The St. Paul Conspiracy (30 page)

If anyone had the 411 on business, it would be Matt Chadley. Chadley was an old roommate from the university days and Mac’s financial planner. He worked for West & Palmer, the top brokerage in the Twin Cities.

Mac punched up the number, and the call was answered immediately.

“Matt Chadley.”

“Chads, Mac.”

“The infamous Detective McRyan. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about PTA?”

“PTA?”

“Yeah. Financially.”

“Well, buddy, I already have you invested in them, and for good reason. They’re a Wall Street darling. Total blue-chip stock.”

“Why’s that?”

“Impeccable books, as close to a sure thing as you can find. They hit their nut every quarter, never short on earnings expectations, almost always exceeding. Audits come back squeaky clean. SEC loves them. They have an active board that watches the money very closely. Closer than almost any board I’ve ever seen. Enron they ain’t. They keep executive compensation within reason, if not lower than normal. People like that. Makes them look responsible. The execs are tight with all the right people in Washington. The president and CEO, Ted Lindsay, and many of the people who work for him, are connected like you wouldn’t believe, so the government contracts keep coming. With 9/11, their stock has gone through the roof with increased spending on defense and intelligence, their bellwether areas. Mac, their stock is a must have. Like I said—I have it in your portfolio. It’s as reliable a performer as there is out there.”

“Ever any hint of financial impropriety, scandal?”

“Negative. I have a pretty good ear out there, and I’ve never gotten wind of any financial issues. Never. Why do you ask?”

“They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”

“No, they can’t. Wall Street loved Stephens. He was top notch. I didn’t know a ton about Jones, other than she was considered smart as a whip and followed the rules. In fact, internally they make a huge issue about that at PTA. If there’s bad news, get it out there. After Enron, WorldCom... well, trust became a big issue and PTA has it in spades.”

“Never any problems, Chads?” Mac asked skeptically.

“Not that I’ve ever heard. Why so interested?”

“I can’t really tell you. PTA, or somebody there, might or might not be tied into something I’m working. I’m just trying to get a feel for the company and wondered if there might be a financial issue, some impropriety going on.”

“Well, man, not that I’m aware of. PTA’s numbers are as reliable as anyone’s out there. So, if it’s a financial, it’s not because the books are cooked.”

Well nothing there. “Thanks, Chad.” Mac got ready to hang up the phone, a little disappointed, thinking or hoping he was going to hear something different.

“You’re welcome, Mac. One thing, though. If you wanted to talk to somebody on the inside, an old friend of yours recently left the board.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lyman Hisle.”

“Hmpf. Thanks.” With that, Mac hung up. He jotted down Lyman’s name. He checked his watch, 4:30 p.m.

It was late, and the chief wanted a final briefing on Knapp, after 5:00 p.m. Since it was all good news, there would probably be a drink or two served. Maybe one or two phone calls first.

* * * * *

Tired, Sally walked off the elevator and headed to her office, an afternoon of court appearances and plea-bargaining behind her. She carried her briefcase over her left shoulder, a warm half empty Diet Pepsi she bought two hours before in her right hand. Her hair felt like it had lost all of its bounce, and she could feel her blouse un-tucking from her skirt. An afternoon in heels left her feet, ankles, and calves aching.

She sat down at her desk and shook her mouse to wake up her monitor. She had thirty-five new e-mails. She had eight new voicemail messages. “Sheesh. Gone a few hours, and all hell breaks loose,” she muttered. Where had the day gone? She and Helen had a meeting with Chief Flanagan about Knapp at 5:00 p.m. Helen would be by any minute. She wondered if Mac was going to spring his little theory. Probably only after he’d had a couple pops of the chief’s Irish whiskey to get his courage up.

Mac. She’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks. He was the most perceptive person she had ever met, seeing things others didn’t, two steps ahead of everyone else. Cautious, he never over-committed to anything, keeping his options open, evaluating things from every possible angle before acting. Sally was both interested and, at the same time, fearful of what he might come up with.

She knew Mac had doubts about whether Senator Johnson had killed Daniels. Nobody else thought that way, but Mac had maintained to her in private what he thought. They had talked about the case every so often, and Mac always said, “I still wonder about that case.”

