Deadly Stillwater Page 8

  “Cops are in the trade, aren’t they?” Mac asked. “I mean, aren’t we cops up in your shit all the time? And if cops are in the trade, wouldn’t their families be fair game?”

  “For some people up here on the north side, maybe, but not me,” Boone answered, falling back into his chair. “Gertz and Subject, if they’re honest, will tell you that I’ve never, ever, picked a fight with the police. In this line of business, you don’t last long doing that shit. You keep your profile low. You buy for a dollar and sell for two is all you ever want to do.” Charlie took a sip of his drink and tacked in a different direction, “And one other thing.”

  “What’s that?” Lich asked.

  “I’ve got three daughters of my own, plus eight sons. Family is everything to me. I can’t imagine what those fathers are going through, but I sympathize with them.” He took a puff of his cigar and slowly blew smoke. “Taking those girls?” Charlie shook his head. “If I had a beef with someone, I’d go after them, not their wives or kids. What do they have to do with anything? Nothing. They’re just citizens. And I never go after a citizen.”

  “So why then,” Lich asked, “is word out on the street that you’ve wanted payback on the St. Paul Police, the county attorney’s office, and Hisle? What’s all that noise about?”

  “That’s my competition, I suspect.”

  “Fellow drug dealers?”

  “I think it might be someone worse.”

  “Who’s worse? Lich asked.

  “Politicians,” Mac answered, smiling.

  Fat Charlie guffawed loudly.

  “You’re perceptive, son. They’re some city-hall types who wouldn’t mind seeing me discredited. They don’t like the idea of my involvement in legitimate business, the real estate market, and the area around the ballpark. My money apparently has a different tint of green.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t sufficiently laundered,” Mac said acerbically.

  Ten minutes later, they were driving back to the SuperAmerica gas station. “You guys knew this was a waste of time, didn’t you?” Mac asked Gerdtz and Subject.

  “We both suspected that to be the case, although we heard the rumors, too,” Subject answered.

  “So this golden-rule shit is the real deal?”

  “Pretty much,” Gerdtz said. “While he’s never been afraid to drop a body, to the best of our knowledge, he’s telling the truth about that golden-rule business. He doesn’t involve citizens.”

  “He sure talked out of school in front of you boys,” Lich said. “I mean, he didn’t exactly hide from his past.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Gerdtz replied. “We’ve taken our run at him over the years, but now we’ll never get him. The county attorney’s office doesn’t want anything to do with him. They’ve been embarrassed too many times.”

  “So what,” Mac asked quizzically, “there’s like a truce or something with him?”

  “Kinda,” Gerdtz said. “You said it yourself, he’s the bank. There are just too many layers between him and the street. Hell, he’s making so much legitimate money now that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got out of the drug trade in two or three years. He’s gonna be what Michael Corleone always wanted to be.”

  Subject echoed the thought.

  “He’s even been helpful on occasion when other people operating in that part of town have violated Fat Charlie’s rule. People don’t know it, he asked us to keep it quiet, but you guys remember that stray bullet that killed the little girl four years ago?” Everyone nodded. “Fat Charlie clued us in on who to look at. Hell, Boone called me, me, the guy who’s been in his shit for years, to tell me.”

  “What did he ask for in return?” Mac asked.

  “Not one damn thing,” Subject replied. “He’s never even mentioned it since.”

  Mac snorted. Fat Charlie Boone, one contradiction after another, a saint and a hood all at the same time. He exhaled.

  “Well he did say he’d call us if he heard of anything.”

  10

  “ Where’s Ellsworth?”

