Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  Ahmetti settled in deeper, looking unhurried. “So you’re pegging this around the time Rory Doyle’s mother died, huh?”

  Another surprise hit Ian.

  “Don’t look so wowed,” Ahmetti said. “I nearly went to Christina’s funeral. Couldn’t make it because of a business matter. But I knew Jimmy.”

  “You knew James Doyle?”

  “Everybody knew Jimmy. Everybody in the know, anyway. Jimmy kept his head down, under the radar. Still, he was high in the business.”

  The conversation was taking a turn Ian hadn’t prepared for. “What are we talking about here?”

  Ahmetti smiled grimly. “Ever heard of Kid Cann?”

  He had. Ian felt his stomach clench.

  “Jimmy was part of the Kid’s system,” Ahmetti went on. “The liquor racket that replaced prohibition. You must know this, in your line of work. The Kid cornered the market on liquor licenses, with the help of a lot of grease and easy-to-buy officials. Anybody wanted a license to sell liquor in the Twin Cities, they’d go to the Kid. The system held up into the seventies. Of course, by the time Christina died things were very different. Minnesota guys like the Kid and Davie Berman, who’d been respected back in their day, they were gone. At their height, they were like Meyer Lansky out East, or Capone in Chicago—who left the Twin Cities alone out of respect for Cann and the rest of ’em. But by the eighties and nineties, they were all like old smoke. Nobody knew where they’d gone. The average person around town never even heard of ’em.”

  “You’re saying James Doyle worked for Kid Cann,” Ian said, stunned, “that he was operating in organized crime here in the Twin Cities?”

  Ahmetti’s expression slid into disappointment. “I thought you were Talk Show’s friend. ‘Organized crime.’ Lawyers love labels. Lawyers organize an industry charging five hundred an hour to people who don’t want to hire them. Kid Cann gave services people desperately wanted for a tenth of the price. And Cann was the ‘organized criminal.’ Since your generation doesn’t like hurtin’ people’s feelings, let’s use the phrase undocumented money transfers.”

  Ian stared across the table, his original questions all but forgotten. “Did James Doyle build his estate with illegal money?”

  Now Ahmetti looked amused. “So you’re adding Jimmy Doyle to the list of characters you want to know about? Let me see: Jimmy Doyle, Rory Doyle, Ed McMartin, Sean Callahan. I’m gonna need a scorecard. And we haven’t even talked about compensation.”

  Ian paused. “What do you want?”

  “I’m a simple man these days, Mr. Wells. Life gets that way after eighty.”

  “What do you want?” Ian asked again, keeping his tone respectful.

  Ahmetti shook his head. “You’re young and haven’t got a ring. But someday you’ll see: children are the joy and the bane of life. Great to age ten, a crapshoot after that. You can raise ’em to respect themselves and still they disappoint.”

  Ian nodded quietly.

  “My brother’s grandson, my grandnephew,” Ahmetti said, “he got caught selling oxycodone at his high school. Quite a thing, don’t you think? An eighteen-year-old selling a prescription medication to get high. I suppose it’s higher class than glue. Anyway, I want the charges dropped.”

  “I’m not a prosecutor,” Ian said.

  “Yes, but your friend Brook Daniels is. And she’s gotta have friends at County.”

  This time Ian didn’t even try to hide his surprise. “I don’t know how you learned that, but I can’t get that for you. Trust me on this.”

  Ahmetti shrugged. “Another disappointment. For both of us.”

  Answers he wanted felt inches away. “I can’t get any favors from Brook Daniels, but I can get your grandnephew free representation. I’ll do it myself if I have to. And if he hasn’t got a record, he’ll walk without jail time. Probably need a program, but no jail time.”

  Ahmetti’s eyes seemed to cloud over. “You’d promise that, would you? Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Wells. Old as I am, making me a promise you may not be able to fulfill could still be risky.”

  Ian felt his stomach churn some more. “I can make it happen,” he said, wondering if his three necessary lies in a day were bad luck.

