Deadly Stillwater (13 page)

“He knocked on all the doors before you fellows got here. Only one person was home, and he didn’t see anything, said he was watching the Twins game. I’ve got another one of my men surveying the perimeter of the park and the nearby streets to see if a pedestrian saw anything.”

“I know the answer to this question,” Mac said. “I don’t suppose there’s any surveillance cameras, anything like that around here is there?”

Kleist smiled apologetically and shook his head.

“Nope. Don’t have the budget for it or the need really. Big night for us might be a fight at the bar, a little speeding or drunk driving, a domestic.”

“So if a guy makes a call here,” Mac waved around the area, “and then wanted to leave town, how would he do it?”

Kleist rubbed his nose hard again, and Mac noticed it was redder along the right side. The rubbing must be a frequent nervous tic.

“Oh, a guy would have a couple of ways to go I suppose.” The cop pointed northeast, “He could go back up 63 and get onto 94 and head back the way you boys came.”

“Or?” Mac asked.

“If a feller wanted a more scenic trip, he’d probably go southeast, out along 63 until it finds 10 over yonder, which would take him west to Prescott.” He rubbed the nose again, “or stay south on 63 until he got to Red Wing. In any event, he’d have plenty of….”

“Options,” Mac replied, shaking his head. “We know.”

The chief was called away by one of his men.

Lich didn’t miss a beat. “He said, ‘yonder.’”

“‘Feller,’ too,” Mac added. “I love small-town folks.” He shut up as Kleist headed back.

“I think I got something you boys might be interested in,” he said. An Ellsworth patrol car pulled up with an elderly man in the back seat, along with a golden retriever. The uniform cop got out and let the man and dog out. The dog came right up to Mac.

“Hey there buddy,” Mac said, kneeling down to scratch the pooch behind the ears.

“Explain,” Kleist said to the uniform cop.

“Henry here,” the uniform said, pointing to the old man, dressed in a striped short-sleeved shirt, plaid shorts, and dark socks, “said he was sitting on a park bench across the street about an hour ago, and… well….” The uniform pointed to the old man. “Tell them, Henry.”

“I was sitting on the bench over there.” The old man pointed kitty-corner from the gas station to an old bench with “Ellsworth Lions Club” painted on it in fading letters. “I was taking a rest with Reggie here.” The old man rubbed the dog’s head. “Anyways, I saw this blue sedan pull into that old gas station and park by the pay phone.”

“When was this?”

Henry pulled out a tarnished gold pocket watch and flipped the top open.

“Oh 7:30, 7:40 or so. Sometime around then.” Mac and Lich exchanged a look.

“What kind of car, Henry?” Mac asked.

“Chevy I think, one of them new ones, what do they call them, Impalas? I’ve never owned one myself; I’m a Ford man….”

“See a license plate number?” Mac interrupted.

“I know the letters because they were odd. They spelled ‘cat,’ I think.”

“Cat? You mean the letters were C-A-T?”

“That’s right,” the old man replied, his glasses sliding down his nose as he nodded. “And it was a Minnesota plate, had the blue color and them pine trees.”

“I’m going to call it in,” Lich said, pulling out his cell phone. Mac continued.

“How about the driver, you get a look at him?”

“Not a good one,” the old man said.

“Black or white? Blonde hair or dark hair? McRyan pressed. “Anything like that?”

“White, I think,” the old man answered. “I think he had a baseball cap on, but other than that, I didn’t really notice anything.”

“And you were sitting on the park bench across the street?”

“That’s right young man, right over there. We come through here just about every night at this time.”

“Let’s walk over there, okay? You can bring Reggie along.”

“Okey dokey,” Henry replied and with his slow gait he followed Mac across the street and away from the abandoned gas station. At the bench, Mac stopped.

“Henry, right?”

The old man nodded, “Henry Finkey.”

“My name’s McRyan, I’m a detective from St. Paul.”