  Smith and Monica left the safe house in a minivan. Ten blocks away, they pulled into an empty school parking lot and affixed an Airport Ride sign to the side window. Five minutes later they were at the Airport Park amp; Ride lot. Smith was now wearing stylish rimless glasses, dressed business casual in a navy blue sport coat, a blue-and-white striped, button-down collar shirt, tan cuffed slacks, and sharp, burgundy-tasseled loafers. He dropped out of the van, then reached back to hoist a travel bag over his left shoulder and a nylon laptop case over his right. He pulled out the keys, popped the trunk, and put both items inside, looking like one of the mass of business travelers doing the same thing. He gave the van, and Monica, a quick wave and then ducked into the Impala.

  The kidnapper exited the lot and quickly mixed in with the Monday rush-hour traffic, driving east out of St. Paul along Interstate 94, listening to the 5:00 PM top-of-the-hour local newscast on the FM talk radio station. A reporter named Tanya Morgan was currently making a live report from the St. Paul Police Department.

  “Although the FBI and St. Paul police won’t go on the record, confidential sources have indicated that the two kidnappings appear to be connected. The abductions were conducted in similar matters, and the descriptions of the perpetrators are also similar.”

  The program next cut to a statement from the Local FBI Agent-in-Charge Ed Duffy.

  “We are working closely with the St. Paul Police and other jurisdictions to bring these girls home and the kidnappers to justice.

  Smith particularly liked the next question from a reporter.

  “We’re hearing reports of family members of the police and the county attorney’s office being assigned police escorts. Is this true?”

  It was a no-win for Duffy, and his answer spoke volumes.

  “I have no comment at this time.”

  Smith liked the response. The police were most assuredly escorting people around town for safety, which meant fewer people looking for him. A pleasant development indeed. But if Smith liked that question, he loved the last one.

  “Are the kidnappings over, or do you expect there may be another attempt?”

  It was a tough question to answer, but to Duffy’s credit, he didn’t duck it.

  “We can’t be certain. Everyone needs to be careful until we apprehend the kidnappers. People, particularly women, need to walk in groups. We need citizens to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity. One thing we do know is that the kidnappers tend to lay in wait at places where they know their targets will be. So people should vary their routines. And, if anyone notices any suspicious activity, they should immediately call…”

  The FBI man gave the phone numbers, and then the show cut back to the two hosts, who began discussing the kidnappings as if they were experts. While they did, Smith motored south on State Highway 61 and into Hastings, a sleepy town on the far southeastern edge of the Twin Cities metro area. It is nestled into a curve of the Mississippi River as it ran east to join the St. Croix on the border with Wisconsin.

  In Hastings, he stopped for a quick drive-through bite to eat, a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. He enjoyed the warm humid evening. A light southerly breeze moved the tops of the tall oak and maple trees as he drove south into a green sea of southern Minnesota farm country. The cornfields would definitely be knee-high by the Fourth of July. The radio predicted a continuing heat wave, with highs in the nineties and matching humidity. A heavy thunderstorm was forecast for later in the evening, which would be fine with him as long as they got their work done in time.

  As he devoured the burger and fries, Smith drove further south on 61 to the tiny town of Miesville. The town was only four or five blocks long and appeared to be deserted. In reality, all of the town’s citizens appeared to be at or heading to the baseball field to see the Miesville Mudhens, the town’s legendary Minnesota townball team. Smith passed the park on his left, a throwback to a bygone era, with a large wooden gran
dstand and an outfield fence made of signs for every business and in every color of the rainbow. At the last block, he turned right and then left behind two enormous silver silos and stopped. He jumped out and put on magnetized temporary license plates. Back in the car, he turned around, pulled back onto 61 and continued south. Just outside of town, the highway expanded to two lanes in each direction, running parallel to the Mississippi River. He reached the quiet town of Red Wing just after 6:30 PM, and he fell in with the local traffic.

  Smith drove through the town and past Red Wing’s historic St. James Hotel. Past the hotel, he took a left, crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River and into the Wisconsin countryside. In another forty-five minutes he meandered into the small town of Ellsworth, where he arrived at 7:30.