  “What I’m asking—what you’re offering—it’s nothing,” Ahmetti said. “But I’m going to take it anyway. Mostly because I don’t care what happens to Rory Doyle or the rest of ’em, but also because now you have me curious to see if you can deliver for my grandnephew. We’ve got a deal. Now, what do you want to know?”

  Ian quickly sorted his priorities. The last question came spilling back. “Was Jimmy Doyle’s estate made up of illegal money?”

  Ahmetti paused. “Come back to that one. Ask me another.”

  Ian hesitated. “Tell me about Rory Doyle. I need to know whether he was into anything criminal after the mid-nineties.”

  The elderly man turned thoughtful. “What happens to Rory if I say yes? His old man plant some poison pill in his will or something? ’Cause that would have been Jimmy all over.”

  Ian’s discomfort deepened at Ahmetti hitting so near the truth—again. “I thought we had a deal,” he replied.

  He leaned toward Ian and nodded. “The young Doyle had a habit of taking things that weren’t his own in his day.”

  Ian felt unexpected disappointment. “How do you know that?”

  Ahmetti smiled. “Did you know that Ahmetti’s an Albanian name? People think I’m connected, but how many connected Albanians are there? Still, what people assumed about me brought me business. As a middleman.”

  “You fenced,” Ian said.

  “I helped with ‘undocumented asset transfers.’ Before my retirement, not a stereo, gemstone, or sports cars got resold in the Twin Cities that I didn’t know about.”

  “What kinds of things did you help Rory Doyle resell?”

  Ahmetti pursed his lips. “This. That. Things removed from homes and businesses when the owners weren’t around.”

  “Burglaries.”

  “Your word.”

  “After his mother died?” Ian asked.

  “I wasn’t keeping a timeline. But yes. For a while after his mother passed.”

  This was it. This would satisfy Callahan. “How about Sean Callahan or Ed McMartin?”

  Ahmetti shook his head. “They were employed with Jimmy back in the day. But after ’98? I know nothing about those guys being in the business in that time frame.”

  “And you knew about everything that moved?”

  The smile again. “I knew everything that moved.”

  “So, back to James Doyle’s estate—”

  Ahmetti held up a hand. “I don’t know every way Jimmy made his money. He started as part of Kid Cann’s organization back in the fifties, and Cann or his people were still operating into the seventies. That’s all I can tell you. But Jimmy was one of the smart ones, never spent a day in the state pen or Club Fed. What money he saved and where it came from, I don’t know. I can tell you this, though: by the early eighties, with Cann out of business, Jimmy was looking for work. Cann’s liquor business had dried up and, like a lot of guys from Cann’s organization, Doyle was hurting for money. Later I heard he’d retired in Florida.”

  Retired with nine million dollars—or a nest egg he grew to nine million.

  Ian took a deep breath. All this begged another question he was almost too worried to ask. “I’ve got another name for you. Connor Wells. Was he mixed up with Kid Cann’s organization?”

  Ahmetti wrinkled his brow. “Connor Wells. Relative of yours?”

  “My father. Ever heard of him being mixed up in the Cann rackets?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” Ahmetti said. “Nope. And now, it’s getting late. If we have nothing else—”

  “What about Rory?” Ian interrupted. “About him being into . . . undocumented transfers after his mother’s death—what proof can you give me?”

  “You doubt my word?”

  “My client may w
ant more proof.”

  Ahmetti looked to his drink again. Then he looked past Ian’s shoulder and cocked his head.

  A mountain of a man appeared just seconds later. Ian noticed his thick hands and knew instantly he was the guy who’d checked him for recording devices at the door.

  “Prima,” Ahmetti began, “tell Mr. Wells here whether Rory Doyle was still bringing us product after his mother died—after 1998.”

  The man looked like he was in his mid- to late forties, which meant he could have known Rory back then. He turned his big head and stared at the ceiling for a moment before nodding dutifully. “Sure,” he said. “He was.”

  Ahmetti nodded. “And tell Mr. Wells how you know he was still engaged in the business after ’98.”

  “Because he told Mr. Ahmetti he was getting out and then sold some product the same day. That was the fall of ’99.”

  “Now tell Mr. Wells how you know it was ’99.”

