“How can I reach you if I have questions?”
“Same way Sean Callahan does. Leave a message at the bar.”
“That’s not good enough,” Ian protested. “I’ve got only six days to finish this after tonight.”
Rory shook his head. “You’re reporting to Callahan, and I’m not giving him any information on where I sleep.”
Before Ian could respond, Rory slid from the booth and stood to leave.
“Wait,” Ian said.
Rory looked back impatiently. “What?”
He suddenly wanted an answer to the question that had been a backdrop to his thoughts since meeting Callahan. “Why was my father hired to do the trust?”
The thin man’s eyes narrowed. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
Rory stared for a moment longer. “You’re the investigator. You figure it out.”
13
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6
8:35 P.M.
MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE
LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS
Martha Wells stood in her living room with the lights out, watching through a crack in the shades as Katie Grainger’s car finally drove away. The taillights were disappearing from view when she turned the inside lights back on and faced the boxes behind her.
Urgency gripped her. It wasn’t the hour. It was the strange sense that her world was dripping away, as though a tiny leak were draining her pool of awareness. Instinctively she knew she soon would be incapable of what she needed to do.
She forced herself to walk among the boxes. They all looked so similar, and already she couldn’t quite recall what she was looking for. A particular shape. Weight. Perhaps a color . . .
She was nearing the hallway off the kitchen when one the size of a shoe box drew her attention. Red masking tape made an X near a top corner. She brought it into the kitchen, retrieved a pair of scissors from a drawer, and cut the tape holding it shut.
A sheet of yellowed newspaper lay on top of its contents. She set that aside. Beneath was a pile of random objects. She stared at them for a moment. She could no longer reason why, but she knew this was it. She put the lid back on the box.
But wasn’t there another?
Yes. But she’d dealt with that . . . though she couldn’t recall how.
What had she planned to do with this one?
Oh. Of course.
Beside the refrigerator was the cupboard with the shelves Martha knew her family had always thought too high for her. She opened the door and stood on her tiptoes. With her fingers she could nudge the coffee cup that had MOM stenciled on its side, making the car keys inside jingle. With her fingertips she could just grasp the edge of the key chain inside and lift it out.
Placing the marked box under one arm, she headed out the back door and onto the concrete stoop leading to the detached garage.
14
THURSDAY, JUNE 7
5:55 A.M.
MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE
LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS
Ian opened his eyes. His old room, wrapped in early morning shadows, seemed unfamiliar. He sat up.
A stabbing pain shot through his head from temple to temple.
A stress headache. Ian rubbed his temples. They used to be common. This was the first one he’d had since high school.
Triggered by lack of sleep probably. Or stress. He looked at the white alarm clock on the nightstand. Sleep-deprived or not, he wouldn’t be getting any more rest this morning, not with this headache. He cradled his head for a minute longer before plodding down the hall for an aspirin and a hot shower.
His mother’s bedroom door was closed, signaling that she was still in bed. Her door had been closed when he’d gotten home from his downtown appointments the night before. On a whim he’d wanted to ask her if she knew anything about Dad’s work with the James Doyle Trust—and even contemplated waking her up to do so. But the better part of his nature had prevailed, and he let her sleep.
Shaving at the sink as hot water filled the bathroom with steam, he heard the distant sound of banging at the front door, followed by a muffled call. “Hello! Anybody home? Hello?”
Ian wiped the remaining cream from his face, put his clothes back on, and hurried into the hall. A police car was visible through the living room window, parked on the dark street. His heartbeat picked up as he rushed to open the door.
A stocky, uniformed officer stood on the stoop, thumbs hooked in his belt. “You can’t be Connor Wells,” he said.
“No,” Ian stammered. “I mean, this is his house. But that’s my dad. He’s deceased.”
The officer’s eyes widened. “Do you know Martha Wells?”
“Yes. She’s my mother.”
“Well, then I have your mother in the squad car.” He pointed over his shoulder.
“That’s not possible.” Ian glanced back toward the hallway.
“I’m afraid so. Looks like she was out driving all night and ran out of gas over near Children’s Hospital. She’s very confused. She asked us to get in touch with her husband, Connor Wells. Claimed she was driving to see him at his office last night. Does she have Alzheimer’s? Dementia?”
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s,” Ian said through a haze of concern. “She alright?”
The officer nodded. “She’s fine. A patrol found her seated by the side of the road down on Lake Street looking lost and scared. We confirmed her license was still good, so we didn’t ticket her. I take it by your reaction that you didn’t know she was out last night.”
Ian shook his head, growing self-conscious. “She must have snuck out while I was at a meeting. When I got home, I assumed she’d gone to bed.”
The officer looked Ian in the eyes. “You seem appropriately concerned, so I’m returning her to your care. But you may need to look into a memory-care facility. If we have another incident, I’ll have to engage State Protective Services. At the very least, my advice is that you take away her keys.”
“I thought I had.” Ian let out a sigh. “Thanks for helping out.”
“It’s alright,” the officer said. “How about I drive you both to get some gas and pick up her car? Saves you from making other arrangements for a tow.”
