“Kieran’s Pub. Now.” She hung up.
This had to be about the ICRs he’d asked for. Something must have gone wrong.
Bracing himself, Ian grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
12:37 P.M.
KIERAN’S IRISH PUB
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
There was no live music at this hour at Kieran’s. Only the murmurs of the lunch crowd and the competing smells of steak-and-mushroom pie, fish and chips, and burgers. From the entrance, Ian caught sight of Brook sitting at a small table near the back.
She hadn’t yet ordered herself a drink, he noticed as he approached the table. Stone-faced, she watched him take a seat.
“Do you know what Ed McMartin, Sean Callahan, and Rory Doyle all have in common?” she asked immediately.
“Is this the lead-in to some kind of Scotch-Irish joke?”
Her expression didn’t lighten. “Sorry, no. But don’t bother; I’ll tell you. They all knew your father.”
How could she have learned about his dad drafting the trust? And how stupid did he look now for not telling her in the first place? Before he could say anything, she slid a thick red folder across the table. Ian opened it.
Inside were a stack of Incident Case Reports. He quickly paged through them. From what he could tell, they all had Rory Doyle’s name featured on top. Taking another look, he scanned the first pages of each stapled ICR. They dated from the early 1980s, detailing surveillance in northeast Minneapolis—the neighborhood, Ian realized, where his father had grown up.
“What are you telling me here?” he asked.
“That’s only the first batch I’ve come across so far,” Brook said. “Now look through them more carefully.”
Ian tried to ignore her worrying tone as he turned his attention back to the reports before him. Each one described an event targeted for surveillance—mostly teenage parties at a house or houses in Columbia Heights. Each had a list of the persons identified at the event.
Ian looked up again, shaking his head. “I still don’t get it. What is it you want me to see?”
She grabbed one of the reports and opened it up in front of him. “This,” she said impatiently.
Her index finger was pressed against the list at the back of the first report. His eyes went to the end of her polished red nail.
22. Connor Wells.
Ian made it a point not to show his concern. “Huh,” he said evenly. “That’s a surprise.”
“Yeah. And this,” she said, sliding her finger further down.
37. Rory Doyle.
Ian could feel Brook scrutinizing him as she continued on. “You’ll also find Sean Callahan at most of the same parties the police were surveilling. And four of the parties took place at the home of Ed McMartin, your other guy. The reports don’t explain why, but it appears McMartin lent his house out for the teenage parties. The point is, that’s the trifecta of your beneficiaries—plus your dad. Apparently Rory Doyle, Sean Callahan, and your father all ran with the same crowd in their teens, a crowd with possible gang ties that warranted surveillance.”
Ian nodded, swallowing his reaction.
Brook’s expression tightened. “C’mon, Ian. Don’t act so nonchalant. You tell me you’ve been hired to check out a bunch of guys’ criminal histories for a trust, and out of the blue you find out not only that they were under potential criminal surveillance but that your own father used to run with them. Mild-mannered Connor Wells. Aren’t you just a little shocked?”
“Well, yeah, I’m surprised,” Ian said, working to stay calm. “But first, I was only hired to look for criminal history on these three going back twenty years, and these reports go back over thirty. Second, like you said, this looks like gang-related stuff. Just because my dad was at the same parties that included some gangbangers way back then doesn’t mean he was one of them—or even that he knew them. Dad grew up in Columbia Heights. That’s probably why they crossed paths.”
“Knock it off,” Brook said dismissively. “You’re not arguing a motion, Counselor. You’re talking to a friend. A friend who just took a big risk to bring you this information. Aren’t you just a teensy-weensy bit curious why your father is showing up with these guys, people somebody thought warranted a criminal check before handing them trust funds? Who also hired you of all people to do the investigation?”
“That’s not my concern,” Ian mustered weakly. “I’m just making a report and distributing cash. If my dad and they were teenage acquaintances, maybe they hired me because of name recognition.”
Brook looked about to explode. “Stop lawyering me—and stop sounding so defensive. Also, stop holding out on me. What’s going on with this case? How’s your father connected to this James Doyle Trust?”
“I’m not sure,” Ian said abruptly.
“Really? Okay, show the trust to me.”
Ian hesitated. “I can’t.”
Brook shook her head, then reached across and gathered up the reports, putting them back in the folder.
“You’re making me nervous, Ian. First, you used our long friendship to get information. I was okay with that. But then you tell me the contents of the trust are none of my business?”
“Brook, I don’t know why you’re getting so excited. It’s nothing sinister, I promise.”
“Really?” Her tone grew cool. “It doesn’t bother you that you’re using our friendship and won’t even explain why? You and I have known each other for eight years, and now you play off it to get something like this—knowing I’ll do it but keeping me in the dark.”
“You’re going the wrong way here.”
“Why didn’t we get past this in law school?”
“Get past what?” he said.
“The flirting. The friendship. Why didn’t you ask me out?”
Ian looked around the room, thrown at the shift in the conversation. “I don’t know . . .”
