Deadly Stillwater (42 page)

“That’s the Super Bowl that was at the Metrodome,” Mac said, scratching his head. “He must have bet heavy on the Buffalo Bills and they got smoked by the Redskins.”

Mac rubbed his bottom lip with his index finger, Burton was in town in February and March of 1992, working drug cases. Both men worked for federal law enforcement out of the Twin Cities at that time. It wouldn’t be that unusual for them to cross paths. Besides, what motivation could Burton possibly have for helping Brown? Even better, what leverage could Brown possibly have to make Burton put his career and life in jeopardy?

“Take a look at Brown’s file again. When did he go to trial and get sentenced?”

Sally looked to Hagen, who found the record and opened it. Sally put her finger to the screen and read down. “Brown went to trial in December of 1992 and was sentenced to fifteen years, which started immediately. He was released this past December.”

Mac thought for a minute, “Sally what does the FBI file say with regard to Brown’s case?”

Sally looked to Hagen and Jupiter, who were opening FBI files, going way beyond what little authority they had, but none of them blinked an eye. After a minute, Hagen said, “Here it is.”

“Hang on Mac. I’m scrolling through it.” It took Sally a few minutes to read through the case summary. As she read the last paragraph she muttered, “Oh my God.”

“What?” Mac asked, hearing her.

“Mac, listen to this, I’m reading from a final report on Brown’s case. ‘Brown sold cocaine with a street value of slightly over $300,000, yet his gambling debts were only $150,000 and there were no financial records for Agent Brown and his spouse that account for the other $150,000. Agent Brown claims to have sold it at a low price, so as to move it quickly and quietly and pay off his debt to his bookmaker. It is possible that Brown took the other half of the money and placed it into a bank account. We have been unable to unearth any records that would support such a transaction. Instead, it is suspected that others may have been involved with Agent Brown. Agent Brown has denied this, despite repeated questioning and offers of a reduced sentence in return for the identification of any accomplices. At this time, there is no evidence pointing to any specific accomplices. In light of this, we consider this matter closed unless Agent Brown chooses to cooperate.’ Mac what if….”

“Burton was the accomplice,” Mac finished for her. It was a stretch, a big one, but it was also plausible. “It’s a big leap, but I can see it. Brown gets out, wants payback, and look who the FBI’s top kidnapping gun is? His old partner in crime, John Burton. So either Burton helps him because he’s his old friend or Brown holds it over his head, threatening to expose him if he doesn’t. However it goes down, he’s had Burton working this thing from the inside, and that mother fucker walks the chief and Lyman right into his hands. It’s possible.”

“Maybe, Mac,” Sally said. “We’re just inferring here. There is nothing in the records that we have that show that Burton was even under suspicion. Burton’s file does not mention the Brown case at all.”

“Nevertheless, Burton worked here at the time, and on drug cases. The timeline works.”

“But how can you know?” Sally said. “This isn’t much to go on.”

“See if he’s been in town lately,” Mac answered. “I’m calling Riley.”

* * * * *

Rock pulled the pictures out of the manila folder, handing them to Foxx. “Is this the guy you saw last night?”

Heather looked through the photos and stopped on one with a left-profile shot of an older man. She leaned back against Rockford’s truck, closed her eyes, and thought back to the night before. The nose looked right, and the graying hair at the temples. The jaw line, the nose, it all looked right. “That’s the guy. Who is he?”

“Heather, your deal just got better. A lot better,” Riles said, but he wasn’t smiling. “But you have to sit on the story now. That guy is named Smith Brown. We’re pretty sure he is the man behind the kidnappings.”

It was Foxx’s turn to be stunned. “Oh my… my… God,” Heather stammered, putting her hands to her throat. “If I’d only said something before now….”

Rock waved her off. “No way you could have known, sister.”

“And Burton’s been sabotaging the investigation from the inside,” Heather breathed.