Ian repeated his thanks and rushed to grab his shoes and wallet.
His mother stared out the passenger-side window as Ian drove the back streets returning to the Lynnhurst home. Her hair was flat and dry, her clothes wrinkled from long wear. Worse, she wasn’t speaking, and her eyes had a haunted look that amplified his guilt for having left her alone the night before.
After a few attempts at talking, he’d let her be until they were back inside the garage and he’d turned off the engine. “Mom,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “the next time you want to hit the clubs at night, wait for me, will you? I’ll be your bodyguard.”
His mother didn’t look his direction. “I don’t know what I did last night,” she said in a monotone.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he answered lightly, saddened by the uncommon self-pity in her voice. “We’re home now. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ll come in later and check on you.”
She left the car, treading silently out of the garage toward the back door that led to her kitchen. Ian watched the garage door close behind her.
The instant she was out of hearing, he pounded the steering wheel with his fists. This isn’t happening! Not now. He was not moving her out of her house and into a memory-care home. He’d figure something else out. Extend Livia’s hours. Hire a night nurse. Move home himself . . .
His hands ached as he took a deep breath, refusing to dwell on the truth—that all options were either unaffordable or impractical.
Unless he could finish the trust work successfully.
As Ian moved to exit the car, his eye caught sight of a box in the back seat. It was shoe-box size, with a red X marked in masking tape on top. Just like the one with the handgun in his trunk. He leaned over the seat and retrieved it.
By the time he’d reached Martha’s bedroom, she was already in bed, the covers rising and falling gently. Ian stood for several minutes in the doorway to be sure she was asleep. Quietly he made his way to the bathroom to resume his delayed shower.
When he returned to the kitchen dressed for work, he went first to the box on the table. He noticed the tape that once held the flaps closed had been cut away. He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge, sat down at the table, and opened the box.
Inside was a folded, yellowing newspaper. Ian studied it momentarily, then set it aside. Beneath the paper was a stack of objects. He pulled them out, one by one. Five sets of thin gloves, the leather lining cracked and aging. Two dated-looking ski masks. A screwdriver. Other metal tools he didn’t recognize.
All old junk. The sight only made him sadder. What possible reason was there for his parents to keep this stuff among Dad’s things all these years—any more than the rest of what lined the living room? And how had this particular box made its way to the car like some special treasure? How far and how quickly was his mother slipping away?
His cellphone rang, startling Ian from his thoughts. With a glance toward the hallway and his mother’s room, he answered it.
“Good,” Sean Callahan’s deep voice rumbled over the line. “I caught you. Meet me at the security desk in the Wells Fargo Building on Sixth Street at eleven tonight.”
“Eleven? What for?” Ian asked.
“It’s arranged. We can set up the special account at your firm and transfer over the trust funds.”
Ian shook his head. “Nobody’s going to do a wire transfer at eleven at night.”
“Just meet me there,” Callahan growled. “Bring an acknowledgment form for everybody to sign after the transfer.”
He hung up.
Ian stared at the phone. Another strange night ahead. And he was already dragging from two nights of little sleep.
He glanced once more down the hall. He should stay home today. Take the opportunity to gauge how much his mom’s decline was accelerating. But if he did, he couldn’t get anything done on the trust. After tonight, he would be down to five days and nights to complete the work.
He needed that money. He had to keep working today. Martha would be asleep for hours, probably all day. And if she got up, she’d be fine. She’d been without nightly supervision without a single incident before today. Even during the day, Livia was there only three days a week.
Ian patted his pockets, confirming he still had the keys to his mother’s car. He wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving them behind again. And he’d check in every few hours, get more help from Katie if necessary.
Ian left a note for his mother on the kitchen table. Dinner with Brook tonight, but I’ll be back early enough for a game of gin if you’re up. Then he went back outside, the box of junk in one hand and the yellowed newspaper in the other, and stuffed both into a garbage can in the garage.
It’d be fine, he told himself as he headed out to his car in the driveway. He just needed to get the trust case done. Afterward he’d look into what could be done for his mom.
It’d be fine.
15
THURSDAY, JUNE 7
10:23 A.M.
WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Ian looked up from Rory Doyle’s papers in his hand as Katie came through the door.
“Just got back from my morning errands,” she said cheerfully. “Wondering if you needed anything.”
“I’m okay,” Ian said. He told her about Martha’s driving incident the night before. “Do you think you could break away again and stop by to see Martha? You know this is all on the clock.”
Katie held up a hand. “I know, hon. Really, it’s fine. Not a whole lot of work here to fret about. When do you want me to go?”
“Maybe midafternoon. I’ve got a late appointment, and I’m supposed to meet Brook for dinner tonight. But I’ll cancel with Brook if you tell me she’s not okay.”
“I’ll let you know. What’s all that?” she asked, pointing to the stacks he’d created.
