Deadly Stillwater Read online

  Deadly Stillwater

  Roger Stelljes

  Deadly Stillwater

  Roger Stelljes

  1

  “ Fifteen Seconds”

  SUNDAY, JULY 1ST

  Dictionary definitions vary, but “retribution” is typically defined as punishment imposed for purposes of repayment or revenge for the wrong committed. For Smith, retribution simply meant payback. He’d waited sixteen years for it, and now he was three hours away from starting to get it.

  Smith turned the panel van left into the alley and pulled three-quarters of the way down toward Western Avenue. He stopped and then backed in behind a small office building housing an accounting office with a storefront facing Western. From this position, the back of the cafe was visible at a forty-five-degree angle to the right. Smith had watched the area and this parking spot in particular every Sunday for the last month. Nobody ever came to the building or parked in the back on a Sunday afternoon. He expected this day would be no different.

  His watch said 2:03PM. The office building’s parking lot was elevated two feet above that of the restaurant across the alley. This allowed for a somewhat unobstructed view of the restaurant’s back patio, which was surrounded by a six-foot-high wood fence. He could only see the tops of heads or upper torsos of patrons and staff from his position. Nonetheless, the spot provided a needed clear view of the cafe’s small parking lot outside the fence. The target’s car, a new Prius, occupied the second to last space in the back of the lot, located close to Western.

  Smith set his gaze on the back of the restaurant, Cel’s Cafe, a little bistro on the corner of Western and Selby avenues. The cafe was a busy hub in St. Paul’s Cathedral Hill neighborhood, an area of turn-of-the-century Victorian homes encircling the majestic Cathedral of Saint Paul. The stately mansions of Summit Avenue lay a mere three blocks away. The cafe was a busy post-church lunching spot. By the mid-to-late afternoon, it changed over to a light crowd of book or newspaper readers, drinking coffee, iced tea, and, for those living on the edge, maybe a bloody mary. Cel’s also employed a young waitress named Shannon Hisle, the daughter of St. Paul’s wealthiest and most prominent lawyer.

  Smith pulled black leather gloves tight over his hands and turned to the back of the van where two large men, brothers Dean and David, fiddled with duct tape, masks, and gloves of their own. There was also a gas-filled plastic milk carton with a detonator taped on the side for later. Each had a. 45 lying on the floor. Smith turned his attention to the passenger seat and the police scanner, which reported little activity on this sleepy summer afternoon.

  Smith had spent fifteen years in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. Because of who he was, the beatings started his first day. He had fought, but he didn’t have a fighting chance. Those first few years, he suffered broken ribs, fingers, and wrists more than once. In one of the last and most brutal of the assaults, he suffered a broken nose that left him with a large and permanent bulbous knot just below the bridge and a shattered eye socket that blurred the peripheral vision in his left eye. He spent long tours in the infirmary, recovering from the abuse, only to be put back into the general population to be unmercifully beaten again and again. He had no allies, no protection, and no hope in those early years.

  If it wasn’t for the arrival of the two hulking brothers in the back of the van, he wouldn’t have made it. Three years into Smith’s sentence, David who was six-foot-three and 240 pounds of bulging muscles, moved into a neighboring cell. David saw firsthand the results of the beatings. He didn’t like what he saw. Along with his equally large and skilled brother Dean, three cells further down, David used skills honed in the Golden Gloves to put a stop to it.

  David and Dean had saved his life. Smith would do anything for his two friends. It was one of the reasons why he now sat behind the wheel and had masterminded what was about to take place. Before he could get his, Dean and David needed to get theirs.

  Monica sat at her table at the front of the bistro, sipping her iced tea, alternately reading her Harlequin novel, watching the target, and making calls on her cell phone.

  Dressed in a frumpy floral blouse, faded black spandex pants, and black heels, sporting a 1960s bouffant wig of black hair, she had the look of a mid-forties woman whose social life revolved around reading about romances she would never have. It was far from her normal, stylish look, but it was the look she wanted for today. She had used it the previous three weeks when she came in on Sunday afternoons to scout the movements of Shannon Hisle. The mark was sitting at the bar now, closing out her tables, sipping a Diet Coke. She would be leaving soon.

