to take us out in front of the pub. He probably took out Checketts and I bet …”

“He’s coming after Connolly next,” Mitchell finished the thought for McRyan.

“That’s right, sir. Connolly knows who’s behind this and it’s this Bishop. Kristoff is working for this Bishop character,” Mac surmised, pacing the room. “We need a pressure point to get Connolly to talk. Wire and I can show Connolly a picture of the man who will kill him. Maybe with a face, he’ll be more willing to cut open a vein and talk.”

The attorney general sat back in his chair and contemplated what McRyan had to say. He looked at his watch, 3:30 p.m. “Let’s give it a shot. I’ll call his lawyer. When do you want to go after Connolly?”

“Sooner the better.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“You can’t make this shit up.”

Kristoff spent the day walking the neighborhood around the Watergate Complex, familiarizing himself with the streets, the buildings, the alleys, the parking spaces and access to the Metro subway lines. Sipping a coffee on a park bench, he watched the flow of people around the massive apartment and business complex. At a street side café, he had a long lunch, read the Washington Post and took in the surroundings. With two bottles of water, he sat on another park bench, read a Vanity Fair and conducted his own surveillance of the area. Having completed his recon of the blocks surrounding the Watergate Complex, he parked his Ford Edge on Twenty-Fourth Street near the George Washington University Medical School.

He wasn’t worried about video surveillance given the dark beard he was wearing along with the lightly tinted dark-rimmed glasses. What he was concerned about was alternative ways out of the area and the contingencies he could count on. For two hours he observed the security of the Watergate East complex, assessing the quality of the security personnel in the building and the local police presence. The building security was of good quality, not the rent-a-cop you typically found. The personnel looked like they could handle themselves, particularly if they came as a team. The video surveillance was robust with cameras visible everywhere.

The most interesting development was the presence of the FBI. He noticed it in the afternoon, when two men entered the building wearing pullover sweatshirts with slight bulges in their backs. Kristoff got up to follow the two men, who were admitted to the building by security without having to use a key card. The two men went up to the eighth floor. Kristoff observed them enter an apartment just down the hall from Connolly’s.

That little tidbit of information locked his plan in.

After he returned from conducting his reconnaissance, he wiped down the condominium and packed his small overnight bag for when he climbed back up. Once he was done with Connolly, he would walk three blocks to his car and simply drive to Reagan National and take his flight to Paris. From there he would disappear, this time for good. This was his last kill for his boss.

The lights in his condominium unit had been off for an hour. The sun had set in the west and there was no moon. It was dark. The lights in the condo below had been off for at least a half hour. He peered over the edge of the balcony for the condo. Given the unique architecture of the Watergate Complex, the apartment Kristoff was repelling from was slightly cantilevered over the eighth and ninth floors below. He secured a mooring hitch knot to the balcony and once again looked over the edge.

* * *

“Detective McRyan, former Special Agent Wire, you have the green light,” Attorney General Gates said. “Connolly’s attorney will meet you at the Watergate. Connolly is there although the attorney hasn’t been able to reach him yet but he will by the time you get there.”

Mac took the pictures of Kristoff, put them in a manila folder and slid them into his backpack.

“Speck and Berman are going with you,” Mitchell added.

“Fine by me,” Mac answered but then he looked to Agents Speck and Berman, “but follow my lead on this because you’re the ones he’ll make the deal with, not me.”

“Good cop?” Berman asked with eyebrows raised.

“Bad cop,” Wire answered.

* * *

Kristoff pulled his gloves tight and then slowly let the black rope down to the level of Connolly’s balcony. He climbed over the ledge, set his feet against the cement pillars of the balcony and pushed away from the building and repelled down to the ninth floor balcony, landing his feet on the balcony rail. He pushed out slightly and dropped his feet to the balcony floor, setting his feet between the small vertical cement pillars. His feet set on the bottom of the balcony, he leaned down and to his right to check the lighting for Connolly’s apartment. The bedroom was dark and the light towards the living room area was dim but he could see the unmistakable flashing of television light.

Once again he set his feet, exhaled and pushed himself out from the balcony and let the rope slide easily through his hands as he swung underneath the ninth floor balcony and landed lightly on the iron railing for the balcony of Connolly’s condo and then froze. He was sensing for movement inside from Connolly.

There was no movement.

He eased himself down to the balcony floor and listened again. The only movement he noticed was from Connolly’s neighbor to the right where a small party was taking place. From inside Connolly’s condo, he heard a cell phone ringing and then a man answering the phone with a: “Hello?” It was the voice of Heath Connolly.

Kristoff tied the rope around the top of the railing. He pushed his back against the exterior wall of the building and reached for the handle for the sliding glass door for the bedroom. Surprisingly, it slid open.

Kristoff slithered inside.

* * *

“Chase, why would I want to talk to them?”

“Listen, you get to hear what they have to say. It’s better for us to know. They’re coming to you, not making you come in. No press, no cameras, just them and us. It’s worth sitting down and hearing them out.”

Connolly exhaled. “Okay, when?”

“Five minutes,” Chase answered.

“Five minutes?” Connolly exclaimed angrily. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Sorry, couldn’t be avoided. They’re pulling up to the building now. I’ll wait for them in the lobby.”

Connolly sighed. “Okay. Call when you’re in the lobby and I will buzz you up.”

He hung up and threw the cell phone down on the counter. He reached for a drink glass and his bourbon bottle and poured himself a drink. He put the heavy drink glass to his lips and let the liquid flow down his throat, warming his chest.

“Who’s coming in five minutes?”

Connolly spun around to see Kristoff with a gun trained on him, a silencer on the end.

“Th… th…the FBI.”

Kristoff pulled the trigger twice. The two shots to the chest blew Connolly back into the counter and then he fell to the floor, landing on his back. The blood flowed out of his chest and through his white dress shirt. Kristoff took three steps and stood over the political mastermind who looked up at him, his eyes blinking uncontrollably, his mouth wide open, gasping for air.

The killer put the end of the silencer to Connolly’s forehead and squeezed.

Heath Connolly was gone.

The phone began to ring and the display showed the call was coming from the lobby.

Kristoff quickly moved to the bedroom and the sliding door. However, two apartments down to the right were two men on the balcony, lighting cigars. They would not be leaving soon. If he tried to climb back up they would see him. He untied the rope and pulled the end and the mooring knot came loose and the rope fell to him. He quickly wound up the rope and put it in his backpack.

Kristoff quickly assessed the situation.

The FBI was coming up from the lobby and they were also likely down the hall. Connolly’s apartment was third from the end of the building. There was a stairway at the end of the hall.

He went to the kitchen. Connolly had a fully stocked liquor cabinet, with several bottles of gin, vodka and whiskey. He took out four bottles and screwed off the caps. Next, he searched the kitchen drawers and found thin dish clothes. From a fifth bottle, he poured Vodka on the towels and stuffed them in the tops of the other bottles to create a wick. Kristoff set one bottle by the door to the hallway and put the other three in his backpack. Then he pulled out another Walther PPK/E and stuffed it in the front of his jeans. The other he held in his right hand, the silencer still on the end.

Kristoff undid the dead bolt. He pulled out his lighter and lit the wick for the first Molotov cocktail.

* * *

“That was Speck,” Agent Cummings reported to Agent Butler, as he looked at the television monitor plugged into the Watergate Security system and the camera focused on Connolly’s front door. “He says they’ll be coming up in about five minutes. We should see them going into Connolly’s condo.”

“Looks like Connolly is opening up already for … them … wait … a …second … what in the hell?”

An arm swung out the door and what looked like a burning bottle was flying down the hallway towards their unit and then there was an explosion. The agents reached for their weapons and opened the door to find the hallway full of smoke and fire.

Cummings jumped into the hallway and looked to his left towards Connolly’s place. He couldn’t see through the smoke and flames which were blazing fifteen feet in front of him. The sprinklers started to go off. Cummings saw a fire alarm on the wall ten feet back. He back stepped, his weapon pointed back towards Connolly’s unit and pulled down the fire alarm. Next to the fire alarm there was a fire extinguisher in a red box.

“Cover me,” Cummings yelled to Butler as he broke open the case for the fire extinguisher.

* * *

The screeching beep tone of the fire alarm pulsated through the lobby of Watergate East as Mac, Wire, Berman and Speck hustled inside. They immediately approached Chase.

“What’s going on?” Berman asked, already on alert.

“I don’t know,” Chase replied, bewildered. “The fire alarm just went off.”

Mac and Wire quickly made their way to the Security Station with Speck, who showed his FBI identification. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a fire on eight, in the hallway.”

Mac and Wire jumped over the counter to look at the monitor, the hallway full of smoke.