  The big man’s face grew more animated. “’Cause that was the year Fernando Vargas beat Winky Wright to keep his IBF light-middleweight crown. Wright had just dumped the Acaries brothers as managers. Vargas opened up in the bout with—”

  “That’s fine, Prima,” Ahmetti cut in. “Thanks, you can go now.”

  With a look of disappointment, Prima turned and ambled away.

  Ahmetti smiled. “Prima’s a regular savant with dates and events, so long as he can tie ’em to boxing. Satisfied?”

  Rory was into crime a year after Christina Doyle’s death. It wasn’t real proof. It was hearsay. No solid details, just the recollection of a boxing-obsessed giant. Even so, it was the kind of proof Callahan would likely accept.

  “Just one final question,” Ian said. “My father—Connor Wells—he represented Jimmy Doyle’s estate at one time. If he wasn’t associated with . . . Cann’s business, do you know why Jimmy Doyle would hire him?”

  For a moment, Ahmetti looked as though he was going to refuse to answer. Then with a nod, he said, “Since it’s about family, this one’s on the house. Your dad and Jimmy, they may have had a family tie. I stress ‘may have.’ Just a theory. But I say it because, in his corner of Cann’s business, Jimmy always worked with relatives. Rory. Sean. Ed. Jimmy didn’t trust anybody who wasn’t blood—or very, very close.”

  9:15 P.M.

  MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE

  LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS

  Ian parked the Camry next to his mother’s car in the garage this time, circling outside to pick up the paper. The headache was gone, replaced by deadening fatigue so powerful that he nearly missed the note tacked at eye level on the front door:

  Gardened with Martha till after dinner. She got a little cooked, but was her usual joyous self. Let me know what else I can do.

  Katie

  He doubted his mother had been up for much gardening after her long night. The note must have been there since the day before, missed when he’d come home in the dark. Regardless, Ian was swept with gratitude for Katie. He’d call to thank her again later. But now he wanted to focus on Mom.

  He found Martha sitting on the back porch, staring distantly across the yard. Her expression quickly cleared as she looked up at his approach.

  “Ian! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He took off his sports jacket and dropped onto a deck chair. “Sorry I’ve been so busy. I know I’ve been neglecting you this week. Everything okay?”

  His mother shook her head dismissively. “Fine. Katie was here for a couple of hours but left before supper.”

  Ian nodded, pleased at his mother’s better mood and memory after the adventures of the night before. Her eyes seemed clearer than he’d seen in weeks. Maybe, he told himself hopefully, the driving incident was an aberration.

  For several minutes, he tried to prime a conversation around their usual subjects. Despite her improved mood, nothing seemed to catch.

  “Mom,” he said at last, “can you handle getting beat at gin by your oldest child?”

  His mother’s eyes smiled back. “I’ll play if you’re prepared to shed tears, tough guy.”

  The season was too early for bugs yet late enough to avoid a chill. Evening shadows veiled Martha’s face until Ian could imagine being back in a time when they’d play cards on nights like this after Father and Adrianne disappeared for sleep—sharing sights and sounds that his early-to-bed dad and sister never knew. Like thin, gray clouds drifting across the face of a spring moon. The horn of a distant locomotive on quiet summer air. Dried leaves clattering across the yard in a fall breeze. The memories eased him, though he recalled that back then his mother rarely lost except on purpose. Now he was passing on winning cards to let his mom enjoy an occasional “gin.”

  “You know,” his mom piped up as she sorted a hand, “my grandmother used to be quite the poker player.”

  Ian looked up. “Poker?”

  “Oh yes. Your great-grandmother Netti lived on a farm near Madelia, and she and her husband, Orville, would have folks over for cards. She loved poker, so they’d usually end up playing five-card stud. Anyway, she had a glass eye, you see, and when the playing got a little more serious, she’d take it out. Didn’t even put on her patch.”

  “Why?”

  “She said it kept her opponents from noticing her tells.”

  Ian laughed. They so seldom talked about his mother’s parents or grandparents anymore. “You knew her growing up?”

  “I did. Heard some great stories. I was so sorry you didn’t really have any relatives around growing up.”

