She didn’t have the answers, but she knew that creeps like Dewey Nelson could care less about those less fortunate in the world. All that man cares about is himself, Tommy thought.
Punching up different websites on her laptop, Tommy searched and read everything she could find about Nelson.
There wasn’t a lot about his past.
A puff piece in the Twin Cities Current magazine gushed about Nelson and his success as an executive at MEDSTAT, a medical device company. The article talked about how his parents moved here from England to work for Nelson’s uncle, his mother’s brother. The uncle ran a successful diary farm and provided a job so Nelson’s family could garner citizenship.
Nelson and his little sister went to private Catholic school in the Minneapolis suburbs and then Dewey went on to get a law degree from the University of St. Thomas School of Law. He even spent some time working for the Bush Administration before he started in the medical device field.
After two hours of searching online, Tommy gave up. She couldn’t find a home address for Nelson. The closest she came was finding an article mentioning his Lake of the Isles home in a design magazine, but no address. She wasn’t surprised. Guy like that probably guarded his privacy closely. She didn’t blame him. But she also had a secret weapon – the news research department at the newspaper. She glanced at the clock, eleven at night.
Carla Jackson would have cleared out by then. She was probably home helping her kids with homework. Tommy would call her first thing in the morning.
Tommy tossed and turned all night long, imagining Nelson with a vise grip on Rafael’s arm, dragging him into Lake of the Isles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE NEXT MORNING TOMMY was waiting at the news researcher’s desk at eight, sipping on a latte with another one in her hand.
Carla Jackson pushed her sunglasses up and plopped her bag on the desk giving Tommy a questioning look.
“Good morning dear, talented, wonderful Carla,” Tommy chirped. “I brought you a soy vanilla mocha. With extra whip cream. I know it’s your favorite.”
“Good Lord, you are a chipper one for this early in the morning,” Carla growled and grabbed the mocha out of Tommy’s hand. Carla settled her tiny figure into her desk chair and logged in.
Tommy waited until Carla looked up, one eyebrow raised in irritation.
“You still here? Okay girl, give me the name, and then get the heck out of here until this mocha kicks in. I guarantee you it won’t be for at least twenty minutes. So, give me that name and then scat! Hear me?”
“Fine. Here. I wrote it all down for you,” Tommy handed her a sheet of paper. “Thanks, love. Have I mentioned lately that you are my very, very favorite news researcher at the paper?”
“Get out of here, I said. Let me do my job,” Carla said, waving Tommy off with one hand.
Tommy loped over to her desk, smiling. If anyone could find a home address for Dewey Nelson, it would be Carla Jackson. Tommy had often wondered why Jackson just didn’t tell the publisher of the News to shove it and start her own business as a world-class hacker. She could probably make more in one day than she did at the paper in an entire year. Probably all those good Baptist morals and values kept her at the newspaper with its pittance of a salary, Tommy mused.
Within fifteen minutes, Tommy’s desk phone rang.
“All right. I got it. He’s at 12556 Lakeshore Drive.”
“Oh thanks, Carla! You’re the best.” Tommy grabbed her bag and was ready to bolt out the newsroom door.
“Hold your horses. I’m not done. He’s got a rap sheet.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. It was a juvenile record. Expunged, but I got it.”
“Of course, you did.”
“He was convicted of exposing himself when he was seventeen. He apparently took a bunch of the neighborhood kids into a shed and wanted to play doctor.”
“Holy smokes!” Tommy’s stomach lurched madly. This is the man who had Rafael? She needed to rescue him this instant.
“I got more.”
“I’m listening.”
“His cousin is Danny Meko.”
The police chief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AGAINST HER BETTER judgment, Tommy thought she should touch base with Detective Kelly about what she’d learned. She was probably going to need his help. He acted ultra tough, but she sensed that deep inside, he was probably a big softie.