“That I can believe,” she stabbed back. Ian looked up at eyes that had grown distant. “Listen to you. Asking me Monday how Zach was doing. Like you cared. What’s wrong with you? And what are you doing with your life? You graduated with honors from law school, then took your dad’s little practice in his little office—even tying in with his old partner, making it near impossible to do the kind of legal work you claim you want to do.”
A server approached their table, saw their faces, and quickly swerved away.
Ian leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, Brook. I’m sorry about the ICRs. I didn’t want you to get into trouble, and I’m sorry I asked. But this trust thing isn’t a big deal—at least I don’t think it is. I just can’t talk about it yet. And I’ll admit, my dad being in these reports with the others—that’s a surprise, okay? I admit it.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“And I’m not ignoring the personal stuff. The truth is . . . I’ve wondered about what you said too. Really. But I don’t have any answers. Not just now.”
“You’ve never liked my dating Zach. So why haven’t you ever said anything?”
She wouldn’t relent. The pressure boiled over and came out. “Maybe because I could never picture you interested in me if you’d date somebody like him.”
His anger flattened at hearing his own words. It was, he knew instantly, a very bad summary and a half-truth at best.
“Really?” Brook said, dropping to a near whisper. “Well, that’s a little late, and weak since you never offered me an alternative. But how about this: maybe I dated Zach all these years because he might be ambitious, but he’s never used our friendship to get something for a client. Even if you’ve never approved of him, Zach’s got some notion of where he’s going with his life. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Zach and I broke up two months ago.”
Ian was stunned. “You said—”
“I know what I said. It was none of your business on Monday. You never made it your business.”
“Did you break up because of me?” The words hung, stark,
in the air.
Brook closed her eyes and shook her head. “Somebody’s thinking way too highly of himself.”
Ian finally succeeded in keeping silent. Brook opened her eyes and shrugged despairingly. “At least before this you were a good friend with a decent sense of humor.”
She got up and walked away. Ian numbly watched her leave.
He looked back at the table. She’d left the folder lying there. He stood, tucked the folder under an arm, and followed her out of the restaurant.
The streets were more crowded now as he left Kieran’s Pub for the blocks of walking back to his office. In the sunshine, people were abandoning the overhead skyways for a breath of fresh air at lunch or maybe some exercise. Ian unconsciously dodged hurrying pedestrians as he walked.
Waiting at a red crossing light, he stopped and pulled the top report from the folder, his chest still aching over his conversation with Brook.
He stared down at the page until someone bumped his shoulder as she passed. He looked up to notice the light was green. Despondently, Ian put the report away.
Why had he been so reluctant to tell Brook the truth? What he said was correct: his father knowing the beneficiaries didn’t necessarily mean anything. Then why would he hesitate to explain what he was doing?
Two hundred thousand dollars in fees maybe. Or maybe because he’d met one beneficiary who looked like he wanted to strangle him, and another who ended their first conversation with a threat.
No, the question wasn’t why he’d kept the details of the trust from Brook. It was why he wasn’t running for the hills himself.
16
JUNE 7
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Wrapped in a blanket of humidity, Ian felt panic building in his chest. He looked around.
Behind him was a pool. In front, an open patio door. Around each were grown-ups, talking and drinking and paying him no attention.
A man was walking away. Though frightened, Ian felt compelled to follow. He weaved through an ocean of pant legs and dresses as though being dragged in the man’s wake.
Ian came to a black piano, which stood like an island in the crowd. By the keyboard was a jowly man with an iced drink in one hand. He glanced down, then raised a stubby finger to point in a different direction.
The crowd parted the way he’d been directed, and Ian took the gap, soon finding himself standing before a closed door. He hesitated. Then he turned the knob and entered, closing the door behind him.
It was a square bedroom with a single window with drawn shades. A bed occupied the middle with chairs scattered about. A man was seated on the bed.
Ian stared at the seated man. He knew who he was. It was Rory Doyle. To one side of the bed were an old man and a large man, the old one seated with a hat in his hands, the large one leaning against the wall.
A voice stated, “What’re they doing here?” Ian turned to see the speaker, a fourth man who he knew instinctively was the man he’d followed from the pool.
“This is my house,” the man went on. “They’re spitting on her grave by being here.”
The old man with the hat in his hand spoke. “Nobody else knows them,” he said. “And we’ve business to handle.”
“She was my sister,” the man from the poolside said.
“Let it go, boyo.” It was the large man, speaking for the first time.
Ian also knew the large one, he realized. He’d seen him in a cemetery—and elsewhere too. His name was Sean Callahan.
“Ian,” a voice called from the dark corner by the shaded window. “Be a good boy. Go back to the pool now.”
This was a dream—or maybe several dreams shaken together and poured over him all at once. But the voice from the shadows instantly gilded it with a firmer sense of reality.
Fear began bubbling from Ian’s every pore. He wanted to run to the voice—for protection or to protect, he wasn’t sure. Even if he couldn’t see her, he knew it was his mother speaking, and that from her dark corner she was the only possible source of safety in this room.
Ian also knew, with a son’s certainty, that his mother was very afraid.