  Taking one last sip of her iced tea, Monica put the receipt in her purse, popped a complimentary mint in her mouth, and discreetly wiped down the table and the arms of her chair. She’d never been arrested nor had her prints taken, but she didn’t want to take a chance.

  Hisle finished the last of her tabs and handed them to her manager, who gave them a quick look and approval. Monica checked her watch — 4:56 PM — and placed a call as Hisle put her purse over her shoulder. Smith picked up on the first ring.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  As Hisle pushed the back door open, Monica slung her purse over her shoulder, walked out the front door and turned right, casually strolling east along Selby Avenue and away from the action beginning to unfold.

  Dean, a black ski mask over his head, was out of the van now, crouched down behind a parked pickup truck three cars to the right of Hisle’s Prius. David, his mask down as well, was stationed at the van’s side sliding door. Smith focused on the back door and saw the pretty brunette push her way through. He pulled the van into the alley and turned left, driving slowly down the alley, watching Hisle all the way.

  Shannon hustled to her car with her head down and digging with her right hand across her body deep into her black purse, searching for her car keys.

  When she reached the back bumper of her car, she halted and dug with both hands, leaning down and peering in.

  “Where the heck did they go?” she muttered. Ah ha, there they were, buried in a corner, under her cell phone. She grabbed the cell phone and keys and sensed the sudden flash of movement from her left. She looked up in time to see a mammoth black-masked man barreling toward her.

  “ NO!.. NO!..”

  Dean scooped Hisle, putting his hand over her mouth as she screamed and thrashed against his iron grip.

  Smith quickly turned right out of the alley and pulled up along the curb. David slid the door open and grabbed the struggling Hisle out of his brother’s hands. He dragged her inside, sat on top of her, and pinned her arms down. Dean jumped in, closed the door, and grabbed the duct tape as Smith punched the gas and took a hard right turn on Selby and accelerated east to Summit Avenue. Dean and David duct taped the girl’s hands, ankles, and mouth. They then put a pillow case over her head. Hisle squirmed and tried to scream through the duct tape pasted over her mouth. A brief look in the rearview mirror and Smith could see the horror in her eyes. It was only beginning for her.

  2

  “ How do they know she’s coming?”

  Mac McRyan swerved his Ford Explorer through traffic in Spaghetti Junction just north of downtown St. Paul, flasher and siren going strong, as it had been since he left Stillwater and his boat fifteen minutes earlier. It had been a wonderful Sunday up until now. With his sister, Julia, her husband, Jack, and his girlfriend, Sally, he had spent the day on his family’s boat on the St. Croix River, picnicking and soaking up the sun. It was the most relaxing day that he and Sally, a busy Ramsey County prosecutor, had experienced in months — at least until now. As the group was tying up the boat and deciding where to go for dinner, the call came in. Now he skidded to a quick stop just short of the patrol c
ar parked across the intersection of Selby and Western.

  Mac’s full name was Michael McKenzie McRyan, but for all of his thirty-three years he’d simply been known as Mac. He’d been in the McRyan family business — the St. Paul Police Department — for eight years. A fourth-generation cop, Mac had relatives sprinkled throughout the department.

  He rolled his athletic six-foot-one frame out of the Explorer. Ruggedly handsome, Mac had short blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and a taut face with a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon on his scarred chin. A former captain of the University of Minnesota hockey team, he was still at his 190-pound playing weight and worked hard daily to keep it that way. Sliding on his Oakley sunglasses, he walked toward a uniform cop who waved him through. Mac took in the scene, with squad cars and Crown Vics everywhere. He saw two techs from County Forensics taking pictures and prowling around the parking lot behind Cel’s. And, of course, the chief’s Boys stood just behind them.

