The St. Paul Conspiracy (8 page)

Lyman got up and went over to the bar to freshen his drink. He raised the bottle towards Summer. She waved him off. He put the top back on the bottle. He sipped his Scotch and looked in the mirror over the bar. He walked back over to his desk and picked up the phone and dialed.

“Jordan? Lyman.”

* * * * *

Viper took the elevator up to the office. The boss would be waiting for a status report. Viper had worked for him for over twenty years, and the man always loved his status reports. It wasn’t that he tried to quarterback things. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, he always wanted to be informed. It’s why he had always been so successful, which had now made Viper a wealthy man and a loyal one as well. In fact, the boss had looked out for Viper for over the last twenty years. He’d do anything for the man.

It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours, and he was ready to go home and get some sleep. It was always that way with a mission. The excitement, tension and adrenaline of it kept you going, as if there was no recognition of the time passing. However, once the mission was over, the exhaustion hit. And he was older now, and the recovery time would be longer. Good thing he didn’t often have to run these operations anymore. In fact, he’d thought he’d been done with them all together. Then Claire Daniels came snooping around, and he came out of retirement.

As he walked in, the boss was sitting behind his desk looking at some papers. He saw Viper walk in and put the papers into a manila folder. He walked over to sit down on the couch, and Viper joined him. The boss was having a drink. He offered, but Viper declined. A drink might put him to sleep.

“So, where are we at?” asked the boss.

Viper smiled, “We’re good.”

The boss gave him a long look, “How good?”

“Like I said, we’re good. Real good.” Viper kept smiling, a tired smile, but he was smiling.

“Ahhh, you’re telling me they already have the senator?”

“Yes.”

“The police did it all on their own, eh? We didn’t have to help them along at all?”

“No. They found our guy this afternoon.”

“Hmpf. That was quick,” said the boss as he took a drink.

“The kid running the investigation seems to know what he is doing.”

“So, this young McRyan seems on top of it?”

“From a distance, yes. He’s young, but he seems to have the respect of those working with him. His partner is far senior but seems to work with him without a problem.” They sat in silence for a minute. Viper looked out the window towards the Xcel Energy Center. It was well lit, and the crowd was strolling in. Must be a concert, the Wild were on the road.

Viper broke the silence, “What does your contact have to say?”

“I haven’t asked, as of yet, son. I’ll be getting to that, I assure you. Whatever I find out, I’ll pass along.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you have anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then to bed with you. You look tired. Are you getting too old for this sort of work?”

Viper gave the boss another tired smile and headed out. His bed was beckoning.

Chapter Seven

“Welcome to my world.”

Mac pulled the Explorer in behind the bar. It had been a long and exhausting day, yet exhilarating all at the same time. His first truly “big” case and in the first day his prime suspect looked to be a sitting United States senator. “Top that,” he thought. He doubted anyone in the bar could.

The bar was McRyan’s Pub, the other family enterprise and a true St. Paul institution. The Pub sat on West Seventh Street, just on the southern outskirts of downtown and one block from the Xcel Energy Center, home of the NHL’s Minnesota Wild. It was the favored watering hole of hockey fans, and the St. Paul police.

Opened in 1907 by Mac’s Great-grandpa Pat, the Pub had a colorful history of serving drinks before, during and after prohibition. The during prohibition occurred in the now infamous Patrick’s Room, located in the basement and hidden behind what looked like a typical built-in wooden buffet one might find in an older home. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet opened the door into a large, hidden room. During prohibition, the police, politicians, and citizens together enjoyed illegal drinks and fun. Currently, the inside of Patrick’s Room was adorned with black-and-white photos of that colorful era, while the outside was marked by a plaque denoting the room’s colorful history. Patrick’s Room was now used for private parties, meetings, and cop poker games.

Mac walked into the left side of the main level, a classic, old-fashioned bar, the counter of which stretched half of the length and width of the room, leaving barely enough room for people to stand three or four deep, as it was tonight. Behind the bar was a long mirror with M
C
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YAN
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and a big green shamrock stenciled on it. Two retired cops were tending bar, pouring drinks and trading stories with the crowd, which, from the looks of it, was entirely made up of cops. The room was abuzz. There was plenty to talk about with the Daniels murder and the fifth serial killing.