———
Ian opened his eyes tentatively. The tension headache was drilling into his forehead again this afternoon. He looked about, gaining his bearings.
He was lying on the love seat in the office library. The ICR reports were on the floor beside him. He’d lain down to rest after his meeting at Kieran’s with Brook and before heading to Mankato.
Within seconds of awaking, he could recall only the vaguest details of his dream. It was enough, though, to know he was creating a mosaic in his sleep around the people and events confronting him in this case and in his life.
It wasn’t a pleasant picture.
Katie’s heels approached down the hallway an instant before she appeared in the library door.
“Good,” she said. “You’re up. You said you wanted to get going about now.”
Ian rubbed his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Katie shook her head. “You want me to stay overnight with your mom?”
“No,” Ian said. “I’ll do it. Maybe I can get caught up on my sleep this weekend. If you could just cover the afternoon like we talked about.”
Katie nodded. “Done. Oh, by the way, those criminal background checks came back this morning. Nothing on Ed McMartin, Sean Callahan, or Rory Doyle.”
“No criminal records at all?”
“None. Nada. I’d asked for only twenty years back, but they reviewed them back to 1985. On all three guys.”
Ian was taken aback. Before his nap, he’d reviewed the ICRs Brook had given him. Given the surveillance, he’d expected at least one of them to have an adult criminal record. What did that mean about his concerns?
“Okay, thanks,” he replied.
Ian rose and went into his office to grab his sports jacket. Maybe he shouldn’t be so worried. Maybe he was letting Brook’s accusations make him too touchy about the case.
He headed back into the hall. As he passed her at the reception desk, Katie looked up.
“Got everything you need?”
“Yeah,” Ian said. “Get ahold of Harry and ask him if he can find time to call me on my cell. Tell him I want to find somebody on the ‘other side’ of the criminal defense business.”
Katie nodded. “He’ll know what that means?”
“He should.”
Ian took the stairs down to the parking garage. He’d made real progress today. If things went well with Rory’s ex and Harry came through, he might get his report done despite the short time limit. Take the money and move on to other priorities—like what he could do for his mother with the cash and how he should handle the malpractice case.
He slid into the Camry.
And what he’d do about everything personal Brook had resurrected at Kieran’s.
17
THURSDAY, JUNE 7
3:10 P.M.
SOUTHBOUND ON HIGHWAY 169
“So how’s the referral working out?” Harry asked the instant Ian accepted the call via the Camry’s Bluetooth.
Ian was watching for the exit into Mankato. Distracted, it took a moment to remember what Harry meant. “You mean the woman you referred on Monday? She hasn’t called yet.”
“That’s a surprise. You got her retainer I sent over, though, right?”
Ian thought for a second. “Haven’t checked. I’ll confirm with Katie.”
“Good. Oh, before I forget, my legal assistant has a sister you might hit it off with.”
Just like Talk Show, turning one conversation into three simultaneous ones, without the complication of anyone actually joining on the other side.
Ian ignored the blind-date offer. “I’ve got a situation,” he began instead. “I need somebody who knew the crime scene in the Twin Cities going back to the mid-1990s or before. Somebody on the street level who’d be willing to tell me if they recognized some clients as having been active in crime back then.”
“That’s easy,” Harry snorted. “Anthony Ahmetti.”
The name rang no bells. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t blame you for not knowing. He goes back a ways. Got his start when Elvis was doing Jailhouse Rock. He’s got to be pushing his mid-eighties now. Just got out after a long-overdue, late-in-life stretch in Club Fed.”
“Could he help?”
“Sure. He had his fingers in everything at one time. If anybody alive could recognize your clients, he could. The question is whether he’d be willing to help you.”
“How do I find this Ahmetti?”
“He’s private. I’ve tapped in a few times when I needed a history lesson for a case. I always came away with a slimmer wallet. But I can reach out. Anything more you can share?”
“I can’t explain much,” Ian said. “You can tell him none of the guys I want checked out are in trouble, as far as I know. In fact, they know I’m doing the search. I need the history due to a strange condition in a trust for someone named Doyle. And it’s urgent. Very urgent.”
“Okay,” Harry answered. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Give me the full name on the trust and I’ll try to set you up with Ahmetti.”
“James Doyle,” Ian replied.
“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ll see what I can set up for you. And think about my assistant’s sister.”
Twenty minutes later, Ian’s GPS announced he was nearing his destination, a little green rambler on the outskirts of Mankato. Ian was struck by the contrast with Callahan’s Summit Avenue house in St. Paul. Callahan’s place was a small palace in decline, while this modest house was neat as a pin—the lawn carefully mowed, garden hose neatly coiled near the front stoop, a new roof.
He sat for a while in the car, gathering himself before heading to the door. On his second knock, the door swung open.
The young woman who answered had crimson hair falling across her cheeks to her shoulders. She wore little makeup on pale, freckled skin, which only accentuated the redness of her hair. Dressed in a red T-shirt and tight jeans, Ian guessed she was just a few years older than him.
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