  The boys were Detectives Pat Riley, Riley’s partner, Bobby Rockford, and Mac’s own partner, Richard Lich. When St. Paul Police Chief Charles Flanagan needed results — when the shit hit the fan — he turned to his Boys. Lyman Hisle was as high profile as it got in the Twin Cities, and his daughter had been abducted in broad daylight. Not to mention, Hisle was a close personal friend of Charlie Flanagan. Needless to say, the chief needed his best cops on the case.

  They were a motley crew.

  Pat “Riles” Riley was a sizeable man, well over six feet tall and two hundred pounds. The veteran detective had dark eyes, a heavy Nixonian five o’clock shadow, and a thick mane of black hair, which he combed back. A sharp dresser, Riles looked like a mobster in his pinstripe suits, perfectly pressed shirts, and stylish ties. Loud, boisterous, and loyal, Riles was like a brother to Mac, having served with Mac’s father, Simon, when he first became a detective years ago.

  Bobby “Rock” Rockford was even larger than Riley. He was black, dark black, with his eyes deeply embedded in his large, shaved head. When he smiled, he showed a gap between his two front teeth. He’d been a college defensive tackle and wasn’t averse to getting physical when the circumstances warranted. Rock, given his size, appearance, and growl, could be downright frightening. Mac had watched him scare a guy into shitting his pants once.

  Then there was “Dick Lick.”

  Richard Lich was short, squat, and balding with a bushy porn star mustache in constant need of trimming. Twice divorced, he spent plenty of time lamenting his perpetually dire financial circumstances. He blamed both ex-wives not only for his financial difficulties, but also for his inability to fix his wardrobe. Perhaps the worst dresser ever to carry a shield, Dick donned a pitiful series of old soiled suits, all some shade of brown, whether it be gravy brown, dirt brown or shit brown. He topped each ensemble off with scuffed shoes, faded shirts, chewed-on cigars, and in the winter, either a black or brown fedora. While Riles and Rock scared the hell out of people, Lich was comic relief, a true piece of work. But he was a piece of work that people tended to underestimate. Few realized that he was a damn fine detective. Possessed with a quick wit and an easy manner, he was a perfect partner for Mac, smoothing out his younger partner’s abrasive edges.

  With Mac as the catalyst, the boys had earned their reputation on the PTA case. Their work had brought down a small band of retired CIA agents and their corporate employer, PTA, a St. Paul military and intelligence contractor. PTA and its various players were behind the murders of an investigative reporter, a U.S. senator and the company CFO, while trying to cover up illegal arms deals. Since that case, the chief often had the four of them work cases together as an unofficial special investigative unit.

  As Mac approached the boys, Lich called out, “Nice outfit.”

  Mac still wore his boating gear: tan cargo shorts, navy blue Polo golf shirt, and leather sandals — all of which was at odds with the badge hanging around his neck. His blonde hair stood up just a bit more than usual, wind-blown from a day on the river.

  “You’re the last person who should give fashion advice,” was Mac’s ready response. Lich had matched his shit-brown slacks with a faded orange golf shirt, untucked and fully open at the collar. Mac turned to Riley.

  “What the hell happened? Are we sure this was a kidnapping?”

  Riley exhaled, running his hand through his large mane of black hair.

  “Let me run it down, and you tell me what you think.” Riles walked to the back of the Prius. “Shannon Hisle got off work at 5:00. She walked out the back door. Her car is this Prius. It looks like when she reached the back of her car somebody grabbed her. The positioning of her keys and phone on the pavement away from her car at least suggest that.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “We think whoever grabbed her jumped into a white van that pulled away and turned right on Selby. From there…” Riley’s voice trailed off.

  Rock jumped in, rubbing a hand across his shaved head, “Our witnesses… well… kind of…”

  “Suck,” Lich finished.

  “Suck, like they didn’t see anything?” Mac asked.

  “Regular Havercamps,” Riles replied, never one to pass up a Caddyshack moment. He pointed across and to the south along Western Avenue. “An old couple was walking along the sidewalk down there, maybe a hundred yards away, and they think they saw a guy dressed in black pick her up and throw her into the van.”