She wanted to think about something else, so she started looking at her e-mails. A quick scan told her that only about eight or nine were truly work related. That made her like most other working people—seventy-percent of her e-mails were personal. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the first work e-mail. Helen, right on time.

“Shall we go see Charlie?”

Oh, we’re on a first name basis now are we?
“We shall.” Not wanting to spend another minute in heels, she reached under her desk for a pair of black flats. She took one last drink of the warm Diet Pepsi, left it on her desk and joined Helen in the hallway.

“So, anything interesting happen today?” Helen asked.

* * * * *

The meeting was short with no real cop business discussed. It was a celebration. Drinks naturally had been served, a little Irish whiskey. Flanagan wouldn’t have it any other way. With Knapp caught, his big headache was gone, even if the department was being questioned about his assassination. While there was some criticism, there was an undercurrent of “The bastard got what he deserved.” So, while the day wasn’t perfectly sunny for the chief, partly cloudy was just fine. Mac wasn’t about to ruin the day and kept quiet.

“So, it’s off to the bar for all of you?” Flanagan inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Riles responded. “We’re going to have a couple.”

“But I think we’ll go easier than last night,” Rock added.

“Well, good. You boys have earned it.”

They all filed out. Sally whispered in Mac’s ear, “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you at the Pub. First I have to talk to someone.”

Chapter Thirty

“On the trail of an assassin.”

They picked up McRyan as he pulled out of the parking ramp, all of them well familiar with the Explorer. McRyan made the short trek over to the Pub, parking in his usual spot in back. They watched him go in the back door from their perch across the street. Another van simultaneously pulled into the parking lot on West Seventh, across the street from the front. Shortly after McRyan had gone in, Kennedy pulled in, followed by Lich, Riley, and Rockford.

Bouchard shook his head, snorting. “Man, these guys do like to drink.”

“That they do,” Viper replied. “Of course, at a bar owned by ex-cops, I doubt the real ones are paying full price.”

“Probably not.”

Viper picked up the radio and called to the other van, “Kraft, head in and give us an eyeball.”

“Copy that.”

* * * * *

Mac, Sally, Riley, Rock, and Lich were standing in the middle of the bar, each with a Heineken, talking about the case and how life would be a little dull going back to routine homicide work.

“You say that now, Riles, but I stood here a few weeks ago, and you sure looked like you wanted to go back to mundane police work then,” Mac said, playing along.

“That was then, this is now.”

“Isn’t that a movie title or something?” Rock asked.

Just then, on cue, Uncle Shamus showed up.

“Shamus,” Riley said, “to what do we owe the honor?”

“I need to borrow my nephew for a few minutes, but in the meantime, next round is on me.” The bartender instantly appeared with another order.

“God, I love this family,” Riley said as he put down his empty and grabbed the full Heineken sitting opened for him on the bar.

“I’ll be right back,” Mac said to everyone and followed Shamus upstairs.

* * * * *

Uncle Shamus had a large corner office in the back of the second floor. On the outside of the door it said, “O
FFICE OF THE
P
ROPRIETOR
.” Every McRyan who had filled that role over the years had used the office. It was an impressive room, with high ceilings, crown moldings, polished wood floors, tasteful furniture and a one hundred-year-old oak desk the size of a dining room table. In front of the desk were two old high-backed, burgundy, leather chairs. Sitting casually in one of them was Lyman Hisle, nattily attired in a gray Italian three-piece suit, a perfect Windsor knot in his black silk tie, even at this late hour. He was sipping an Irish whiskey, neat, when Shamus and Mac walked in.

“Lyman, thank you for coming. I know this seems a little odd.” They shook hands and shared a smile.

“I was intrigued when Shamus called. Am I to assume that you don’t want others to know of this?”

Mac nodded.

“So, pray tell, how can I be of assistance?”

“This is off the record in my direction, and yours. I need some information.”

“About PTA, Shamus says.”

“You were on the board?”