Straightening her white eyelet skirt and tucking in her pink tee shirt, Tommy tried to step lightly in her brown cowboy boots as she crossed the marble floor of the downtown precinct, trying not to draw too much attention to herself. Fat chance of that. Every secretary lifted her eyes to watch Tommy’s progress. She was hoping to try the door back to the detectives without announcing her presence, but she’d blown that.
Damn, I’m about as sneaky as a charging rhinoceros.
The receptionist, who was wearing a headset, raised her eyebrow at Tommy. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Detective Kelly.”
The woman frowned. “Is he expecting you?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“I’ll try him,” the woman said reluctantly, picking up her phone, “but I’m not sure he’s in.”
“Thanks.” Tommy’s smile was not returned.
She heard some commotion behind her as a group of cops walked in, carting fast food bags, and sodas. Kelly was in the group. Tommy raised her arm but he’d already seen her. Saying something to the other cops, he headed her way.
“Tommy St. James.” He drew out her name.
“Detective Kelly.”
Their eyes met and Tommy quickly looked away.
“Who are you here to pester now?” Kelly said with a drawl.
“Why you, kind sir.” Tommy did a little curtsy.
“That’s what I thought. Come on back.”
“Can we go somewhere a little more private?”
Kelly raised his eyebrow and Tommy blushed. Seeing the flush race across her cheeks, he immediately adopted a professional tone when he answered.
“Sure,” he said. “The conference room okay?”
Tommy made a face.
“My car?”
She nodded.
“Give me two seconds,” he said. He disappeared into the inner offices. Tommy picked up the paper. She re-read Parker’s story in the News. Parker cited several anonymous sources saying that investigators were looking at a possible connection between Jason Carter’s girlfriend and Belinda Carter’s death. However, police in Minneapolis refused to comment, denying that they were looking at anyone except Jason Carter. “This matter is still under investigation,” Chief Danny Meko said.
She read on. The story said investigators were also looking at reports that Belinda Carter had possibly kidnapped a small child before her death. Tommy couldn’t believe that the sentence made it into the story, but was relieved it was small and toward the end, almost as an afterthought. She was shocked it wasn’t in the headline and wondered why it had been buried in the story, but then when she read the chief’s comment about it underneath, she understood.
“Investigators are looking at whether Ms. Carter is connected to a missing child case, but whether the child is missing or not right now is unclear. The circumstances and situation is murky. We’re not even sure who exactly has custody of the kid so it is hard to say if he was ever missing. For all we know, the kid might have just returned to his home.”
Not missing? Returned home. What crap.
It was time to tell Detective Kelly what she knew.
When he returned, she met him with a grim smile.
“Can we take a drive?”
“Sure.”
He drove them to a Northeast Minneapolis parking lot up on a hill with a bird’s eye view of the city. A few other people had parked their cars there, eating their fast food lunch in their cars.
“So, spill it.”
“It’s D
ewey Nelson. The chief’s cousin. He’s the guy I think has Rafael.”
Detective Kelly let out a breath of air.
“I know.”
Tommy looked over at him in surprise. “You know?”
“Yeah. Ever since you said the name Dewey, I’ve suspected it was that clown. He’s bad news. And it’s even worse than I thought because the chief isn’t going to go after his own cousin.”
“Holy shit. The chief’s cousin?”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do since you dropped that name.”
“But would the chief break the law to protect a relative? A relative who might be a child kidnapper?”
“Well, let’s just say, I’m worried we’re not going to be able to touch that guy with a ten-foot pole.”
Kelly gripped the steering wheel in front of him and kept his gaze on the cityscape below.
“Okay. Here’s why. I took my suspicions to the chief. It did not go well. He told me there was no case. In fact, he told me to quit messing around worrying about an illegal immigrant and get to work making sure we have a rock-solid case against Jason Carter. But the thing is, Carter’s case has some holes in it. Even the D.A.’s office is starting to get skittish about it. There’s a chance the judge might not even bind him over for trial at his prelim.”