“Now we’ve got a fire on six as well,” the Security Guard wailed as he pushed the alarm for the Fire Department, “also in the hallway.”

“Evacuate the building,” the security chief ordered.

Mac looked at Wire, “I got a bad feeling,” and then to Berman, who was on her phone, “The guys on the eighth floor monitoring Connolly? Where are they?”

Berman dropped the phone from her ear, “Cummings and Butler are trying to extinguish the fire to get to Connolly’s unit.”

* * *

Kristoff opened the door on the fourth floor and started running down the hallway, all the way towards the other end of the building, away from the stairway that came out in the main lobby. At the end of the hallway, he lit the wick and threw the last of his Molotov cocktails back down the hall and watched the fireball explode. As he closed the door, the stairwell down below started to flood with Watergate residents reacting to the fire alarm and order to evacuate the building. He mixed in with the residents as they made their way down the stairs.

* * *

Cummings and Butler reached the door for Connolly’s unit. Butler covered for Cummings who jumped into the unit, looked to his left and saw feet sticking out by the end of the center island to the kitchen.

“Agent Berman, Connolly is dead, shot in the chest and head.”

* * *

Berman looked to the group, “Connolly is dead.”

“Kristoff,” Wire muttered while Mac grabbed the building diagram off the wall to look at the available exits. Four Washington DC patrol officers came rushing into the lobby. Speck grabbed them and McRyan quickly handed out pictures of Kristoff. “We are looking for this man,” Mac held up a picture. “He is a professional killer and extremely dangerous.” McRyan looked everyone in the eye. “Understand?”

Everyone nodded.

Mac held out the building layout. Groups of two were assigned to all of the exterior exits and four men were assigned to the parking garage. “Grab more men as they come on the scene. Agent Berman and Speck, you have the lobby.”

Mac and Wire started to walk out the front when Mac stopped and went back to the Security Desk. “Show me where the fires are in each of the hallways.”

The security guard pulled up the fires. “The ones on eight and six are on the south ends of the hallways. The one on four is on the north end.”

Mac looked at the building layout and for the north end emergency exit. “Let’s go,” Mac said to Wire and started running out the front of the building and turned left, running to the north.

“What are you thinking?” Wire asked as she pulled out her Sig, and checked the clip.

“That he’s trying to get away from the glut of people that’ll be coming into the lobby,” Mac answered at a full sprint. “Dara, he cut across the building before he set that last fire. He’s coming out on the north end.”

* * *

Kristoff pushed out of the stairwell and out onto the sidewalk along Virginia Avenue. Fire engines were approaching the scene on south bound Virginia Avenue. As the truck passed him, he jogged across the street to the sidewalk on the far side, tearing off the beard and tossing his glasses in the process. Looking up he could see smoke billowing out from the balconies above.

He kept walking and glanced again over to his right and he saw two familiar faces running along the sidewalk towards the stairway he just exited.

* * *

“Cripes, this is chaos,” Wire moaned as they approached the north stairwell emergency exit. Mac and Wire scanned the crowd but did not see any familiar faces. Mac stepped back away from the crowd and out onto Virginia Avenue which was now blocked off one block to the north by squad cars. In the middle of the street, he was able to take in the crowd milling around the Watergate Complex.

“Where would you go? Where would you go?” Mac muttered as he scanned the crowd. “You wouldn’t hang out in the crowd; you’d be looking to get away. You wouldn’t draw attention to yourself. You’d be casual, walking, trying to look normal, but … averting your eyes.” He turned away from the Watergate Complex and looked on the other side of the street.

“What are you looking for, Mac?” Wire asked.

“For someone not watching what’s going on here,” Mac answered scanning back to the north on Virginia. “They’re walking away slowly, casually and trying to avoid attention.”

“Like that man,” Wire pointed to the opposite side of Virginia Avenue, to the south, a man fifty yards away.

* * *

Kristoff had his hands in his pockets and was walking south down Virginia Avenue, two blocks from his car now.

Two blocks from escaping.

Two blocks from retirement.

He took one last look back. McRyan was staring at him.

* * *

“Kristoff!” Mac barked as he took off at a full sprint, Sig Sauer in his right hand. Wire was right behind him.

* * *

Kristoff sprinted straight south down Virginia Avenue behind the fire trucks now parked on both sides of the street, the firemen in the process of connecting hoses to the fire hydrants and pumper trucks. He unzipped his coat and pulled the Walther out of his waistline and when he got to the last of the fire trucks he ducked behind the front of the truck and brought up the gun.

* * *

The first bullet hit a tree behind Mac but the sound of the bullet was unmistakable to him as he ducked between two fire trucks as two more shots ricocheted off the steel of the fire rigs.

“Suppressor!” Mac yelled back at Wire.

“Get down! Get down!” Wire yelled to the confused firemen seeing people with weapons drawn. Mac pointed to his St. Paul Badge on his belt. In the melee, a cop looked like a cop, DC or St. Paul.

“There he goes! There he goes!” Mac heard numerous voices scream. He peeked back around the edge of the fire truck and saw Kristoff running again, a block ahead. Mac gave chase with Wire right on his six.

* * *

Kristoff couldn’t continue straight, he veered left behind a large office building and into a small open air parking lot between the building and a church. The lot was full of parked cars. As he reached the last car in the lot, he ducked behind to check back.

He was a little over a block from his car now. He just needed to slow down the pursuit and get lost between the buildings.

* * *

Mac saw Kristoff dart into the parking lot. He ran to the edge of the large building and Wire pulled right up behind him. He crouched down and peeked around the corner. Two shots hit the building.

“That fucking suppressor, I can’t get a bead on him,” Mac groaned.

Wire saw the car twenty feet in front of them. “Cover me,” she said. “You should be able to get a fix on him if he fires.”

“You sure?” Mac asked, looking back at Wire who was crouched down behind him.

She nodded, “Yes.”

“Go,” Mac whispered and peeked back left around the corner.

Wire, down in a crouch, ran for the rear of the car. Even with the suppressor on Kristoff’s weapon, Mac got a fix. He zeroed in and fired twice.

* * *

McRyan’s second shot caught the top of his right arm. Kristoff winced in pain as he turned away and ran underneath a grouping of trees and across the opening for an entrance to underground parking for another building. He turned the corner around the building and sprinted across H Street and turned left onto Twenty-Fourth Street. He took the key fob out of his left pant pocket.

* * *

“He’s running again!” Mac said as loudly as he dared and he and Wire gave chase, but a little cautiously now as they worked their way through a grouping of trees. They quickly zigzagged their way from tree to tree covering each other and then both of them spread apart and ran across the opening for the parking garage and came to H Street.

“Now where?” Mac asked urgently.

“He’ll want a car,” Wire answered and pointed to the right. “Cars are parked on Twenty-Fourth.”

Mac started jogging, his weapon up in front, staying close to the building on the corner of H and Twenty-Fourth, Wire fanning out to his right, behind the cars parked on H.

Mac heard the unmistakable sound of a car alarm system being shut off with a key fob on Twenty-Fourth.

He looked to Wire who nodded.

Mac carefully pushed his way around the corner. Halfway up the block he saw a man approaching a car.

Then he saw another man.

* * *

The assassin stepped out of his car and walked back towards Kristoff’s. Kristoff was looking back down the street for his pursuers.

* * *

Kristoff turned back to get into the car when he saw him.

The man was unmistakable.

It was the assassin Paolo.

The Bishop betrayed him.

Kristoff instinctively tried to raise his right hand to shoot but wounded, he was too slow. The first shot from Paolo hit him in his chest and knocked him off balance.

The second shot blew him off his feet and backwards onto the pavement.

Kristoff struggled for air as he looked up to see Paolo approaching. The assassin gauntleted his right hand into his left palm. It was just like ten minutes ago with Connolly. You had to finish the job.

“Sorry,” Paolo said flatly.

“DROP THE GUN! DROP IT NOW!” Kristoff heard voices yell. Paolo raised his right arm towards the voices. The first shot into Paolo’s chest caused a small gasp. The second shot blew him back and the third shot hit him in the forehead, dropping him.

Kristoff couldn’t move and his breaths were getting short. He heard footsteps approach and then there he was standing over him, Mac McRyan. The St. Paul detective looked down at him, gun at the ready. McRyan stepped over him and with his left foot, kicked the Walther away and then he leaned down. Wire appeared in view and she had her cell phone out, holding it with two hands, filming.

“Kristoff, Kristoff, look at me, look at me,” McRyan directed. “Nicholas, look at me. The Bishop sent that man to kill you. The Bishop, who is he? Who is he?”

