Deadly Stillwater (28 page)

As Heather entered from the back, she found a large bar beneath dark-paneled walls covered with framed sports jerseys and newspaper clippings, souvenirs of the Twins ’87 and ’91 World Series victories and recent Minnesota Gopher hockey national championships. In the dim lighting, she noted pool tables and dartboards in a segregated area to her immediate right. Straight ahead, a short hallway led to the main bar area where booths and tables surrounded a long, four-sided mahogany bar. In the far right corner, karaoke was going strong with an
American Idol
wannabe belting out Eddie Money’s “
Shakin
” – badly.

Heather picked her way around two sides of the main bar before spotting Burton, who was sitting in a booth, talking to another man. She grabbed an open bar stool, three from the corner nearest to Burton, and sat down.

The bartender appeared instantly, a good-looking, six-foot, black-haired early twenty-something in a tight black Ranger T-shirt, which showed his chiseled upper body. “What can I get ya’, darlin’?” he said with a bright white smile.

Darlin’? He was cheesy for sure, but definitely cute. “You know what a Vodka Sonic is?”

“Sure darlin’. Vodka, club soda, splash of tonic, and a lemon. We call it a Jolly Roger around here.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Vodka Sonic for the pretty lady it is,” the bartender replied, strolling off to mix the drink.

Heather alternately looked at a table tent menu with nightly specials and toward Burton, still deep in conversation with the other man, who was perhaps a little shorter. The man had short black hair, slightly graying at the temples. His profile revealed a large nose with a knot two-thirds of the way up, where it had been broken before. Both men had a beer in front of them, one-third finished, along with a bowl of popcorn. They leaned in close as they talked, their hands crossed in front of them.

* * * * *

“So where is the investigation at?” Smith asked, taking a pull off of his Budweiser.

“We’re good,” Burton answered, hat pulled down low. He ignored his Miller High Life and cautiously peered around the jam-packed bar, trying to determine if anyone was watching or looking in their direction. He wasn’t comfortable meeting in this environment, but Smith insisted and he was the one pulling the strings. “The discovery of the house today actually worked to your advantage.”

“How so?” Smith asked with raised eyebrows.

“Besides the obvious, which is that we didn’t find anything to identify you, it means that the best St. Paul has to offer are sitting on the house right now. It’s the only break the case has had, so they’re lying in wait, hoping you’ll come back.”

“Which means they’re wasting their time and not looking for us,” Smith answered, smiling, taking another hit off the beer. He was so happy, he was thinking of ordering another.

“And that’s a good thing,” Burton said. “These guys aren’t bad, particularly this McRyan character.”

“Now that name’s familiar,” Smith answered. “Why do I know that name?”

“Let me tell you why,” Burton took a sip of his beer. “You were still in the can at the time, but last winter the St. Paul police took down a crew of ex-CIA guys running security at Peterson Technical Applications, you know, PTA, in St. Paul. This McRyan was the main guy in all that, figured it out, broke the case wide open, and chased the guy behind it through downtown. He put him down in the RiverCentre Parking Ramp.”

I saw a TV report on that,” Smith answered. “Shootout in downtown. Arms sales and stuff like that.”

“That’s it,” Burton replied, taking a couple of kernels of popcorn out of the basket. “Anyway, this kid’s a pretty good cop. He’s fourth generation. I knew his old man,” Smith said, nodding his head.

“As well you should,” Burton added. “Simon was a hell of a cop, one of the best local cops I ever saw. His son is a chip off the old block for sure, scary smart and just tenacious as hell.”

“Tenacious?”

Burton related the argument about releasing the video to local authorities and the mayor and Duffy’s objections. “He didn’t back down one bit. He’s essentially calling the mayor, his boss I might add, an idiot and political hack in front of a room of cops and agents. He was one hundred percent right and wouldn’t back down until he got his way.”

“What lets him get away with that?” Smith asked, stunned.

“I’m not totally sure. If I had to guess, at least part of it is his DNA. Word is he’s never, ever, backed down from anything. On that arms sales thing, he was repeatedly told to leave it alone, but didn’t. Hell, he wouldn’t, and he brought that thing home. If he thinks he’s right, he won’t stop.”

“He’ll end up on the street if he keeps doing that.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think he worries about it. He’s got money.”

“How? He’s just a cop.”

“It’s not widely known, even within his department, but he invested ten grand about five or six years ago with two old high school friends in a coffee business, the Grand Brew. You’ve seen them around town haven’t you?”

Smith nodded.

“Well, that little enterprise is up to nearly thirty shops, with more on the way, and McRyan has a piece of that action, gets a check every so often. When that little business goes public or gets bought by a bigger corporation a few years from now, he’ll be a multi-millionaire. It gives him a certain freedom to say what he thinks and do what he wants. He doesn’t have to worry about whether he can make the mortgage payment.”

“Tenacious and he’s going to be rich, which is good for him. But what makes him like the old man? What makes him someone we should be worrying about? I mean he can’t be that old? What, early thirties?”

“Thirty-three to be exact.” Burton snorted and shook his head, “You haven’t seen him in action. Let me tell you a little about him.” The agent pulled out a paper-clipped set of papers out of his pocket. “I got myself a look at his personnel file. Honors graduate of the University of Minnesota and William Mitchell College of Law, second in his class. His college entrance exams and LSAT to get into law school were off the charts. The guy is brilliant.”

“Why did he become a cop, then?”

“He’s fourth generation. Two of his best friends growing up were two cousins, Peter and Thomas McRyan. Apparently, the three were tight and all planned on becoming cops. But Mac has the college grades, marries a smart and pretty girl, and they both head off to law school, graduate with high honors, and line up the six-figure jobs after graduation.”