Most nights, when Mac walked in, he went in like everyone else, got a few, “Hi” and “How’re ya doings” as he worked his way through the crowd of cops. Tonight was a little different. He got looks, stares, and nods. He was working a big case, one people all around town were talking about. Undoubtedly, the boys would be looking to grill him for the facts on the case, his list of suspects, and, for those cops not involved with the serial killer, queries if he needed any help.

He made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Guinness. He preferred darker beers, especially if he was only going to have a couple before going home. That was his plan, too. Mac took a long swig, saw a couple bar stools open up and grabbed one.

“Mac, boy, mind if I grab a seat?”

Mac turned to find an old family friend giving him a tired smile. Pat Riley was having one of his specials, a Dewers on the rocks. Mac suspected it wasn’t his first, and he saw in Pat what he himself might look like in a month if he didn’t clear the Daniels murder.

Riles was heading the detail on the serial killer. After seven weeks of investigation, he looked worn down, tired and tonight, properly drunk. The stress could be read all over his large, round face. A big man, Riles was sixthree, with a developing pot belly and a large mane of black hair. His face was jowly, and his five o’clock shadow made him look Nixonian. His bushy hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, and his face pale except the dark circles around his eyes. It had been a long couple of months for him.

Any cop in Pat’s position wanted more than anything to find the bastard who was killing these women. You lived with it twenty-four/seven. It consumed you, especially the longer it went on. Mac remembered his dad telling him that when he first start working a case such as Pat’s, there was a certain excitement. But, if it went unsolved, the excitement went by the wayside, replaced by stress and pressure. These mounted with time.

Usually, the pressure started with the media. With a serial killer, the media pressure was constant, with daily stories and special reports. And now it was November 1st, a sweeps month for television. Investigative reports would be coming. The media pressure in turn created political pressure. Media stories scared politicians from the mayor down to members of the city council. Mac’s dad, Uncle Shamus, the chief and Captain Peters all said at one time or another: a politician would never, ever, find a better job. They would do whatever they could to keep it, too. Consequently, they all had an innate, almost instinctive ability to apply pressure on the police, the fire department—whomever—to provide cover for themselves.

Naturally, when the media and the politicos got together, the pressure built on the detectives involved. Such was the case with Pat. The serial killer case was getting to him. Mac could see it. He was drinking more, sleeping less and looking beaten down. No wonder. The case itself brought tremendous stress and pressure. Add media and political attention, and it was understandable why one would be driven to drink.

“Welcome to my world,” Pat said wearily.

“It has been an eventful day,” Mac agreed.

“Careful what you wish for, boyo. If your thing goes on like mine, it’ll wear on you.”

“You look beat.”

“Shit, this case is kicking my ass.” Riles replied, taking a sip of the Dewers. “You watch, it’ll do the same to you.”

Mac gave a little chuckle, “It’s only been one day, Pat. It better not get to me yet, or I’m not long for this line of work.” Mac thought he might mention something more about Pat’s drinking, but quickly put it out of his mind. It wasn’t his place.

“True enough. So, what’s up with your case?”

This was tough for Mac. He’d love to tell Pat about the senator and what they had learned about Claire Daniels. About what the autopsy report might say in the morning. But the chief had been clear; he couldn’t tell anybody anything about the case. Not the media, not fellow cops, not even his dog. Mac, however, couldn’t shut out Pat completely. That wasn’t the way it worked either. Quietly, he gave him pretty much everything but the senator.

“So, Pat, quid pro quo?”

Pat took a long sip of his Dewers and said, “Fair nuff.” The fifth victim had been found in a vacant lot behind O’Neill’s Bar by a delivery driver. Like the first four, she had been strangled and sexually assaulted. The killer had used a Trojan condom when he assaulted the victim. Like all other victims, a smiley-faced balloon had been left as a calling card.

“So, it’s number five, eh?” Mac finished.

“Looks that way.”