  He hadn’t. Martha had been raised by her mother, a single parent who, Martha long ago confessed, had borne her one daughter out of wedlock—a great stigma in her day in an Irish Catholic family. Maybe that contributed to her passing before Ian was old enough to know her. His grandparents on his father’s side had also died young. Neither parent had siblings, so cousins, aunts, and uncles weren’t part of his and Adrianne’s experience.

  He reached for a card, deciding that, with the mood high, now would be a good time to broach the trust. “Mom,” he began, “you worked with Dad at the office in his early years. Were you aware of Dad doing a trust for a James Doyle?”

  “Your father handled hundreds of trusts,” she replied.

  “This would have been different. Dad not only did this particular trust, he also got assigned the job of distributing the funds after a period of time. We’re talking lots of money, with a very big fee attached.”

  Her face swung toward him. He tried to read her blank eyes. “Why are you asking, dear?”

  “Because I’ve been hired to do the work instead.”

  She looked down and picked up his discard. “Are you going to do it?”

  “I already am. But it’s getting . . . strange. Strange people. Strange circumstances.”

  “Then maybe you should stop. You know what your father always said. ‘Actions have consequences.’”

  Ian hesitated. “Actually, Mom, that was your saying.”

  “Was it? Well, it’s just as true. It sounds like you should stop.”

  Ian heard the gong of the grandfather clock in the living room and pulled out his phone to confirm the time. Ten-thirty.

  He set his cards down on the table. “You win, Mom, I’ve gotta go. But think about whether you remember anything on the James Doyle Trust, will you?”

  “Of course. And you missed gin by a card,” she said, laying down her hand.

  Ian slipped his jacket back on and went out the front door to a choir of tree frogs across the street serenading the moon.

  He was anxious to get this bank meeting over with and then get some sleep. At least he’d had some time to spend with Mom, as well as a chance to see her doing better tonight.

  Almost her old self, he concluded as he circled the cul-de-sac and headed up the street past a darkened Subaru.

  20

  THURSDAY, JUNE 7

  10:51 P.M.

  WELLS FARGO BUILDING

  DOWNTOWN MINN
EAPOLIS

  A heavyset man in a suit appeared on the opposite side of the glass doors of the Wells Fargo Building, a security card in his hand. As Ian watched, he slid it through a card reader. The door unlatched with a click and Ian walked through.

  Sean Callahan was standing in the empty lobby beside the vacated guard’s desk, arms folded across his chest.

  “Randolph Fordham, this is Ian Wells,” he said curtly.

  Ian shook Fordham’s limp hand. The squat banker said nothing but immediately began walking toward the elevators.

  On the fortieth floor, the banker didn’t bother to turn on the lights as Ian and Callahan followed him down a dark hallway that felt like a long, narrow vault. Near the end of the hall, he led them into a room and flicked on the lights of a windowless office, empty but for a desk, a computer, and a few chairs.

  “This is a guest office,” Fordham explained. “The bank keeps it for visiting execs.”

  “Isn’t this all a little strange,” Ian said, “doing a wire transfer at night?”

  Fordham took a seat in front of the computer. “My counterpart in Grand Cayman was only available at this hour,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “Mr. Fordham,” Callahan explained to Ian, “made the arrangements for this service with Mr. Doyle twenty years ago when the trust was set up. I’m sure you’ve read the trust and know that besides makin’ tonight’s transfer to a new account, after your investigation, with you and I agreeing on who’s to receive the money, you’ll be directin’ Mr. Fordham concerning the final distributions.”

  “I also saw,” Ian said, looking back to the banker for confirmation, “that if we don’t agree, Mr. Fordham casts the final vote.”

  Fordham eyed Ian with a blank expression. “That’s correct. Now, I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a new account at your law firm in which to hold the trust money. Do you have the acknowledgment form?”

  Ian pulled the folded sheet of paper he’d prepared earlier from his coat pocket. Fordham read it quickly, then slid it back across the desk with a pen and several other documents. “Mr. Wells, please sign these forms to formalize the new account, and both of you will need to sign your agreement to move the trust proceeds into this account.”