“Still doesn’t answer my question. Why the cop bit?”

“Two weeks after he takes the bar exam, his two cousins die in the line of duty, and he feels the calling of the family business. That was eight years ago. He trashed a legal career where he’d probably have made a big pile of money and blew his marriage because the wife didn’t like him being a cop, all to take up the family business. I guess he felt obligated.”

“So in eight years, he’s the best St. Paul has? I bet the veterans love that.”

“It’s an interesting dynamic for sure, but from what I’ve seen the vets roll with it pretty well. You can tell they all know he’s the smarter one in the room. Plus he’s a McRyan, a name that means something around here. These guys – Riley, this big guy Rockford, and fat Lich – all try keeping him just enough in line to stay employed, but then run interference for him so he can do his thing.”

“Sharp, then,” Smith acknowledged.

“Damn straight,” Burton answered, taking a pull from his beer. “He knew the safe house was the safe house five minutes after he got there. Long before they got into the house to look around.”

“What told him that?”

“Gut. Instinct. He just knew it was the place. He said he could feel it. Cops like that scare the shit out of me. They see what you don’t want them to see.” Burton took a last pull from his High Life. “I feel much better knowing I got McRyan sitting still.” Burton finished the popcorn, picking out one piece at a time and popping them into his mouth. “So tell me about the plan for tomorrow.”

“The call will come in at 6:00 PM….”

* * * * *

Heather nursed her drink, a small amount of the diluted, yet refreshing liquid remaining amongst the melting ice cubes and squeezed lemon. She looked at her watch, 1:22 AM, and the bar was still going strong. The crowd was whoopin’ it up, including the woman strangling a cat in the corner, or maybe she was just singing karaoke.

Burton was still in the booth and had been talking for over half an hour with the other man. Heather had only seen his profile, except for now. The man looked her direction just briefly and then turned away and back to Burton. The conversation was equal at first, but now the other man was doing most of the talking, counting off on his fingers while Burton nodded along, only occasionally speaking.

“You want another drink darlin’?” the cute bartender was back.

Heather learned that his name was Skeet, which couldn’t possibly be his real name. She contemplated the offer, the first drink having tasted so good. “Sure. Easy on the vodka though.”

“Anything for you darlin’,” Skeet answered, giving her his big cheesy smile and a wink as he started to mix the drink in front of her. Heather smiled inwardly and chatted with the bartender while he poured. This guy was working her, and he thought he was closing the deal, which was the funny part. Skeet put the drink in front of her, smiled again and moved away, beckoned by a loud crowd demanding Kamikazes on the other side of the bar.

The reporter took a small sip of her fresh drink and casually turned her gaze over to the right. Both men were gone.

24

“
Did you ever see Forrest Gump?”

WEDNESDAY, THE FOURTH OF JULY

1:28 AM

Mac, Lich, Peters, and Sally waited at the security guard station of the World Trade Center Tower in downtown St. Paul. Lich chit-chatted the men working the desk, who were retired suburban cops. The three men discussed pensions, benefits, and divorces; as it turned out, all of them had one. Dick got on a roll, causing hoots and howls with stories about getting cleaned out by his ex-wives. Mac’s partner was looking at possible retirement, at least early retirement, in a few years and frequently worked his numbers, figuring what he would have to live on. Dick would have to work long past age sixty-five, whether it be at a security desk or taking up Shamus’ long-standing offer to tend bar at the Pub.

All of the men looked up as Summer Plantagenate pushed through the interior glass doors. Stressed and tired, with bags under her eyes, the tall, thin lawyer arrived with her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing a zip-up gray nylon sweatshirt, white jogging shorts, and running shoes. The last two days had been hard on Lyman’s protégé, and she answered on the first ring when Mac called. Unable to sleep, she welcomed the chance to do anything to help. Summer led them to a bank of elevators for floors twenty-eight through thirty-seven.

Hisle & Brown occupied the entire thirty-seventh floor. The firm resided in ornate offices, their dark-paneled walls appointed with fine paintings and impressive statues. In the spacious lobby, a waterfall separated the reception desk from the leather chairs and sofas of the waiting area. The offices proved to be a powerful aphrodisiac when enticing clients or lawyers to join the firm.

Summer led them through the lobby, past the reception desk and into a large interior room. It was a training room, with a bank of six computers set along one wall, a mahogany conference table surrounded by high-backed black leather chairs in the center, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the other wall, stocked with reference materials, legal reports, and treatises. On one end wall, cherry cabinet doors opened to reveal a large screen television on the left and a whiteboard to the right.

“We can set up shop in here,” Summer said. “We can use all these computers to access our system and the conference table to look through the paper files.”

“Are your other people on the way in?” Peters asked.

“Yes. I’ve got three of our civil lawyers, a paralegal, and two secretaries on the way – all people who’ve been here for years. They all love Lyman and would do anything for him.”

“Good, we’ll need them all, and Sally can help, too. The guy we’re going to have run the computer part of this should be here any time,” Mac answered and then looked to Peters. “You better get Scheifelbein back over to HQ.”

“I’m on it,” Peters answered, pulling out his cell phone and walking out of the room. Lich followed as his cell phone started chiming.

“Why do you need a computer guy here?” Summer asked, grabbing Mac’s arm. “Can’t you just have a guy run it from your place?”

“Problem is,” Mac said, looking around the room quickly and then back to Summer, “we think someone might be working this from the inside.” Mac explained their theory, Sally nodding along. Plantagenate was stunned.

“They could have… been… gaming this thing from the get go.” She put her hand over her mouth, astonished.

Summer nodded. “Do we tell the rest of my people coming?”

“Let’s not if we don’t have to,” Mac cautioned. “I want to keep this part of it quiet for now.”