Kristoff smiled a bloody smile. His boss never wanted to leave any loose ends. He’d spent ten years tying up his boss’s loose ends. Only now, did he realize that he was a loose end, the last tie back to the boss, the last liability to take care of.

“Who’s the Bishop! Tell me!” McRyan pleaded with him. “He betrayed you, Nicholas. Tell me who he is?”

The Bishop would not get away this time.

Kristoff gasped as he leaned up to speak. “Pope.” He coughed and felt the blood come out of his mouth. “Christian … Pope.”

* * *

McRyan’s jaw dropped. “Christian Pope? Christian Pope is the Bishop? Christian Pope of Pope Oil & Gas, P. O. & G. is the Bishop?” he asked Kristoff again.

Kristoff gave one last smile and gasped, “Y… y… yes, yes.”

He looked back at Wire, who was shocked.

McRyan looked back down to Kristoff, hearing the sirens approaching their position. They wouldn’t arrive in time for him. The killer went still. Mac checked for a pulse and there was none. Kristoff was gone.

Mac looked up to Wire who’d been filming with her phone. “Tell me you got that?”

She played with her phone and played the video back, “Oh yeah. I got it, Mac.”

Mac stood up and shook his head at Wire, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “You can’t make this shit up.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“He’s not dead.”

Judge Dixon stood in front of the large flat-screen television set up underneath the stands at Scottrade Center in St. Louis. The next campaign event would start in a mere ten minutes with speeches from local dignitaries who would fire up the crowd for the governor. Until late last night when the polling data on the scandal started to show a dramatic shift in the polls, the campaign wouldn’t have even thought of staging an event in Missouri, let alone their next and last stop of the campaign, Phoenix, Arizona. Missouri and Arizona were in the vice president’s column, he was up by, on average, eight points in each state. But in a mere twenty-four hours, there was a sea change in the race.

The Judge rolled his cigar with his right thumb and index finger while he watched the television footage of the fire at the Watergate. It was a victory cigar now. His left hand in his pants pocket was fiddling with the lighter. Voters still had to go to the polls tomorrow but the vice president’s campaign was fully ensnared in the voting machine scandal. Wellesley was getting killed by the media, his own party and from the looks of the polling data, voters. Alternatively, the scandal had significantly intensified the motivation and enthusiasm of Democrats. For the past two weeks, the crowds for Governor Thomson had been growing larger and more enthusiastic by the day. But today, the crowds were in another world, loud, large, fired up and pissed off. Democrats were frothing at the mouth to go to the polls now. Dixon lit his cigar and let the smoke linger and float around him.

The scandal was having the opposite effect on the other side of the political spectrum. The crowds for the vice president on his last day of campaigning were small, unenthusiastic and you could just feel the pall that had fallen over the campaign. In an absolute rarity, the vice president cancelled his last two events, having thrown in the towel.

The media was in full attack mode and Republican candidates were avoiding the media at all costs. When more Democrats than Republicans are appearing on FOX News, you know people are running for cover. On top of that, all of the Super PAC advertising for the vice president had been pulled and was being applied towards saving representatives and senators down the ballot. The only question now was whether the victory for Governor Thomson would be a landslide or merely a wide victory margin.

The Judge knew the vice president and liked him personally. When the Judge was the attorney general, he’d worked extensively with the vice president, then chairing the Senate Judiciary Committee, and he found him a reasonable and honorable man. But the people you hire reflect on you and you’re responsible for them. The vice president hired Connolly. It didn’t matter that Connolly was forced on him as the supposed genius political mind of the party. The vice president could have said no. He didn’t. Wellesley was now paying the price for that decision.

The Watergate was in flames, once again at the center of a national scandal. The irony of the situation was not lost on Dixon or the governor who now joined him to take in the reporting.

“Once again a Republican’s political career is in ashes at the Watergate,” Governor Thomson remarked as he and his campaign chief took in the news footage around the complex. “Remind me to tell our staff that nobody should live there.”

The scene around the Watergate looked to be one of sheer chaos as smoke continued billowing out of the windows of the complex, the flashing lights of the fire trucks and other emergency vehicles illuminating the scene that was serving as the colorful background for reporting for all of the cable news channels now, the Washington Bureaus taking the unusual step of covering a fire. While Dixon and the governor knew that Connolly had perished, that part of the story was just now coming to light.

“Connolly got what he deserved,” Dixon remarked as he put the cigar between his lips and lit it, letting smoke billow out of him.

“You really think so?” the governor said evenly. “You think he deserved to die?”

Dixon shrugged. “He was already dead, shooting him in the head simply made it official.”

“Kinda harsh,” Thomson teased.

“Wow, you’re defending the guy who called you, and I quote: ‘A deranged liberal intent on taking your guns, your money and your liberty.’”

“We said some pretty nasty, perhaps hyperbolic things about the vice president as well.”

Dixon was nonplussed. “Politics is politics.” The Judge took another drag on his cigar and slowly let the smoke filter out of his mouth. “I never liked Heath but I knew him fairly well and have seen his type come and go for years. Politics was the man’s life, it was all he had. If he didn’t have another race to run, some other candidate to take on, some focus group to test, polling to take and negative advertising to run, he would have just wasted away. On top of that, he was simply a piece of shit. I won’t lose a wink of sleep over his death, not a one.”

“And I hear our people were on the scene of this chaos?”

“Our people?”

“Yeah, Wire and McRyan.”

The Judge laughed a hearty deep guttural laugh.

Governor Thomson didn’t get it. “What?”

“McRyan as one of us,” Dixon shook his head, chortling.

“I know, I know,” Thomson smiled. “He doesn’t work for us but he feels like he’s one of us, ya know. I like him and we sure as hell owe him and Wire. We owe them huge.”

“That we do,” Dixon replied, taking a drag off of his cigar. “That we do.”

“Has anyone actually talked to either of them?”

“I was on with Wire about ten minutes ago. She called to let me know Connolly was dead and that there were two other dead bodies, from one of which she and McRyan got some interesting information that she wasn’t yet at liberty to share, but it will be shocking when it comes to light.”

“And has Ms. Kennedy talked to McRyan?”

The Judge turned nodded towards Kennedy a hundred feet away, standing by herself in the hallway, talking on a cell phone.

“She looks rather animated,” the governor observed wryly.

Dixon guffawed, “Mac’s getting his ass chewed.”

* * *

“Jesus Christ, Mac, please, please, please tell me you weren’t in another shootout?” Sally demanded.

“Weeeelll,” Mac answered, “so we get to the Watergate to question Connolly and then there was a fire, followed by mass panic and one thing led to another and …”

“And you end up chasing a trained killer in the dark through the streets of Washington DC, streets you don’t know, I might add, and oh, let me guess, you didn’t even have a vest on?”

Mac’s head dropped. No, he didn’t have his vest on. His silence answered the question.

“Cripes, you could have gotten your head blown off.”

“Vest wouldn’t have done me much good if he hit me in the head,” Mac quipped back.

“Don’t be flip.”

“Sorry.”

“What are you, a magnet for these kinds of people?” Sally railed.

“I try not to be,” Mac answered. “But they do seem to gravitate to me.”

“Never mind,” Sally growled, equal parts angry and relieved. Mac was always going to run no holds barred into the fire, it was just his nature. Like the scorpion and the frog. “You’re okay? I mean, you’re not lying to me, you’re okay?”

“I’m fine really. Not a scratch on me, although my feet are wet from running through water leaking from fire hoses,” he quipped.

“This isn’t funny,” she cried.

Mac kicked himself for joking. “Sorry.”

“And Wire?”

“She’s fine too. We had each other’s backs.”

“That better be all you have.”

“Hey,” Mac snapped back.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sally replied immediately, wishing she could grab the words and put them back in her mouth. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” She exhaled. “It’s just you’re tempting fate.”

Mac closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, Sally, but it’s kind of the job, you know.”

“I know.” He could hear her trying to get herself together on the other end of the line. He realized that as little sleep as he’d gotten in recent days, she was operating on less. She was exhilarated by the campaign, but the lack of rest was taking its toll and catching up to her. “I’m sorry I said that about Wire. I just … you know.”

“I know,” Mac answered. “I know you do. This is all almost over, the election, this investigation, everything. It’s almost over.” He reached the front of the Watergate and it was time to get back to work. “Listen, I gotta go.”

“Call me later again okay and please, please be careful.”

“I’ll do my best.” Mac hung up and exhaled a large breath.

“That went well,” Wire remarked with a little smile, having heard Mac’s end of the conversation on the walk back from Kristoff’s body. They’d been offered a ride but Mac needed the walk to let the adrenaline flow out of his body.