Mac hated to ask, “Anything new?”

“Notta, and that fuckin’ balloon,” Riles sighed. “Cripes, the guy’s mocking us with that damn thing.”

“You guys trace the balloon?”

“Yeah. You can buy them at forty-seven different locations in the Twin Cities by last count. No way to trace a specific balloon to a specific package or box. We’ve had guys go to all the stores, but we’ve got nothing.”

“What about this victim?”

“That’s one thing that’s a little different this time. This one was a CFO at a local company. The other victims weren’t professional, educated type ladies. We got a couple waitresses, one convenience-store clerk, and a gal who worked a drive thru. This one was a professional. So, that’s a little different. The rest is pretty much the same.”

They talked for a few more minutes. Pat was running the show on the serial killer case and had had a few meetings with the chief. The mayor was putting the pressure on about the murders and wondered if increasing the detail or changing the detail leadership would be necessary.

“What did Flanagan say to that?”

“What do you think he said?”

Mac smiled. “Told the mayor to go fuck himself, huh?”

A small smile creased Riles face. “Yeah. I’m sure there was a certain level of political-speak involved, but that’s basically what he said. Of course, he can only do that for so long. We need to bring this sucker home.” Pat took another sip from his drink. “Man, do we need a break in this thing.” He shook his head and looked down.

They chatted for a few more minutes. Pat was drunk. Mac made eye contact with the bartender and nodded towards Pat and made a steering motion with his free hand. The bartender returned the nod and scampered off. A minute later Bobby Rockford, a member of Pat’s detail, ambled over and offered Pat a ride home. Well, it wasn’t really an offer, it was a “try to drive and I’ll kick your ass” proposition. Pat, too tired to argue, took the last sip of his Dewers and headed out with Rock.

Mac ordered another beer, grabbed a newspaper and menu from behind the bar and took an open booth by the front window, away from the crowd. His cousin Kelly came over and chatted him up for a few minutes, then took his order for a BLT. Mac had just flipped open the Business section when he heard, “Mind if I join you?”

Mac looked up to see Sally Kennedy. “Evenin’, counselor. What brings you here?”

“Some friends were supposed to be here, but I’m a little late. They seem to have left.” Kennedy took a look around. She obviously wanted to have a drink, but who wanted to drink alone, other than George Thorogood? Mac offered, “Grab a seat. I just ordered something from the kitchen. Hungry?”

Kennedy smiled her thanks. “No. What’re you drinking?”

“A Guinness. Can I order you one?”

“Sounds good.”

Mac motioned to Kelly, held up his glass and one finger. A beer was there thirty seconds later.

Kennedy thanked him and took a sip. “Quick service.”

“Helps when my cousin’s waiting on the table.”

Kennedy took a long drink. “I like the dark stuff. Especially if I’m only going to have one or two.”

“Exactly,” Mac replied. “If I have any more than three or four of these, I start getting full. I’ll usually switch over to vodka tonics or something.” Mac took a drink and a long look at Kennedy. “I couldn’t help but thinking that you and I met before?”

“We have.”

“Where?”

She smiled, and it was a nice smile. “Law School. William Mitchell. I knew who you were at the U of M because I went to the hockey games, but you’d remember me from Billy Mitch.”

Mac connected instantly. “That’s right! Now, I remember. We had a class or two together, I think, maybe third year?”

“Yes, I think that’s right. Stiffs and Gifts perhaps?” That was Estates and Trusts to most people.

“Could be.” Mac nodded.

“I remember seeing you over at Billy’s on occasion as well. I think with your wife.”

“Yeah, I was married back then.” Mac replied.

Kennedy sighed, “If it’s any consolation, detective, I’ve been divorced a year myself.”

“Ahhh. So, I have joined elite company?” Mac replied ruefully.

That caused Kennedy to smile. “Why, yes, detective, yes you have.”

Mac raised a mock toast, “To the newly divorced, and you can call me Mac. Everybody does.”

“Well, then, cheers, Mac. Call me Sally.” They clinked beers.

“Sally, let’s talk shop.”

“Good idea, but where’s your partner?”