“Looks like it. You’ve done good, real good, Heather. We appreciate it, we really do.” Riles reached for his cell phone, which was already ringing. “It’s as if the mother fucker reads my mind or something.”

“What?” Rock said.

“It’s Mac,” Riles replied, hitting the answer button. “Listen Mac….”

“It might be Burton, Riles. It’s really a stretch, but I can manufacture a scenario in which that mother fucker has been playing us all along.”

“God, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Figure this out, especially from where you are?”

Mac explained Sally’s investigation. “I know its weak, but….”

“It’s not weak. As a matter of fact it’s dead on the nuts,” Riles said, his turn to spring a surprise on Mac. He told him about Foxx’s trip the night before.

“Holy shit,” Mac said. His phone beeped. It was Sally. “Pat hang on,” he said and switched lines. “What do you got?”

“Burton’s been to town three times in the last four months,” Sally exclaimed. “His last trip in was three weeks ago. Five days – he came on a Wednesday and flew out on a Sunday night.” It was at about the time Smith and Monica showed up in Osseo to meet with Dean and David. It was all coming together. “Great work, babe,” he said and switched back to Riles to report the new information.

“It’s him Mac. He’s the source,” Riles said. “He has to be.”

“That’s enough for us to move,” Mac said. “Tell Heather we owe her.”

“She knows. I’ve struck a deal with her, and you’re the bargain, Mac.”

“No problem. But listen, we don’t have much time,” Mac said. His voice went cold. “You two know what needs to be done.”

“With fuckin’ pleasure,” Riles answered, looking over at Rock, who was punching his fist into the palm of his hand. “With fuckin’ pleasure.”

36

“
Right during the rockets’ red glare.”

“Take the Highway 95 exit and drive north toward Stillwater,” Smith ordered, still five hundred yards behind. He’d driven them around the Twin Cities for the last hour and a half, tailing them all the way. Monica had been even further back in a different vehicle, watching Smith’s back and looking for anyone tailing him. When it was apparent that the police were nowhere to be found, Monica went ahead to the boat. At 7:56, noting the sun’s decline in the west, Smith started them on the final drive east on Interstate 94.

Now it was 8:21 PM, and the red minivan wove its way through the small town of Bayport, the St. Croix River occasionally visible to the east down city streets. The van passed a bank and then a retirement home on the left, clearing the town proper. The road ahead was clear. “Past the entrance to the window plant, take a right down the dirt road.”

Flanagan, who was driving, did as he was ordered, turning right and driving slowly down the dirt road. “Stop at the dock. Do not get out of the van.” The van pulled to a stop at the dock.

Smith pulled up twenty feet behind the red minivan, Monica was already out of her car and approaching the front of the minivan, pointing a small 9mm. Dean stood at the end of the dock while David approached the van. The brothers wore blue nylon sweat tops with the zippers opened, revealing holstered .45s. Monica stopped five feet short of the driver’s side door and threw two sets of disposable handcuffs into the car. “Put those around your wrists.” Both men did as they were ordered and held their hands up to show compliance. “Get out,” Monica ordered.

Flanagan and Hisle did as they were told, awkwardly reaching down to open the van doors with their bound hands and stepping out of the van. David pushed Hisle around the front. Smith finally made his appearance, getting out of his van and approaching Hisle and Flanagan from behind, a .45 in his hand. “Hello, Chief.”

Flanagan turned and recognized Brown immediately, “Smith Brown.”

“You know this man?” Hisle asked quietly, glancing sideways at the chief for effect.

“He does, Mr. Hisle,” Smith answered in a mocking tone. “He needlessly put me in jail sixteen years ago.”

“Needless my ass,” Flanagan retorted, never taking his eyes off Brown. “You got what you deserved.” The chief looked over to Hisle. “He was ex-DEA, a cop, and he was dirty.
That’s
why I remember him. He was dipping his bill in the company stash and putting it back on the street.”

“Once,” Smith said, the anger flashing in his eyes. “I did it once. I did it to take care of debts.”