Ian passed a hand over the piles. “I met with Jimmy Doyle’s son last night. This is what he gave me.” He dropped a finger onto one of the thicker stacks. “He’s got six years of tax returns—mostly from the late ’90s and early 2000s. Haven’t figured out how he’s made a living since then.” He moved to a smaller stack. “This is a list of former employers with names of supervisors.” Then he lifted a single sheet. “Here’s a chronology of Rory’s addresses over the years, plus information on his former spouse and his children.”
Katie nodded. “You want me to look over the trust document now?” she asked breezily. “See if I recognize it?”
Should he? Ian looked up at his legal assistant’s face, which signaled just how badly she wanted to see the details of the trust. “Not now, thanks,” he defaulted. “Later.”
“Okay.” She turned and left.
That was way too easy. It was unlike Katie to let it go without questioning him. He’d have to give it to her sooner or later. Maybe getting somebody in on this would ease his anxiety. Maybe his secrecy was fueling his paranoia.
Tomorrow. Yeah, that made sense. He’d fill her in tomorrow. Things would be clearer by then.
He turned back to the nearest pile.
12:13 P.M.
The sunlight was still bright in his office as Ian finished another call. Leaning back wearily, he took a long sip from the coffee at his elbow and then picked up the legal pad to review his notes.
He pondered the few useful things he’d learned through a long morning of calling Rory’s contacts. The son of Jimmy Doyle had been a real estate agent when his mother died in ’98—work he soon gave up. Jobs got progressively rougher and more random after that: driving a forklift, blacktop work, replacing railroad ties for Burlington Northern, a bouncer in St. Paul—which was hard for Ian to imagine given Rory’s slim figure. Then the last few years, he’d been jobless.
Several of the businesses were long gone. A few of his supervisors recalled Rory with comments like, “He just didn’t show up one day,” or, “I liked him, but he was a mess.”
An owner of a small house-painting company described the nervous, angry man Ian had met with the night before: “Saw him nearly kill another employee one day. The guy must’ve known Rory, because he made some remark about his kids. Rory almost took him out. I fired them both on the spot.”
If he was psychoanalyzing Rory, that story might have been useful. But that was Adrianne’s job, not his. Even so, the story fed a grudging pity for the guy, who must be even more troubled than he looked.
The bottom line: no one even hinted that Rory Doyle, son of Jimmy Doyle, might be into anything “criminal” since his mother’s death. There wasn’t even a sign he was living beyond his means since the trust was created.
Ian picked up the sheet with Rory Doyle’s family information. Lisa Ramsdale, formerly Lisa Doyle, had retaken her maiden name after their divorce finalized in 2000. She was living in southern Minnesota, just outside Mankato. Rory had given Ian her phone number and address.
He reached for the phone and punched in the number. A sleepy voice answered.
“Lisa Ramsdale?” Ian asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m an attorney from Minneapolis.”
“An attorney for who?”
“The estate of James Doyle. I’ve been hired to help distribute some proceeds of the estate. Your ex-husband and children are potential heirs.”
He expected a positive reaction—at least at the notion of her children inheriting. Instead the line went dead for an instant. “I’ve hardly seen Rory for ten years,” she said at last. A nervous trill had crept into her voice. “Not since the kids were grown. I’ve got nothing to say about him.”
“Ms. Ramsdale, I said that your children could qualify for the inheritance as well.”
“I heard you,” she muttered. “Jimmy Doyle’s be
en dead for a decade and he’s still haunting us. The money’s poison, just like he was. Cursed. It ruined Rory. It’s already hurt the kids. I want nothing to do with it.”
“I only have a few questions,” he rushed before she hung up. “Don’t you want to give your children a chance at the bequest? It’s a lot of money.”
He’d caught her. The line was still active.
“What kind of questions?”
“I need to know whether Rory Doyle was involved in any criminal activity after his mother died.”
Her voice dropped a notch. “Why that?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Ramsdale, I can’t say.”
He could almost hear the calculation on the other end of the line.
“What happens if I say yes?”
“Please, Ms. Ramsdale. Just the truth. False information could jeopardize your children’s entitlement to part of the money.”
It wasn’t exactly true. It was what Harry Christensen called “an essential untruth”—which he’d defined for Ian as “a lie necessary to get at the truth.” Only Talk Show could keep a straight face at the irony of that justification.
“Mom,” Ian heard in the background, “who’re you talking to?”
The line crackled, as though something had been pressed against the receiver. “I can’t do this by phone,” the ex-wife said some seconds later. “If you want answers, you’ll have to come to Mankato.”
Ian thought about the time bleeding away on his investigation. Yet this was an essential witness. “Can you meet with me this afternoon?” he asked.
The phone was muted again with more crackling. “Yes,” the ex returned. “Three-thirty.”
“Alright. I’ll be there.” But the line was already dead.
Before he could absorb the idea of an unplanned drive to Mankato, the direct line on his desk phone began ringing.
“Law office,” he answered.
“Let’s meet early.” Brook’s voice this time, curt and businesslike. “Make it lunch instead of dinner. Today.”
Ian stiffened. “Okay. When and where?”
Fatal Trust Page 8