  In Ellsworth, he drove down the main drag, getting a feel for the rhythm and pulse of the slow and easy small town. The storefronts were mostly closed, except for a few a small restaurants and retail shops, with the odd pedestrian strolling along. Further down, he motored past a set of playfields where kids played baseball and adults relived their youth on the softball fields. He chuckled as he saw a forty-something adult slide into second base, get called out, and jump up and start berating an umpire as if he were playing in the seventh game of the World Series.

  Four blocks past the athletic fields, he turned left on a quiet country road heading north out of town. He went three more blocks and found the pay phone in front of the abandoned gas station, across the street from a small, sparsely populated and neglected city park. Smith had found the spot a few weeks earlier on a scouting trip. He pulled up to the phone, which was set at the height of his car window. He then scanned the park across the street, saw what he wanted and smiled. Taking his time, the kidnapper casually pulled on rubber gloves, fitting them tightly. The car idled as he dug into the duffel bag, pulling out the portable voice changer, the Dictaphone and a roll of quarters, which he spent a minute opening. Checking his watch, he noted the time was 7:42 PM.

  After working Fat Charlie, Mac and Lich stopped in at police headquarters and picked up a packet of information on the connections between the chief and Hisle. As Mac drove the Explorer over to the chief’s home, Lich scanned the report, fifteen pages long, consisting of the possible suspects, details about the cases and their outcomes, and transcripts of the preliminary interviews.

  As the car idled at a stoplight, Lich closed the file. Mac broke the silence. “Anyone on the list fit the mold?”

  Lich sighed and shook his head.

  “Not in an ideal sense.”

  “Nobody worth a look at all?”

  “Worth a look? Maybe a few. But this is off-the-top-of their-heads kind of stuff. Hisle’s had hundreds, maybe thousands of criminal clients over the years, as we saw with all those files this morning, so we’ve just started to dig in to all of that. And now we have the chief’s history to work through. So this is only the most partial of lists at this point.”

  “One thing we probably do know, however,” Mac answered. “The answer lies somewhere in the files. Lyman’s and the chief’s.

  “True enough. But between those two, we’re going to have a huge shit-pile of people to work through. Chief’s been a cop for thirty years and Lyman’s practiced law for damn near the same amount of time. Their paths have crossed many a time.”

  “True that is. But somewhere in all of those cases is our connection.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Lich answered, but his voice took on a skeptical tone. “But I look at this list here,” he held up the three-ring binder, “and there are guys in here that may be worth a look but…”

  “Not exactly blowin’ your drawers off?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Is the list just known connections between Lyman and the chief?”

  “At this point, yes, just the connections. Cases they both touched or remember touching.”

  Mac pondered that approach as he pulled up to another stoplight.

  “Anything come of the interviews with Hisle’s family and friends?” he asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard. The FBI and our guys, Double Frank and your cousin Paddy did the interviews. Nobody noticed anything odd or weird. Shannon Hisle hadn’t mentioned anything to her family or roommate. Her roommate, who Hisle’s lived with for two years, reported no strange phone calls, men, vehicles, or anything odd. The roommate says Hisle is paranoid. She was mugged last year walking home from school and is particularly sensitive to people following or watching her. So, according to Paddy, and I quote, ‘Nobody’s seen shit, heard shit, wondered about shit, or noticed shit,’ end quote.”

  “Well, that’s the same story with Carrie Flanagan.”

  “Yeah?” Lich asked.

  “Yeah. Riley said a couple of Duffy’s boys interviewed her roommate, coworkers, and family. Nobody was aware of any problems or noticed anyone odd hanging around. If Carrie was worried about someone, something, anything like what we’re looking for, she hadn’t confided in anyone about it.” Mac shook his head. “We’ve got nothing.”

  “Hell, we’ve got less than that,” was Lich’s apt reply.

  Mac slowed for another stoplight.

  “All of this makes me raise my question again, do you think Hisle or Flanagan have anything to do with…” Lich started.