“Gambling debts. And you did it one time that we knew about,” was Flanagan’s acid reply.

“You sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Smith growled, punching Flanagan in the stomach and sending him groaning and coughing to the ground. “I did it once. One fucking time! You could have looked the other way. I said I’d resign, walk away from the job.” Smith stood over the chief. “I had a wife, a sick daughter. If you’d looked the other way, I wouldn’t have done fifteen years, I wouldn’t have lost my wife. My daughter might have lived.”

“You’re pinning your daughter’s death on the wrong man,” Flanagan coughed, pushing himself up to his knees, “If anyone’s responsible, it’s you, not me.”

Smith kicked Flanagan in the side, “It was you. You killed her, and now you’ll pay.”

“With money?” Flanagan answered, coughing and spitting, “Figures.”

“No,” Smith replied, backing away. “With your life. You and the counselor here.”

“What’s Hisle got to do with this?” Flanagan croaked, still trying to get his breath.

“So does the name Thomas Mueller mean anything to you?” Monica asked Hisle, standing back, calm.

Hisle nodded. “TOM Trucking.”

“Good memory,” the woman replied. “You took that case for those bitches. They lied about my father, calling him a pervert, making the jury look at him that way, having the newspapers report about him in that way.”

“I offered to settle it,” Lyman said simply. “He should have settled.”

Monica would have none of it. “You shouldn’t have sued him to begin with. You ruined him. He lost everything.
Everything.
You drove him to put that gun in his mouth.” Monica glared at Hisle. “Now it’s your turn.”

Lyman looked resigned to his fate. He wasn’t going to plead for his life. “Fine, you all have grudges to settle with Flanagan and me. Fine, settle them then. Do what you’re gonna do. But what about the girls? Why hurt our girls?”

“The girls get us you, and they get us money, blood money,” Monica said coldly.

“But what about our daughters? They did nothing to you, nothing,” Flanagan pleaded, still on the ground, but now up on all fours. “We’re the ones you want.
Let them go
.”

“And quickly,” Hisle added, pleading, begging. “My daughter is diabetic. She’s in danger now, every minute counts for her.”

“Just make the call,” Flanagan added. “You have us. You have what you want. Let them go.”

“When we’re done.” Smith answered harshly, waving to the dock. “Get on the fuckin’ boat.” Then to David he said, “Grab the bags out of the van.”

Flanagan picked himself up, spat, and followed Hisle down a short flight of rickety wood steps and onto the old, weathered pier. The large river cruiser was tied at the end, its bow pointing out of the channel and into the river, which was visible through the end of a narrow, tree-lined channel to the right. A small box was placed at the boat’s side, allowing Hisle and the chief to climb on board. “Go down the companionway,” Smith ordered, “and into the bathroom.”

* * * * *

“You think they’ll even let the girls go, Charlie?” Hisle asked once the door was closed. He was leaning against the wall, his hands bound and clasped at his waistline.

“I don’t know,” Flanagan replied as he sat on top of the vanity He winced as he used the inside of his right forearm to lightly feel his ribs where he’d been kicked. He was having some trouble breathing. Leaning back, taking small breaths, he said, “I just don’t know. The look in Smith’s eyes scared me.”

“I saw it too,” Hisle replied and then snorted. “I guess we both really pissed them off, huh?” Lyman lifted Flanagan’s shirt up to inspect his ribs while the chief held up his bound arms.

“I suppose we did,” Flanagan said and winced as he tried to take in a deeper breath. “Bastard broke my ribs.”

“I suspect he did. He kicked you good,” Lyman added and then sighed. “So where do you thing we’re going.”

“You know the river better than me. What do you think?”

Hisle leaned against the wall and thought for a moment. “I’d suspect we’re going north.”

“Why?”

“Less boat traffic up that way, north of Stillwater, up toward the rail bridge maybe.”

“There’s a lot of boats on the river, aren’t there?”

“Yeah. There will be a big fireworks display in about….” Hisle looked at his watch, “an hour or so.”