“Oh trust me, I’m not done paying for this yet,” Mac replied shaking his head. There would be another conversation, probably very heated, about this, about taking risks, about almost getting killed. Sally understood the job and knew the risks but it didn’t stop her from venting on occasion when things got hairy. But then Mac smiled and raised his eyebrows, “Of course, it’ll probably lead to some serious make-up sex so things aren’t all bad.”

“So you got that going for you,” Wire led.

“Which is nice,” Mac finished in his best Carl Spackler/Bill Murray voice.

Wire giggled.

They were now cleared to walk back into the Watergate building. Director Mitchell, Attorney General Gates and Agents Speck and Berman were waiting in the now empty lobby for the Watergate East complex. After the perfunctory “glad you’re both okays” were issued, Mac and Wire asked the director and attorney general to join them in an office in back of the Security Desk. Mac closed the door.

“What?” the attorney general asked.

“We know who the Bishop is,” Wire stated.

“Who?” the director and AG asked in unison.

“Christian Pope,” Mac replied.

“Wait a minute. Christian Pope?” Gates asked, completely gob smacked. “As in Christian Pope of P. O. & G., one of the wealthiest men on the planet, that Christian Pope? The Christian Pope?”

“Yes, sir,” McRyan replied and then to Wire. “Dara, play the video.”

Wire started the video replay on the phone. The attorney general and director huddled around as the video started.

McRyan: “Who’s the Bishop! Tell me!”

Kristoff: “Pope.” He coughed and blood spewed from his mouth “Christian … Pope.”

McRyan: “Christian Pope? Christian Pope is the Bishop? Christian Pope of Pope Oil & Gas, P. O. & G. is the Bishop?”

Kristoff: “Yes.”

The attorney general whistled and Director Mitchell ran his right hand through his thick hair. They were as shocked as Mac when he first heard the name.

After a minute, the attorney general spoke. “That’s a name and it will help, but it would be really good to independently confirm that with someone.”

“With who?” Mitchell replied. “Connolly’s dead. Domitrovich and Khrutov are dead. Checketts is dead. Now this Kristoff is dead. Foche is dead. I mean, who is left?”

“Sir,” Mac started. “There is one thing Dara and I have kept from you and Attorney General Gates.”

“What’s that?” Mitchell asked warily.

“Ummm … About Foche.”

“What about him?” Mitchell asked.

“He’s not dead.”

Two minutes ago, the director and attorney general were shocked. Now they were blindsided. “Excuse me, Detective? I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Foche isn’t dead, he’s alive?” Mitchell asked dumbfounded.

“Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “Sorry, but we’ve been keeping that little nugget quiet.”

The anger was evident on both the director’s and attorney general’s faces.

“Let us explain,” Mac said, holding up his hands. McRyan and Wire tag teamed the explanation that when Checketts was murdered they made a quick determination that whoever was behind this would leave nobody behind. The two of them figured that if they reported Foche was dead, they might get something from the man. So far he had not been willing to talk. As with Connolly, getting him to talk would take leverage, something that until now, they’d not had. But now Mac had some ideas on how they could persuade Foche to open up.

The attorney general and FBI director were equal parts shocked, surprised, happy and bitterly angry. They started with bitterly angry.

“I don’t like being kept in the dark, Detective,” Director Mitchell barked, hands on hips. “You do not keep the director of the FBI in the dark.”

“Sorry, sir,” Mac answered, holding his ground. “But Dara and I thought the secret important enough to keep close to the vest. We didn’t want it leaking he was alive and no offense, but everything in this town leaks and to be completely honest, I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“Trust us?” Gates growled. “Who are you to determine that, Detective?”

“I don’t work for you, sir,” Mac answered plainly. “I work for Charlie Flanagan in St. Paul. I don’t work for either of you nor do I know you. Until we felt confident we could trust you, we kept this quiet.”

“Trust, Dara? You’re really going with that?” Mitchell asked derisively, glaring at Wire.

“I’ve been out four years sir and I’m out because I trusted certain people, namely a former attorney general, with certain information.”

Gates and Mitchell looked ready to have them both arrested.

“You can be angry with us, or you can be happy we still have a witness left that Christian Pope doesn’t know about,” Wire stated.

Mitchell looked at Gates. They were both angry, but they shared a look and nodded.

Mitchell exhaled. “Where is he?”

“He’s safe for now at a half-full hospital out in a suburb northwest of Minneapolis. There is a team of St. Paul cops watching him around the clock,” Mac replied. “However, I think now might be a good time to discuss options for moving him to a safer location and bringing him under bureau protection.”

“He’s awake and alert?” Gates asked.

“He is,” Wire answered. “He should make a full recovery.”

“He’s talking?”

“Kinda sorta,” Mac answered. “He was a little disoriented when he first awoke and uttered something about ‘the Bishop,’ so that’s where I got the name to start with. Once he realized where he was, he shut down and has refused to talk. However, now I think I have a way to make him talk, if you’ll oblige.”

The two men shared a look. They wanted to be angry yet these two managed to pull the investigation off of life support, yet again.

“So what do you need, Mac?” Mitchell asked.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Fifteen Years.”

Tuesday, November 5th, Election Day

Mac and Wire yawned as they deplaned at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport a little after 7:00 a.m. and immediately were hustled into an awaiting black Suburban by the FBI. As the driver pulled off of the tarmac and away from the plane, the other agent in front turned around and handed them each a tall Grand Brew Coffee and a bag full of assorted donuts.

“I love you, man,” Mac said with a tired smile. He took a long sip of coffee, sat back and exhaled.

Wire took out a bear claw and devoured it in four bites. “God, that tasted good.”

“The world is back on its axis,” Mac noted, toasting the agents in front. He could see their grins in the rearview mirror.

“What’s our first stop?” the driver asked.

“My polling place,” Mac answered. “I’ve gotta vote. We’re going to a retirement home, just south of Ford Parkway on Cleveland.”

With an FBI escort, Mac got in and out of the polling place in five minutes and they were on their way. Governor Thomson had received his vote.

Overnight, Foche was moved to a safe house northwest of Minneapolis in the town of Corcoran, an expansive rural community of farms with some small housing developments on large acreage plots.

Foche was being held in a large two-story home foreclosed on over a year ago that the FBI had quickly arranged to rent for an undetermined period of time. The large home sat two miles west of a county road on top of a hill with land cleared five hundred yards away in every direction. There were few if any trees to provide cover for an approach. In reality, there was no way to approach the house without being seen. Even with that, there were twelve men on the scene at all times. It was a safe location even if there was someone out there who didn’t buy the Foche was dead story.

The Suburban came to a rest in the circular driveway and Mac and Wire filed out of the truck and were met by a familiar face.

“Dicky Boy, how’s the wing?” Mac asked walking up to his partner and shaking his hand. “It’s really good to see you, bud.”

“You too,” Lich replied. “I’m healing up and when Riley told me you were coming back, I wanted in.” Dick turned from Mac and leered, as only he could, at Wire as she walked up in her skin tight blue jeans. “Agent Wire, it is sooooo nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you upright, Detective.”

“Oh I’m definitely upright at the moment,” Lich replied dirtily.

“Oh God,” Mac groaned and shook his head in his hands.

Wire put her hands on her hips although she wasn’t really upset, understanding Lich for what he was—a pig.

“You have to learn not to set him up like that,” Mac counseled. “He hits the hanging curve balls out of the park every time.”

Wire took a look at Lich’s groin area, “Well he must be using a really small bat because I don’t see much of a pup tent.”

Mac roared and Lich replied with a: “touché.”

Dick led them up the steps, across the porch and into the house. Inside to the left was a small sitting room where Mac found three other friends, Riley, Rockford and a nattily attired gentleman in a thousand dollar black pinstripe suit: “Lyman Hisle as I live and breathe.”

Lyman Hisle was St. Paul’s most prominent lawyer, perhaps the best defense lawyer in the Twin Cities, a good friend of the St. Paul Police and McRyan family friend. When Mac had Riley sequester Foche away, and Foche asked for a lawyer, Mac suggested getting Lyman involved. There were two witnesses to the murders of McCormick and Montgomery. They had Foche cold. He was going away for life so Mac wasn’t worried about Lyman pulling a rabbit out of his hat and getting Foche off. Rather, Mac figured at some point they’d need Foche to talk and there was nobody better in town than Lyman to get a defendant to see the light of day.

“Lyman, I’d like to introduce Dara Wire. Ms. Wire has been working with us. She used to be a special agent with the FBI but has now graduated to a more honest living.”