“You’re a Minnesota boy, eh?” Henry replied, mischief in his voice. “I can’t stand them Vikings. You a Vikings fan?”

“I am Henry, I am. They’re going to kick the Pack’s tail this year,” Mac replied, sitting down next to the old man and petting Reggie’s snout.

“We’ll see about that,” Henry answered. “So what’s this all about?”

“I can’t really tell you why this is important, or least not yet sir,” Mac answered.

“Does this have something to do with those girls being kidnapped? I figure that must be it. No other reason for a St. Paul cop to be here in little ol’ Ellsworth.”

Mac remained neutral.

“Like I said, I can’t say. What I need though is for you to walk me through it again, what you saw. Take a minute if you need, close your eyes, whatever, but I need to know everything.

Henry set himself on the park bench, leaned back, and thought for a minute.

“I was out taking my nightly walk with Reggie. We go for a good hour or two walk every night in the summer.”

“Okay.”

“We usually walk through the park each night, and I like to sit on this bench. This used to be a nice park when I was a kid. I like to just sit and remember good times here.”

“So you’re on your walk and you come to the park and sit down?” Mac asked, moving him along.

“That’s right, son. I let Reggie off his leash, and he was walking around, doing a little business on some trees, when I noticed the car pull in off the street and up to the phone.”

“Then what?”

“Well,” Henry stroked his chin and squinted. “Well nothing happened for a minute or two, maybe more. He just sat there idling, which I thought was little odd, I suppose. It caused me to look a little closer I guess. I noticed the car, the plate – you know C-A-T and Minnesota – and then I looked away and back to Reggie. He was getting a little far away, so I called to him. He didn’t come right away, so I had to yell after him a couple of times before he minded and came back to me.”

“Then what?”

“I put Reggie’s leash back on.”

“How long did all that take?”

“A minute or two I suppose.”

“And the car was still there?”

“Sure was, but now the guy in the car was using the phone. I could see the cord from the phone running into the car.”

“How long was he on the phone?”

“Not long. I didn’t time it or anything, but it wasn’t real long. Then he hung up and pulled on out and he was gone.”

“Henry, did you notice anything about the driver? Anything about him?

Henry closed his eyes for thirty seconds but shook his head.

“I’m sorry but I just didn’t get a look or notice anything, son. I just didn’t.” The old man look disappointed.

Mac patted him on the knee.

“Good job, Henry. You’ve helped us out.”

Lich and Kleist came running across the street, Lich smiling.

“We got a hit!” he called.

“Stolen vehicle, right? Mac asked.

“No,” Lich replied, pulling Mac away from Henry. “No report of it being stolen. There’s one navy blue Impala with the tag letters of CAT.”

“And you’re telling me there’s a connection,” Mac said.

“Yes.” Lich said. “Dead on the money.”

11

“
Something’s going on here.”

A 2006 Chevy Impala with license tag CAT was a fleet vehicle belonging to Drew Wiskowski Construction in Cottage Grove. The connection was Drew Wiskowski, Sr.

Wiskowski had come to St. Paul thirty years ago from the south side of Chicago, and he brought with him the sort of no-hold-barred approach to business characteristic of that notorious neighborhood. Wiskowski made his fortune in construction, but it wasn’t always pretty. There were disputes with competitors, and Wiskowski wasn’t shy about using a little force, corruption, and intimidation to get ahead. He had more than one run-in with the authorities and building inspectors in his early days. However, once he made his pile and could afford his estate on the river down by Hastings, he went low-profile and let his money pile up while quietly building reputable homes and commercial buildings in Minnesota and the rest of the Upper Midwest.

Unfortunately, four years ago the long-dormant Wiskowski name came alive again. This time it was Drew Jr. who turned up in St. Paul running a home-improvement business. He was using the old man’s name, but Drew Sr. was not involved in the business; it was owned solely by his son. And the son appeared to be taking a page from the early years of his old man’s playbook.