“Wow. That doesn’t happen very often.” Tommy watched a seagull ride the current circulating above the hilltop, wondering, as always, why seagulls lived in Minnesota.
“No, it doesn’t. And if it does, it’s going to make the police department look very, very bad. That’s the last thing the chief wants. If that happens, some heads are going to roll. I’m sure I’m in line.”
“Have you guys looked at Carter’s girlfriend?” Tommy remembered the photo of the Italian-American woman.
Kelly looked at her and swore. “I’ve already told you way too much. I could get fired just for telling you what I just did.”
“You don’t have to worry. I won’t say anything.”
“I know,” he said. “I guess that’s why I feel I can talk to you.”
Tommy scrunched her face in thought. “Okay, what about this, then. What if Nelson not only kidnapped Rafael, but also killed Belinda for taking Rafael away from him? Then you would solve that problem, right? You could let Jason Carter go, but still have the killer in custody. Problem solved.”
“Maybe.” Kelly turned to look at her, thinking so hard he bit his lower lip.
“Not maybe. Case closed, right?” She said.
“Okay. But it would make the chief look like an idiot. And that’s the case even if the murderer wasn’t his cousin. It’s just a bad deal all the way around.” He turned back and gave the steering wheel a light punch of frustration.
“It’s even more complicated,” he said. “When you told me the first name, I figured it was Nelson so I did some digging. Apparently, not very covertly. Within five hours, an FBI agent pulled me out of a meeting. She told me that I better keep my nose away from Nelson. He’s got some special immunity or something. He’s not only the chief’s cousin, but he’s also working with the government on a big bust. It has something to do with some illegal importing of defective medical devices or something. They aren’t going to go near him or he’ll blow their operation right out of the water. The federal agent did tell me that once they finish the op, I can have at him and she’d even help, but until then, he was off limits.”
“How long until the op wraps up?”
“June, most likely.”
“Three months? Rafael can’t be there that long. Nelson has a record for exposing himself to children. I have a feeling I know why he wanted to adopt Rafael. We’ve got to get Rafael the hell out of there as soon as possible.”
Kelly tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, gazing out at the skyline below him.
“You’re absolutely right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DETECTIVE KELLY DROPPED Tommy St. James off at her car, but didn’t go back into the station. Instead, he pointed his Crown Vic toward North Minneapolis, heading toward a small bar nearly hidden among warehouses on a side street not far from the freeway. No signs marked the bar. The only indication of what was inside could be gleaned from the two dragon sconces that flanked the front door. And a closer look might make someone wonder why the roofline was lined with barbed wire and dotted with security cameras. Most of the bikers parked behind the building out of view.
Most people steered clear of the squat brick building.
Kelly swung his unmarked vehicle into the dirt parking lot in the back. He didn’t call in his location to dispatchers. He reached into his glove box for his extra pistol, tucking it in his ankle holster before getting out of his car.
Tommy was right. They couldn’t wait for officials. They couldn’t wait that long, especially if Dewey Nelson had Rafael. Kelly suspected that Dewey was a sexual predator and they needed to get Rafael as soon as possible. Kelly needed help outside of the law.
When Kelly stepped inside, a hand full of men at the bar shot sideways glances at him. He ignored them and strode confidently across the room. A rat-faced man muttered “pig” into the silence but Kelly ignored him and pulled out the bar stool next to a huge, hulking bearded man.
“Bear.”
“Kelly.”
“I’ve got a story to tell you,” Kelly said, meeting the man’s eyes in the mirror.
The man nodded and a skinny mini-skirt clad woman with lank blond hair slid a cold beer over to Kelly. When she smiled, a small dimple appeared at her mouth and her eyes lit up, but she quickly looked down when Kelly smiled back.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Kelly said, popping the top of the Pale Ale. He pushed a ten-dollar bill toward her, but the woman blushed and turned away. “It’s on Bear.”