“Ms. Wire,” Lyman said, shaking her hand gently with both of his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Hisle,” Wire answered and then looked to Mac. “His daughter was the other one …”

“That’s right, Ms. Wire,” Lyman said with a grateful smile. “These men saved my daughter a couple of years ago so I am quite indebted to them and exceedingly pleased they asked me to help out.”

“Where’s Foche?” Mac asked, getting right to business.

“Upstairs,” Riles answered. “Let’s go.”

The group climbed the wood staircase to the second floor, turned left and walked to the large master suite at the end of the hall. Foche was propped up in a hospital bed. A nurse was present monitoring his condition and dispensing his medication. He was alert and awake and his eyes widened at the sight of Wire and McRyan.

Mac looked to his right at Wire who stared hard at Foche, every muscle in her body tensed, her hands rolled into fists. Mac had a long discussion with her on the flight back. She didn’t like the idea of giving Foche a deal. However, Mac sensed he finally convinced her that Foche was simply an instrument being played by Pope and that Pope was their true target. Kristoff’s utterance of Pope helped but in and of itself wouldn’t be enough. They needed confirmation. “Dara, Foche carried out an order. Pope is responsible for Sebastian’s death. He gave the order, Foche was simply the instrument.” She understood in her mind that was the case, but in her heart? If given the opportunity, she’d have killed Foche right then and there with her bare hands.

Mac walked to the right side of the bed. “Mr. Foche, my name is Detective McRyan with the St. Paul Police Department. At the end of the bed is the woman who shot you, her name is Dara Wire. She is working with us on this investigation and is a former special agent with the FBI.”

Mac took a picture out of a manila folder. “This is Nicholas Kristoff, your friend and I think your boss.” Mac took out another photo. “This is now what Kristoff looks like as of last night.” Out of the manila folder came three pictures of Kristoff dead on the ground.

Foche’s face twitched and his eyes closed and Mac could see them moistening. In reviewing Foche’s and Kristoff’s files they received from the French government, it was clear the two men were close, like brothers, with Kristoff being the older brother, the man Foche looked up to.

“How was he killed?” the Frenchman asked as he looked at the close-up picture of his dead friend’s face.

“After he killed Heath Connolly at the Watergate in Washington last night, Ms. Wire and I chased him through a neighborhood near George Washington University Medical School. As Kristoff reached his car, this man, who’d been laying in wait, killed him.” Wire, now standing on the other side of the bed, placed a photo of Paolo on Foche’s lap. “Your friend was killed by a professional assassin, a man named Paolo. Have you ever heard of Paolo?”

Foche nodded.

“He works for hire, right?” Wire asked.

Foche nodded.

“Paolo is expensive and very good, right?”

The Frenchman nodded.

“He’s also dead, by the way,” Mac added matter of factly. “We,” Mac pointed at himself and Wire, “shot him.” Mac moved to his sales pitch. “Right now, the world thinks you’re dead, Mr. Foche. The media thinks you’re dead. My government, other than the people in this room, the attorney general and the FBI director, thinks you’re dead. As long as that’s the case, the Bishop thinks you’re dead. However, if you don’t tell me who the Bishop is, we will bring you back to life and sooner or later the Bishop will have someone kill you just like he killed Kristoff, just like he killed Peter Checketts, Anatoly Khrutov, Viktor Domitrovich and Gabriel Martin. Just like he had you kill Jason Stroudt, Adam Montgomery and Sebastian McCormick. I believe your attorney Mr. Hisle has explained this to you, correct?”

Foche nodded.

“And Mr. Hisle has explained to you that if you don’t make a deal with us, you will go to prison for the rest of your life, correct?”

Foche nodded.

“So do you have any questions?”

“What do I get in return for the name of the Bishop?” Foche asked looking Mac in the eye.

Mac pulled out a sheet of paper, a deal. “A new name and identity, fifteen years in a relatively comfortable federal prison and then you go into the loving arms of our Witness Protection Program if you so choose.”

“Fifteen years?”

“Non-negotiable,” Mac answered coldly. “You killed two men. That’s a life sentence for each. I’d eventually prove you killed at least one more person if not more. And by the way, in return for this deal, you will tell me everything, every minute detail of those murders, the planning, who else you killed and when. You will tell me everything, you will tell me about every-single-body you ever dropped for the Bishop, every one. So fifteen years it will be. After that, you will remain in the United States and under our protection if you so wish or you will be free to go. Do you understand?”

Foche nodded.

“Okay, Mr. Foche, I’ll ask you just one time. Who is the Bishop?”

Foche sat back against his pillow and closed his eyes, giving the deal one last consideration in his mind. His eyes opened, he looked at Mac and said: “The Bishop is Christian Pope.”

Mac looked at Wire who nodded.

Mac turned to Lyman: “Counselor, here is the deal in writing, signed by the attorney general of the United States.”

Lyman slipped on his glasses and read through the document and looked to his client, “I’d recommend you sign. It’s the best deal you’ll get.”

Foche signed the deal.

“Okay then,” Mac said. “Let’s get the video equipment set up and we’re going to start walking through everything.” He pulled a folder out of his backpack. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“I have a good feeling that there will be more developments today.”

Christian Pope stepped out onto the long deck of his Clearwater Beach, Florida, mansion that overlooked the deep blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. It was going to be a beautiful day, the sun now well up in the eastern horizon, heating the area around his pool below and the beach another hundred yards out in front of him.

He enjoyed Florida in the fall. There were fewer visitors and the beaches were quiet. For a man who demanded privacy, it was ideal.

His breakfast was superb, eggs Benedict. The company had been excellent as well, with the lovely Veronica. He looked down at his pool as Veronica and her naked lithe model figure glided easily through the water, taking a morning swim. She waved for him to come down and he thought that in a few minutes he just might.

Pope lifted the fine china coffee cup to his lips and took a long sip of the warm Colombian coffee and once again assessed the events of the previous evening. He’d enjoyed Veronica with the relief of knowing that Connolly and Kristoff were taken care of. That Paolo was eliminated was even better. There was nothing left to tie any of the events of the last week back to him. Everyone who could was gone. He was free and clear.

It was a relief.

Yet, despite his good mood, he knew that he’d stumbled and stumbled badly. He would have to bide his time and live to fight another day four years from now. He was still young, only fifty-two years old. He was as fit as a man could be, in excellent condition, fifty-two going on thirty-two, his doctor told him a month ago. There were many years remaining to accomplish his ultimate goal. Until that time would come he would enjoy the fruits of his riches, such as Veronica, who was always available to him when he came to Florida. However, she could wait a few minutes more. Pope went to his desk, opened the humidor and took out a fine Cuban cigar and clipped the end. He struck a large match and lit the cigar, walked back out onto the expansive balcony and looked out to the ocean, the waves crashing gently against the white sand beach fronting his estate.

Christian Pope was not necessarily a household name. He’d generally remained an anonymous billionaire. From time to time he would surface, give an interview and discuss the state of the economy and particularly energy issues. This past election season he’d appeared on television more than usual, exclusively on the friendly FOX News or the FOX Business Channel, discussing politics, the economy and in his view what impacts Vice President Wellesley’s or Governor Thomson’s policies would have on the price of oil and gas.

However, other than the occasional television appearance, Christian Pope maintained a low profile and preferred a certain amount of anonymity. He was extremely wealthy but the American public really had no idea how massive his financial portfolio really was. Pope laughed when Forbes recently listed him as being worth just over $13 billion. Forbes was only off by a mere $27.4 billion dollars give or take, and for now, Pope was just fine with that. That was because Forbes only knew of the businesses that his father Jackson was involved in. Because of the complicated web developed by Pope to hide his interests, Forbes merely assumed that Pope continued his family’s oil and gas businesses and was quietly living off of those earnings, which of course he had and which still constituted a significant component of his wealth. It was his knowledge of oil and gas that brought him into the media light from time to time to discuss energy issues and the political component to them.

That veneer of oil and gas served as cover for the rest of his financial largesse. Forbes nor anyone else had any inkling of his other worldwide interests in banking, hedge funds, casinos, military contracting, technology or real estate, nor would they, not right now. Only when Pope was truly the wealthiest and most successful person in the world would he then reveal the vastness of his financial empire and let the world truly comprehend the power and wealth that he’d obtained.

Yes, he had a bad week but the mess was cleaned up and it was time to move on.

He looked down to the pool.

Veronica waved to him again.

It was time to join her.

* * *

The Judge stood outside the polling place for Governor Thomson and his wife, leaning against the limousine, sipping a Grand Brew coffee. Three cigars were in his suit coat pocket and before the day was out, he’d have smoked all three and given out a hundred more. Nevertheless, he imagined that if anyone bothered to take a close look at him right now, they would see an expression of extreme satisfaction.