  “No fucking way,” Mac replied. “No way, no how.”

  “How about a family member who has a grudge? You know, families can have their own weird politics, grievances, hidden hatreds. Maybe one of the girls is in the way of some money, inheritance, whatever. Someone should at least look at it is all I’m saying.”

  “Carrie’s the youngest child of the chief, and her brothers absolutely adore her. As for Shannon Hisle, I don’t know her well, but I know Hisle has good relationships with his kids. He was something of a single parent since his wife died years ago so he’s close with Shannon and the rest of them. I’ve never hear of any problems.” Mac was quiet for thirty seconds. “I know what you’re saying Dick. Nobody notices anything. These guys take the girls at vulnerable spots and obviously were aware of their habits, schedule, and so forth. So you get to thinking that maybe someone from the family tips them off or gives them the place. But I just don’t buy the family angle. Maybe if it was just Flanagan or just Hisle, I’d be more inclined to think that way, but together? I don’t see it coming from the families, conspiring in this way. I suppose it’s possible, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

  “You’re probably right partner,” was Lich’s reply. “But somebody should be at least thinking about that angle.”

  Mac sighed, “We just thought about it and I talked about it with Riley an hour ago.”

  “You did?” Lich responded, turning in his car seat.

  “Yup. You said you like my bullshit detector, and I do too — I trust my gut. But I trust Riles as well, and we walked through it for about ten minutes. We both came to the same conclusion.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s not family. It’s personal. It’s someone or a group of people the chief and Lyman pissed off somewhere along the way.”

  “So we just have to find the connection then,” Lich replied.

  “Only one problem with that.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t think it will be that easy. The connection is going to be complicated, hard to make, and…”

  “And what?”

  “I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it in time. If it’s just Shannon and Carrie and nobody else, we’re going to be talking ransom soon and delivery not long after. We don’t have a lot of time. I’d guess twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most.”

  Mac pulled up to the Flanagan house. The chief lived in the Highland Park neighborhood, an affluent section in the southwest corner of St. Paul. A generally tranquil upper-middle-class area filled with professionals of all kinds, it seemed unaccustomed to the mass of police cars and media trucks parked in front of one of its houses.

  The chief’s h
ome was a stately two story revival with a red brick exterior, white trim, black shutters and a white portico entrance. It was a classic beauty in a neighborhood of Victorian, Georgian, Colonial, and Cape Cod-style houses built at the turn of the twentieth century. The house was larger and finer that what you would expect for a career cop, even for a chief. However, Charlie Flanagan married well, his wife’s family having earned a significant fortune in logging in northern Minnesota. In addition to the Highland Park home, the chief had a sprawling cabin on Cross Lake on the Whitefish Chain, prime lake real estate two hours north of the Twin Cities.

  As they walked in the front door, Mac immediately noted the massive number of cops, active and retired, ready to help at a moment’s notice. The mere number of people present spoke volumes about Charlie Flanagan. In many big cities, there’s separation between the chief and the force, but not in St. Paul. The chief started as a beat cop in the city, moved up to detective, chief of detectives, and, ultimately, chief, where he’d been for the last nine years. He was one of them. Charlie Flanagan never morphed into a police politician. He wasn’t the police chief; he was the chief of the police. He was a cop and always thought of himself that way. Charlie Flanagan always had the force’s back and supported his men without fail, even when it wasn’t the most politically prudent thing to do. The most recent example of the chief’s support was the recent cop shooting and resulting manhunt. The chief never once wavered in his support of his men, Mac and Rock in particular, despite the media and political pressure. However, the support of his men didn’t come without a price — it meant strained relations with the mayor, a politician tiring of trying to keep his chief of police in line.

  Peters spotted Mac and Lich’s arrival and quickly pulled them aside into a small side room. The update finished with their trip to north Minneapolis.

  “So Boone was a washout?”

  “Waste of time,” Lich answered.