“I know. That’s for you,” Kelly said.
She hurried away. The rat-faced man at the other end of the bar swore under his breath and stomped out of the room, slamming a door that led to the interior of the clubhouse.
Kelly took a long swig and then told his story.
When he was done, Benny “Bear” Lawson took a long pull of his Grain Belt beer and scratched his tangled beard, his eyes gleaming with menace. “So, Sherlock, you got some soul-sucking, perverted bastard you need me to scare a little? I think I can handle that. In fact, it will be my pleasure to stomp my foot on that scumbag!”
What the big biker lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. And fierceness.
Bear turned to the woman behind the bar. “Hey Sally, do me a favor, sweetie, and put it on 86.7. They are doing a live broadcast of Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera in 1976.”
He waited while she found the station. “Turn it up a bit, doll,” Bear said, then closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure. His broad back in its ubiquitous patched leather jacket sagged against the back of the bar stool as he relaxed. His lips mouthed the words.
Kelly waited patiently, signaling to Sally to bring another round for the both of them. He plopped a twenty on the bar this time, securing both bills under an empty bottle.
When the song ended, Bear’s eyes snapped open, his smile disappeared and several lines suddenly creased his forehead.
“So, what’s this little pissant’s name? You say Dewey Nelson, huh?”
Kelly knew the story would piss Bear off. The big biker had a soft spot for kids. Bear’s wife had tried to kidnap their kid and move out of state. Bear had put a stop to that. Now, she and the kids lived in a duplex in town. Bear lived in the other half. Kelly and Bear bonded over both being divorced dads, but what had sealed the deal was a case where Kelly had saved Bear’s life in a shootout between gangs. Bear didn’t take that lightly. The debt Bear felt toward Kelly wouldn’t end until Bear was “stone cold dead” in his grave. But even so, Kelly was careful to never anger him. If Bear was pissed off at you, Kelly suspected that your family might never hear from you again.
Bear refused to snitch, but he didn’t mind helping Kelly hand
le things outside the law.
And, in return, Kelly made sure he only turned to Bear for help with the big things. A kid getting abused by a scumbag billionaire fit the bill. The only other thing Kelly had ever asked Bear for help with was once when he couldn’t find a suspect who had grabbed his girlfriend’s teenage daughter and run away with her.
Bear brought back the daughter, a little shaken up, but all in one piece. Her mother’s boyfriend was never heard from again. Kelly closed the case without asking any more questions.
Now, he turned to Bear. “Yeah, Dewey Nelson. Lives on Lake of the Isle in some big mansion. But there’s a slight problem.”
“Sure, there is,” Bear said, chuckling. “That’s why you came to me.”
“This dude Nelson is the chief’s cousin.”
Bear chortled with glee. “Ha. That makes it even better. Damn corrupt slime balls in power using their influence to take advantage of the innocents. Sounds like something right out of ‘All the King’s Men.’”
The opera-loving, bookworm biker never ceased to surprise Kelly.
“But it gets even worse,” Kelly said, taking a slug of his beer. “Nelson’s working with the feds on some export racket. They might have close tabs on him. He might even be wired. And his pad might even be under surveillance.”
“No, sweat. I can handle that.”
Kelly drained his beer and stood to leave.
“I’ll be in touch,” Bear said.
BEAR GOT BACK TO KELLY within the hour.
He and his gang would do a little recon tonight and then report back to Kelly on what they saw. One of Bear’s operatives, a woman, was going to target Nelson when he went out for his nightly drink at the ritzy Island of Lakes Club.
“Damn, you’re good, Bear,” Kelly said. “Sure you don’t want to be a detective?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
The plan was that the woman would come on to Nelson and try to finagle an invite back to his mansion.
“Marcia’s good. A real class act. Looks like a supermodel, acts like royalty. If anyone can do it, that gal can,” Bear said. “If not, we go to plan B.”
END GAME: A St. James Mystery (St. James Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