Judge Dixon would go out of presidential campaigning a winner, a big winner. He only had to think back to last night to realize how big.

Three days ago, Arizona was not even on his radar, other than for thoughts of a spring golf trip. It was counted as deep red on the electoral map, the vice president ahead by anywhere from seven to ten points in recent polling. The Democratic Primary campaign was over by the time the Arizona Primary had rolled around in the spring. The campaign made one cursory four-hour stop and the governor gave a couple of quick speeches, shook some hands and collected some campaign checks. However, in Dixon’s campaign calculus, Arizona was conservative in general, governed by a very conservative governor focused on her border and didn’t seem like a good bet to pile in limited campaign financial resources, especially given the other states that were closer in the polling and richer in electoral votes. After their quick spring visit, the Judge never gave Arizona another thought throughout the entire election.

Then on Sunday morning the scandal broke. The polls massively swung in their direction overnight. Florida, Missouri and Arizona, among a few other states, suddenly came into play just as Iowa, Wisconsin, Ohio and Virginia turned dark blue, locks for Governor Thomson. On the last day, the campaign hit all three, welcomed by massive and enthusiastic crowds and from what Dixon had seen in this morning’s polling, they would win all three. If they’d had a few more days, the Judge thought they could have really swung the election to a landslide, especially down the ballot. That would really be what they had to watch today, how much impact the scandal would have down the ballot.

If they had two more days, they could have experienced the Pope effect.

Dixon began to calculate what the impact of Pope’s involvement would have been on the electorate, one of the richest men on the planet trying to fix the election. Pope was fairly anonymous himself, but everyone knew Pope Oil and Gas—P. O. & G. Christian Pope’s wealth would have spoke volumes as would’ve his politics. People often thought the rich bought politicians. In this case, a very wealthy man actually had bought the election but for the investigating of McRyan and Wire.

He wished he could have used Pope. He wished he could have leaked that to the media somehow, let that message get out to the electorate. Of course, had he done that, he’d have had Mac, Wire, the FBI director and attorney general all over him. Heck, he wasn’t even supposed to know. He couldn’t even tell the governor. Wire said Mac would be furious if he found out that she’d even told him. So he said to himself, just take the win.

The pundits would speculate about what might have been, but the Judge didn’t care. If the playing field was level, had Pope not done what he did, he was confident they would have won the election. It would have been tight and they would have gone late into the night, but they would have won. He would not lose any sleep of those who said that but for the scandal, Thomson wouldn’t have won. The Judge viewed that as bullshit and he’d make that argument every day of the next year if he had to. He took a cigar out of his suit coat pocket and twirled it in his fingers.

Thomson emerged from the polling place and he and his wife turned back for a moment and posed for pictures for reporters and he made a few perfunctory comments before returning to the motorcade.

“Would it be bad form for me to smoke one of those right here?” the governor asked, admiring the cigar, desperately wanting one, jovial in the fact that he would win today, he would be president of the United States.

“It would, but you know what?”

“What?”

“I have a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue back at the house. I’ve been saving it for the right occasion, Governor. Tonight is the proper occasion but I think we ought to go back, have a good lunch and allow ourselves one little touch off that bottle.”

Thomson slapped the Judge on the back as they climbed back down into the limousine. “Will our two friends who saved this thing for us make it back tonight?”

Dixon thought of what Wire and Mac were doing and looked at his watch, “They’re still working the case. I have a good feeling that there will be more developments today.”

* * *

The interrogation of Foche took all day. Given his condition, he required two lengthy rest breaks but he told them everything. Foche was the driver of the Suburban that killed Martin in Milwaukee. A man named Vigneault, who died in the car chase in Milwaukee, was in the passenger seat. In addition to killing McCormick and Montgomery, he also killed Stroudt.

He was fully aware of the scheme to rig the Presidential Election and understood the reason he was ordered to kill those four men was to protect Pope’s plan.

Ten years ago, Christian Pope had rescued Foche and Kristoff after they’d been shunned by French Intelligence due to the failure of a mission in Afghanistan. Once they went to work for Pope, they operated out of an office in the Cayman Islands on the direction of the Bishop since much of his business involved using Cayman banks, businesses and addresses. However, Kristoff also maintained a satellite office in Morocco that Foche didn’t think Pope knew about. The FBI was already working with the US embassy and Moroccan government to access the office.

Foche was a fountain of knowledge. He’d been active for ten years. Judge Dixon was right about Younger Investments. Foche and Kristoff killed the Hedge Fund manager. In the end, Foche gave them six other bodies that Pope had them eliminate over the years for various business purposes. Two of the killings were in the United States. Others were in Russia, Kazakhstan, Brazil and Chile.

“So why did people call Christian Pope, the Bishop?” Mac asked towards the end of the interrogation. “There is clearly nothing holy about the man.”

Foche shrugged. “He said that’s what we could call him. I asked him why and he said he had two good friends when he was kid growing up in Kansas that called him that. They gave everyone in the neighborhood names and because his name had religious elements of Christian and Pope, they called him the Bishop. It’s as simple as that.”

“I thought it might have something to do with chess,” Wire speculated. “All these shell companies with post office boxes use chess pieces for their names.”

“That was Pope’s idea,” Foche answered.

There was one more mystery solved. Wire kept going. “I’m amazed,” she remarked, “that given what you’ve told me about his holdings, his wealth, that it is so much more than oil and gas that he somehow managed to keep that all so quiet.”

Foche nodded. “He was, what’s your American’s term? Anal?”

Mac nodded.

“Yes then, he was anal about his privacy and security. That was part of our job, to help protect his identity from being exposed in those other business ventures. If people came sniffing around, we warned them off. If a warning didn’t work, sterner measures were obviously taken. Once you start unwinding all of his affairs you won’t believe what he’s into business wise, it’s everything and his wealth is far greater than people realize.”

The entire interview was recorded and a copy was already in the hands of the attorney general’s office. That was an hour ago.

It was 4:14 p.m.

Wire and McRyan sat on the tarmac in the FBI plane at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport awaiting their next destination.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“You got off easy.”

At 8:35 p.m. eastern time, the double doors to the Situation Room were pushed open and President Barnes entered the room and everyone stood up. It was a small group that included Attorney General Gates and FBI Director Mitchell.

“Good evening, everyone,” the president said and everyone took their seats. The president poured himself a cup of coffee and looked down to Director Mitchell, “Are you ready, Director?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The president nodded and called the meeting to order and had two screens on the large wall opposite of where he was sitting turned on to reveal the faces of Governor Thomson and Vice President Wellesley.

“Good evening, Governor Thomson,” the president said to the screen for the governor. “Who from your staff is listening in?”

“And to you, Mr. President. I have my running mate, Senator Gray with me, along with Judge Dixon.”

“Very good. Also with us is Vice President Wellesley. Mr. Vice President, who else is present from your staff?”

“Mr. President, with me is my running mate Governor Griffin and my son and advisor Don.”

“Very well,” the president replied. “We are here to discuss the completion of the investigation of the FBI, in conjunction with the St. Paul Police Department, into the party behind a series of murders as well as the attempt to manipulate the results of today’s election. We are moving to make an arrest of the man behind this. Given the gravity of the issues, particularly regarding the ones impacting your campaigns, I felt you should be included in this briefing and have the same information as you speak to the American people tonight.” The president pointed to the FBI director: “Director Mitchell, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Mitchell maneuvered the mouse and clicked to open a picture. “The man behind the attempt to manipulate the results of today’s election is Christian Pope.”

* * *

At 8:40 p.m., the FBI jet touched down at Tampa International Airport. Mac and Wire were both exhausted. They could see it in each other’s eyes. Yet they were both at the ready. For the last week they’d been chasing, non-stop, this case and the man behind it. Now they were going to get the satisfaction of putting the cuffs on him. They knew where he was and federal agents were watching from every direction.

The pilot opened the door and let the steps down. Mac lumbered down the steps after Wire, who’d bounded down them, totally on edge. She wanted justice and was just a few minutes from finally getting it. An agent at the bottom had vests and navy blue FBI windbreakers for them which they both slid on and climbed into the back of a Suburban. Word was out, McRyan and Wire liked their coffee. In the truck’s cup holders were fresh Starbucks coffees. Mac was most grateful, “I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about the bureau.”

“How long to get to Pope’s place?” Wire asked anxiously.

“Twenty minutes.”

“I can’t wait to put this son of a bitch in cuffs,” Wire said to Mac with enthusiastic determination. “I at least can give Sebastian’s mother that. She deserves that.”