“I was.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Time mostly. PTA has a very active and involved board, and I couldn’t give it the time and attention it needed and deserved,” Lyman responded, shifting in his chair to look directly at Mac, one leg over the other, “So, tell me, why would one of St. Paul’s finest need to know anything about PTA?”

“I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

“Very well.”

“Tell me about the power structure over there.”

“Ted Lindsay is the president and CEO. We brought him in a number of years ago. He’s done a fabulous job.”

“Where’d you get him from?”

“He was the chief operating officer at Fillmore Electronics, a competitor. He was there two, three years, I think, and did good work. Before that he worked for the government. He was a spook sort of. He held numerous positions in the NSA, then the CIA, where he was deputy director of Operations before he left and went to make his fortune in private industry.” Lyman took a sip of his drink.

“He seems to have done well for PTA.”

“Sure has. Since 9/11, bad as it sounds, the company has exploded, no pun intended. There’s been a renewed emphasis on intelligence gathering. The equipment necessary for that is one of the company’s better areas. Even better, Lindsay’s connections in the government are amazing. He has friends, contacts—hell, spies—everywhere.” Lyman put his drink on the desk and counted on his fingers. “He knows when the military, NSA or CIA contracts are coming up before anyone else, what the budget is going to be and who the key decision maker will be. He’ll know what he needs to know about the person who has decision-making authority and what buttons to push in that direction.”

“I heard he knows everyone in D.C.,” Mac added.

Lyman agreed, “His contacts in Congress are impressive and he’s been an aggressive campaign contributor.” Lyman creased a smile, shook his head a little, and said, the admiration showing, “If Ted goes after something, he gets it.”

Mac, interested, said, “You said spies?”

“Yeah. I mean, he knows people all over the place with information. I wouldn’t doubt he’s spreading a little money around, which is illegal, but he’s a former pro, with a staff of former pros. For them stuff like that is second nature.”

“Staff of former pros?”

“Yeah.” Lyman said, sipping the last of his drink. “PTA has a security staff that is the size and has the budget of a small army. Old habits die hard, I guess. Lindsay’s paranoid and a nut about security.”

“This security detail, how big?”

“Oh, he’s got a couple hundred on staff, spread over all of the facilities. Not to mention the equipment. Hell, they use the same stuff they sell to the government.”

“Who runs the security?”

“Webb Alt.”

“What’s his story?” Mac asked.

“Former spook—although you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at him.” Lyman scratched his head, “He isn’t particularly impressive physically, but people are scared to death of the guy. He’s got a bunch of his old cronies from CIA and NSA on staff here in town.”

“Lindsay,” Mac asked, shifting gears, “I imagine he’s made himself quite a fortune.”

“He has, although not as big as he’d like.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he thought he should be paid like Jack Welch. The board disagreed. We were sensitive to executive pay before it became a trend. So, there was some bitching.”

“Did he threaten to leave?”

“Oh, I don’t know if it was that bad for him. There were some whispers, but nothing ever came of it. We upped his pay a little more and threw in a few more options, and the whole thing seemed to blow over. He has it pretty good at PTA. A few more years, and he’ll retire with a $100 million in the bank, plus the potential of more with stock options. Not bad when most of your career was in government service.” Lyman held his glass out and Shamus refreshed his drink. “So, Mac, what’s this all about?”

“In a minute,” Mac said, momentarily filibustering. “Has there every been any financial issues or problems with PTA that you’re aware of?”

“No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head, “As a board, we went over those books very carefully. Always have. We were very active and not a rubber stamp, something that bothers Lindsay from time to time. The SEC, the company auditors—the board never found any improprieties. PTA’s books balance, always have. It’s why the stock is such a winner.”

“Tell me about James Stephens.”

“Came to PTA with Lindsay. He’d been in government service as well, at Treasury and then at the CIA. He left the CIA with Lindsay and went to Fillmore. In fact, Lindsay brought five or six upper-level executives over when he came. It was a shame, that car accident.”

“What about Jamie Jones, the most recent CFO?

“I don’t really know much about her. She was well regarded and very well liked by Stephens.” Lyman furrowed his brow, “Mac,
what in the hell
is this all about?”