  “Think?” Mac asked.

  “Older couple, in their seventies, maybe early eighties, vision is a bit of an issue.”

  “Anything about the van?”

  “White. It comes out of the alley, and turns right. The guy in black throws her in and off they go,” Riles said.

  “Anything else?”

  “Another witness, female,” Riles turned and pointed to the southwest corner of Selby and Western, “was waiting on that corner, facing north, about ready to cross the street when she thought she heard a scream. She turned around and saw the van slow and then quickly pull away, turn right and go east on Selby.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Confusion really,” Lich said. “The elderly couple came walking up and spoke with the woman on the corner, asking, you know, ‘did you see that?’ They’re not sure what they all saw, so they walk across the street into the parking lot and see keys and a cell phone lying on the ground. They go inside the cafe and explain what they saw. The cafe workers come outside, see that Hisle’s car is still in the lot, and call 911.”

  “How long did all that take?”

  “Three or four minutes at best, maybe more,” Lich replied. “Nobody saw it all happen, just bits and pieces.”

  “So anyway, a squad gets here maybe a minute or two later,” Rock added. “They ask some questions, get basically what we’re talking about now, and make the call.”

  “So before we even have an alert out about a white van, it’s what?” Mac asked.

  Lich shook his head, skeptical, voicing what everyone else was thinking.

  “At best, eight to ten minutes, probably more.”

  “Maaaaaan,” Mac groaned. “That’s a lot of time to get away before we even start looking. Did we get anything on the van? Plate, make, model, anything?”

  “No plate, white van. It looked like a typical delivery or repair van, panel type, no lettering, maybe slightly dented behind the driver side door, but that’s it.”

  “Nothing striking that would draw attention,” Lich added.

  “Where did the van come from?” Mac asked.

  “The older couple said it came out of the alley,” Rock answered. “We’re not entirely sure, but we’re thinking it was parked behind the office building.” He pointed across the alley and to their left. “From there, they would be able to see her come out the back door and take her.”

  “How many people?”

  “Driver, guy to take her,” Riles answered, counting on his fingers.

  “Maybe another guy in the van,” Lich added.

  “Why
do you think not just two?” Mac asked Lich.

  “The older couple thinks he threw her into the van. I’m thinking there might have been someone in there to take or catch her. We don’t know for sure, just speculatin’.”

  “Any surveillance cameras or anything?”

  “Nada,” Rock replied. “Nothing outside. Hell, nothing inside the cafe.”

  “We’re askin’ the cafe people,” Lich asked.

  “Was there anyone unusual inside or outside today, last few days, anything like that,” Mac added.

  “Not that anyone can recall,” Rock answered. “It was busy early in the afternoon with the post-church crowd. However, after that rush, the staff says there were just regulars sitting around reading, having coffee. Pretty mellow.”

  “In other words,” Mac said, summing up, “we got shit.”

  “Hell, we ain’t even got that,” Lich replied, looking down, shaking his head.

  The group stood in silence for a minute before Mac asked, “Where is the chief?”

  “In a sad irony, already at Hisle’s,” answered their captain, Marion Peters, as he ducked under the crime scene tape and joined the group. “The chief was out there for Hisle’s annual barbeque when the call came in.”

  “I assume they haven’t heard from the kidnappers yet?”

  “No,” Peters answered.

  “Are we on the phone?”

  “Yeah, both landline and cell,” Peters replied. “I’ve been setting that up. We’re watching the phone at her place. We have someone at his law firm watching the phone. But we expect he’ll get the call at home, and we have people and the chief out there.”

  “What about the Feds?” Rock asked. “Will they be coming in?”

  Peters shrugged. “At some point they will. Kidnapping is one of their gigs. Hisle’s a prominent guy, politically connected, so the bureau will be involved at some point and somehow.”

  “We don’t know that they took her over state lines,” Lich replied.

  “True. But again, we’re talking Lyman here. He’ll probably want them in and the chief will accede to his wishes, they being friends and all.”