* * *

Governor Thomson and Judge Dixon came back into the larger hotel suite to find Shelby and Sally waiting for them. “Unbelievable,” was all he could say as he recapped what he just learned. Then he looked at the Judge, who was not surprised. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Dixon nodded. “Wire told me this morning when she and Mac flew back into town to interrogate Foche.”

“Wait? They were here today?” Sally asked, dumbfounded that Mac had not told her when they spoke in the middle of the day.

“Sally, don’t get upset with your boy. To say Foche’s existence was a tightly held secret would be an understatement,” the Judge answered. “Wire told me about it but said that if Mac found out she did, he’d have probably killed her. He wanted no leaks so he told nobody. Mac was deathly afraid that Foche being alive would come to light and Pope would try to get at him. I think Mac has had enough of looking over his shoulder on this one.”

“This Foche gave them a lot of murders,” Shelby noted.

Dixon snorted, “That was Mac’s idea, I guess. He insisted Foche’s deal include every single body he and this man named Kristoff ever dropped. Mac and Wire are closing cases left and right, not only here in the States, but around the world.”

“So where are they now?” Sally asked. “Are they coming here?”

Governor Thomson looked at his watch. “I think their FBI jet landed in Tampa Bay a few minutes ago,” the governor answered. “They’re going to get Pope.”

“And we’re going to party,” Dixon said with a smile, looking at a text on his cell phone. “Because, Governor, the networks are getting ready to declare you the next president of the United States.”

* * *

The television played inside his office, FOX News declaring Governor Thomson the winner in state after state. The election was moments from being called.

Pope was sitting on his balcony having a post dinner drink when the call came in. He looked at the display on the satellite phone and momentarily questioned whether to take the call. Pope punched the button and said, “Why are you calling me?”

“Foche is alive and gave McRyan and Wire everything on you. Kristoff was shot by your man but the police in turn shot that man and got a dying declaration from Kristoff that you were ‘the Bishop.’ They have the dying declaration on video and Foche confirmed everything. They’re coming for you right now.”

* * *

The FBI set up three blocks away. In addition to the eight agents now watching the house on all four sides, Mac and Wire were meeting up with another twenty agents, as well as four officers from the Clearwater Police Department. The reconnoiter of the mansion revealed a two-man security detail with two house staff inside. The two men on the security detail were strapped with nines but otherwise wouldn’t be a problem, not with twenty agents coming on the property en masse. The FBI’s Local Agent-in-Charge was named McHugh and he didn’t plan anything fancy.

“Ms. Wire, do you have the warrant?”

“Right here.”

“All right then,” McHugh said. “We’ll go up to the gate, present the warrant and get on the property.”

Mac and Wire jumped into a sedan with McHugh and another agent and they drove the three blocks to Pope’s Clearwater estate.

* * *

Pope watched the motorcade come down the street, with police units blocking the road in both directions. He walked across the hall to the back of the house and noticed the Coast Guard cutter sitting off the shoreline.

* * *

The warrant was given to the security guard at the property gate. He read the warrant and opened the gate. McHugh’s driver charged up to the front of the house. Mac and Wire burst out of the backseat of the sedan and followed McHugh who pushed right in the front door. “Christian Pope,” McHugh bellowed. “It’s the FBI, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

A gunshot came from the second story.

“Ah shit,” Mac growled as he jumped up the stairs two at a time, his Sig Sauer drawn. At the top of the steps, Mac turned right down a long hallway, carefully working his way down the hall, Wire right behind him. They found Pope in the last room on the left, sitting in a chair, a revolver sitting on the floor, a gun shot through his mouth and out the back of his head and blood splattered over the glass windows looking out to the Gulf of Mexico.

Mac holstered his gun as he looked at the wound.

In the corner, the television was on the FOX News Channel. Vice President Wellesley was speaking to his supporters, conceding the election to Governor Thomson.

Mac looked away from the television and back to his partner.

Wire, her eyes moist, disgustedly stuffed the warrant into Pope’s dress shirt pocket and muttered, “You got off easy.”

* * *

Within a half hour, an FBI forensics team took over the crime scene and was collecting evidence, not that there was much to take. Pope committed suicide.

Mac didn’t feel any great joy as he watched Governor Thomson accept his victory. A good man had won and Mac hoped he would be a good president. However, as he watched the governor give his victory speech with the excitement of the crowd oozing through the television, he couldn’t help but feel let down.

After expending so much for the last week, to not have the satisfaction of slapping the cuffs on Pope left him feeling unsatisfied. Pope wouldn’t be made to answer for his sins. He took the easy way out. He was pleased the governor won and he knew Sally would be ecstatic. She looked absolutely radiant, standing in the background, beaming a broad smile and pure joy as the governor gave his victory speech. That brought a small smile to his face. He wanted to get back to her.

Thomson finished his victory speech and Mac turned away from the television. To occupy his time, Mac interviewed the house staff, which consisted of two housekeepers, a man and a woman, husband and wife. Their general responsibilities were to look after the estate year around, even when Pope was not around. The woman generally cared for the interior and the man the exterior.

“How did Mr. Pope seem this evening?” Mac asked.

“Fine,” the wife replied. “He requested supper like he normally does when he stays. He’s never real talkative when he’s here but when I brought up his meal and set it on the table outside his office he seemed in good spirits, said good evening and thank you. It was normal.”

“When did he arrive here?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” the husband responded. “He arrived, told us what he would like for dinner and asked us to show in his guest when she arrived.”

“Who was his guest?”

“A woman, a model, I think,” the woman replied. “Her name was Veronica, very pretty and she usually came around when he visited the house here. She stayed for dinner and the night. She was here this morning, they had breakfast and swam in the pool and she left in the middle of the afternoon.”

“And this was normal when he came here?”

“Yes,” the couple replied in unison, nodding their heads.

“And again,” Mac asked, “today everything seemed normal? He didn’t seem down or depressed. He didn’t seem like a man about to take his life?”

They both shook their heads.

“And when did you take his dinner up?” Mac asked the wife.

“About an hour before you arrived.”

“Did you know he kept a gun in the house?”

The housekeepers looked at each other, fear growing in their eyes.

“Relax,” Mac said calmly. “You’re not in any trouble here. Please just answer my question, did you know he kept a gun in the house?”

“Yes,” the husband replied knowingly. “He kept it in his desk in the office.”

Something didn’t add up to Mac. Pope went from a normal evening to committing suicide in the blink of an eye.

He spent the next few minutes wandering the house, looking in the rooms, checking out the furnishings. On the patio, outside a small den on the main level, he found Wire sitting in a patio chair, looking out to the ocean, alone in her thoughts. Pope’s suicide deflated her, denying her the chance for true justice and justice for McCormick’s mother. It didn’t look like she wanted company at the moment and Mac obliged.

As he walked back up to the second floor, he strolled into the home office, which sat next to the master suite where Pope shot himself. The office was spacious, outfitted with a large wood desk, two soft chairs in front of the desk as well as a large sitting area around an ornate coffee table. Other than the bank of tall windows overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, the other walls contained mahogany bookshelves filled with classic books, fine art and worldly trinkets. Mac walked the bookshelves, admiring the fine furnishings.

The desk drew him in. On top of the desk sat a laptop computer and some random papers. The papers mostly consisted of information regarding the elections, with polling data that might as well have come from inside the Wellesley campaign. Mac was certain that in time it would be found that Pope was pouring millions into various Super PACs in addition to his attempts to manipulate the election results. Not that all that mattered much now.

He sat in the desk chair and turned to look out the windows.

Something was gnawing at him.

Did Pope really just see them coming and knew the end was near, or did he know more?

Sitting next to the desk was a briefcase. He picked it up and put it on top of the desk and opened it. “Well lookey here.”

It was a military-grade satellite phone. “Did you get a phone call?” Mac quietly muttered.

Mac walked back downstairs to the housekeeper and her husband. “Did Mr. Pope receive any phone calls in the hour before we arrived?”

“Not on the house phone,” the wife answered. “No calls that way.”

Mac went back up stairs and corralled the forensics team working the bedroom to follow him. “Tag this and let’s get it looked at,” Mac ordered. “It’s a satellite phone. I need to know if he’s been talking to anyone else and, if so, who.”

The tech took out her camera and started taking pictures.

Mac took out his cell phone and punched the number he was looking for. They’d talked twenty minutes ago and it was time for another conversation. The man answered on the second ring: “Director Mitchell. I had a thought …”

* * *

Mac sipped his Vodka Tonic and fell back into his soft leather airplane seat. “We did good, Dara Wire,” Mac said, raising his glass.

“We did at that, Mac McRyan,” Wire replied, returning the toast.