A powerful thunderstorm with straight-line winds rolled through town, damaging roofs and siding and blowing out windows. The storm hit some of St. Paul’s Hmong neighborhoods particularly hard. Drew Jr. swooped in and marketed his home-repair business hard in those areas. The damaged houses needed new siding and shingles. Wiskowski low balled all of the other contractors and consumed all of the business. Many of the Hmong folks didn’t speak or understand English well, so Wiskowski said he’d work with their insurance companies directly, handling everything if they’d just sign over the insurance check to his company. The result was predictable. Drew Jr. defrauded the homeowners and did substandard work on their homes, if any work was done at all.

Drew Jr. may have profited, but he underestimated the Hmong community. They went to the police, and the story made its way to the chief, who made it his personal mission to go after Drew Jr. Lyman was originally Drew Junior’s lawyer, since he was on retainer with the old man. But Lyman knew right away it was a bad case – the kid was a swindler, and that he wanted no part of it. Lyman found a way out of the case, and Drew Jr.’s defense was eventually handled by a lesser lawyer. The younger Wiskowski ended up with six years in Stillwater state prison.

“That was four years ago,” Lich said as Mac sped across the Interstate 94 over the St. Croix River and into Minnesota.

“So he’s coming after the chief and Lyman. An eye for an eye then, their daughters for his son. It makes some sense in a warped mind sort of way. How did Junior buy the farm in prison?”

“Apparently,” Lich said, “the kid was an operator inside, and went a little too far. Two months ago a fellow inmate on a life sentence shoved a shiv up his rectum, and Drew Jr. bled out.”

“Ouch,” Mac said grimacing.

“Not my preferred way to go either. Anyway, the old man and his other son went batshit in an interview on the radio.”

“Ahh, I remember hearing about that,” Mac replied, swerving through traffic.

“Yeah. He blamed the chief and the police for his kid’s death, claiming his kid never did anything wrong. He specifically ripped Lyman a new one because he withdrew from the case, claiming his old friend turned his back on him when he was most in need. He ripped the department because his other son was busted for pot possession after Drew Jr. ended up in the can, and Wiskowski claims it was a frame. So he’s got plenty of bile built up for us. And there’s one other thing.”

“Which is what?”

“Drew Sr. has cancer – terminal,” Lich said. “He found out maybe a month ago, and he’s going fast.”

“So what’s he got to lose?” Mac fished. “Take a last shot at the men you think are responsible for the death of your son before you’re six feet under.”

“Or so the theory would go,” Lich said agreeable.

“It’s a good theory,” Mac answered. “Wiskowski is smart, wealthy enough to hire people willing to help him, he’s got the motivation, and he doesn’t care what happens to him.” He thought about it for another minute and then said gravely. “If he doesn’t care, that may not bode well for the girls.”

“Agreed,” Dick answered. “We gotta move fast on this.”

“Then I assume they’re bringing the old man in?”

“As we speak. There’s a convoy coming up 61 now from Cottage Grove. Riley, Rock, Burton, and Duffy all went down and are bringing Ol’ Drew back up right now. We just might beat them there.”

The distance lit up brightly with multiple lightening strikes as Mac pulled into the police department parking lot.

“With this storm and Wiskowski coming in, we’re going to get thunder, lightning, and fireworks all at the same time,” Lich said with amusement.

He couldn’t have been more right. As Mac and Lich jumped out of the Explorer, the convoy carrying Wiskowski arrived, four cars strong.

“No, no, no,” Mac groaned as the convoy stopped at the steps, right where the newsies were waiting. The media had clearly gotten wind of the Wiskowski connection and descended on the convoy like locusts. “They should have gone in the back.”

“This should be interesting,” Lich mused. “Let’s hold back and let them get in. Besides, you should let Riles and Rock have some media time. We’re all sick of seeing your handsome mug on TV anyway.”