They each took a long sip of their drink and silently thought of the events of the last week.

“I’m just bitter about Pope,” Wire complained after a minute. “I wanted that bastard so bad.”

Mac nodded. “You never know, we might still get some justice,” he said, thinking about the last conversation he’d had with FBI Director Mitchell before he got on the plane. Pope had indeed gotten a phone call. The only question was from whom.

* * *

At a little after 2:00 a.m., Mac pushed his way in the back door of the house and dropped his duffel bag in the laundry room off the back of the kitchen. Despite his three drinks on the plane, he wasn’t ready to be done. In the wine rack on the counter he found a great Pinot Noir. He opened it and poured himself a glass, held it to his nose to breathe in the aroma and took a long satisfying sip, swirled the glass and took another, letting the wine slowly flow down his throat, gently warming his insides. As he set his glass down on the center island, he noticed headlights pulling up in front of the house. Thirty seconds later Sally burst in the back door.

They stood and stared at each other.

“You look so happy,” Mac said with a slight smile. Then his head dropped. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you tonight.”

“You just look … so … tired,” Sally replied sympathetically, but then she smiled. “But I’m so proud of you.”

He smiled tiredly at the compliment. “You know,” Mac said quietly, “four days ago we toasted to life altering events. Then all this happened and we never finished …”

She ran to him and they embraced, kissing each other deeply. He slid her jacket off and tossed it away while pushing her up against the stainless steel refrigerator. He leaned down and kissed her neck while sliding up her skirt and lifting her up. Sally wrapped her thin legs around his waist and moaned as she grinded against him.

He leaned back and pulled open her white silk blouse. He freed her breasts from her bra and dove into them, getting lost in them, breathing her wonderful smell in and reveling in her body’s response to him. He moved his mouth back up to hers, taking her in, kissing her passionately as she ran her hands through his hair. After a minute, Sally let her legs loose of him and pushed him back against the center island. She quickly pulled his v-neck sweater over his head and then kissed him again.

“We should …” Mac panted, “move this … upstairs …”

“Yeah,” Sally gasped, catching her breath, grabbing his hand and dragging him quickly from the kitchen, “… yeah, we should.”

Forty-five minutes later they rested naked on their bed, only covered by the bed sheet. Sally laid her head across his chest, lightly running her fingers over his stomach, tracing around his navel with her right index finger.

They never made it to the bedroom for the first round, giving into each other halfway up the stairway to the second floor. “How the banister held us I’ll never know,” Mac remarked, laughing.

Sally giggled, “That required real trust on my part. My little bare butt was suspended ten feet over the dining room. I could practically reach the chandelier.”

“I work out,” Mac answered confidently. “I had you all the way.”

She turned her face up to his and kissed him lightly. “I know you did. But you know what was even more impressive?”

“What?”

“Your turn around time for round two once we got here to the bed was like what, a minute?”

Mac laughed again, “That was all you, babe. That little twisting maneuver you made with your hips? Oh my God, you have to do that again. Now that was amazing.”

She rolled on top of him and looked him in the eyes. “What a week, huh?”

“What a week,” he replied, running his fingers lightly down her back.

“The Judge offered me a job tonight,” Sally said.

“In the White House?”

“Yes.”

Mac cackled. “Excellent timing, Kennedy. You have me all sexed up and happy and then you spring it on me we’re moving to DC.”

They both laughed happily and then she pecked him lightly on the lips. Then seriously he said: “Congratulations, babe. The White House is an absolutely amazing accomplishment.”

“I was worried about how you would react?” she replied quietly, a little uncertain.

He moved his right hand to her face, holding it lightly, looking her in the eye, smiling, “Honey, I would never deny you this.”

She smiled lightly and kissed him softly, caressing his face with her hands. “I love you.”

“Prove it,” Mac answered, looking her in the eyes. “Prove it all night.”

CHAPTER FORTY

“Justice at last.”

Friday, November 8th

“Go away,” Wire groaned at the ringing of her doorbell. The bell rang again and she pushed herself out of bed. She checked the alarm clock and it was just past 10:00 a.m. Her head was pounding. She quickly grabbed some sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

The funeral for Sebastian was yesterday in St. Paul, a gigantic political affair. It was unavoidable that the service became a political event with speeches by the president, the Judge and other political dignitaries. Those people gave the event a grand levity yet their presence and the size of the crowd attending inside and outside the St. Paul Cathedral seemed to miss the mark in properly celebrating Sebastian’s life. Sebastian’s life was about more than just politics. Politics was the focus of the service and the focus of the eulogies but he meant something entirely different to Wire. He was a friend and confidant. Sebastian helped her off the mat in her darkest hour and it had nothing to do with politics. He was not only a good political operative, but an even better person. Other than the remarks of the Judge, little of that came out in the eulogies. She had walked away from the Cathedral a little let down. The send off didn’t reflect the man.

McRyan must have sensed that as well.

After the funeral, Mac took her, Sally Kennedy and Kate Shelby to his family bar for a small impromptu Irish wake to properly send off Sebastian. The three ladies sat around the table laughing and telling stories about Sebastian while Mac made sure there were plenty of pints of Guinness and Irish Car Bomb shots to go around. That was part of her problem this morning. Between the Irish wake, the three vodka tonics on the long flight home and the two glasses of Chardonnay she drank when she got home, she felt like she’d gone fifteen rounds. Her head hurt, her mouth was dry and she just wanted to stay in her warm bed but the unrelenting ringing of the doorbell pushed her down the stairs.

She angrily opened the front door to find Mac. Wire was dumfounded, “Mac? What the…”

He held up two large Starbucks coffees. “I thought you might need a Bloody Mary and an ice pack but then I thought the better of it and got you coffee instead.” He quickly appraised her condition. “I definitely think I made the right call.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked as she waved him inside.

“I have a present for you,” Mac answered as he walked in, handing her the coffee as he passed by.

“A present?”

“Yeah, but to see it you have to change clothes,” he said. “We have a meeting at the Hoover Building with FBI Director Mitchell.”

An hour later, Mac and Wire were admitted to Director Mitchell’s office. Mac didn’t tell Wire what the meeting was about other than she would want to come and it would make her day.

“Dara,” the director began. “After Christian Pope killed himself, your partner here thought something was off.”

Wire looked at McRyan, who’d never said anything about it to her. “Did he now?”

Mac shrugged, “Call it a hunch. You didn’t get to slap the cuffs on Pope and were pretty disappointed. I didn’t want to say anything about this unless it amounted to something.”

“And it amounted to something?” Wire asked, looking over to the director.

“It did. McRyan here found a satellite phone in Pope’s office which he had us check. It turns out that about fifteen to twenty minutes before you arrived at Pope’s house and perhaps minutes after I gave my briefing to the president and the campaigns about the impending arrest of Pope, Mr. Pope got a phone call from someone. We were able to trace the call.” Mitchell maneuvered his mouse. “The call was made from a burner phone, this burner phone,” the director said, holding up an evidence bag. “It was made from the lobby of the Hay Adams Hotel. We found the burner phone in the garbage can. We were able to lift prints and we also were able to get video of its use. Let me show you who spoke on it and then threw it in there after calling Pope.”

The director played the surveillance tape.

Mac smiled, knowing what was coming.

Wire watched and then her eyes went wide, “No way.”

The FBI director smiled and reached inside his desk for an FBI badge, “Dara, how would you like to be temporarily reinstated for the day?”

* * *

Mac leaned back against the FBI sedan with his arms folded while he watched Wire and two other FBI agents arrest the vice president’s son, Donald Wellesley Jr., on the steps of his Georgetown condominium. The weasel had once cost Wire an undercover informant and then her FBI career. He’d denied Wire the satisfaction of arresting the man who had been responsible for Sebastian McCormick’s death. However, she got the last laugh, arresting him for the phone call to Pope. Donald Wellesley Jr. would be going to jail.

Wire put the cuffs on and walked Wellesley to the FBI sedan as the media, tipped in advance, filmed the spectacle.

After putting Wellesley down into the FBI Suburban, Wire slowly walked back to Mac, a satisfied grin on her face. “You are full of surprises, Mac McRyan.”

“Nah,” he answered, shaking his head. “I do believe in karma though. The douche finally got what he deserved.”

Wire nodded. “Thank you for this, Mac.”

“Justice at last,” Mac said, holding up his coffee cup.

“Justice at last.”

BOOKS BY ROGER STELLJES

www.RogerStelljes.com

FIRST CASE

THE ST. PAUL CONSPIRACY

DEADLY STILLWATER

FIRST DEADLY CONSPIRACY - Special Edition Three Book Box Set

ELECTING TO MURDER

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