Ian waved the gun in the air. “Then I don’t know. But I’ve got to have time to find it. For all I know, you took it.”
“Aye. That’s why I sent Aaron chasin’ after ya. That makes a lot of sense.”
Ian was growing concerned staying so long in Callahan’s house. He’d planned to confront the man and get out.
“I’ve had some time to think about Aaron showing up on my way here,” Ian said. “You could have taken the money, but wanted it to look like I took it before you put me into the hands of the police. Or you could have taken the money and then planned to make me disappear so the police would go chasing the wrong way.”
Callahan smiled. “Why in the world would I want the police anywhere near the trust money?”
“I don’t know that either. But somebody does. Somebody’s been circulating bills from an art heist—and the prosecutor’s office knows it.”
It was the first time Ian had seen Callahan look genuinely surprised. Surprised and worried. “What’re ya saying?” he asked softly.
Ian leaned forward. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office dragged me in for questioning yesterday. No, actually, the day before. They said they’d recovered stolen money from an old art theft. Some of the bills surfaced the day I deposited your cash retainer. In our conversation, the attorney brought your name up. Along with Rory’s and Ed McMartin’s.”
Callahan’s face grew ashen. “While I don’t admit to knowin’ what you’re talkin’ about, ya insult me if ya think I’m stupid enough to ever give a lawyer cash that could be traced to a theft.”
Which, Ian realized, made sense. He shook his head. “I don’t know then. I don’t understand any of this. But I’ve got to have some time to figure it out.”
The Irishman wiped his palms on his pants. “How much time?”
“Two weeks.”
Callahan shook his head again. “With prosecutors involved? Sounds like time has become somethin’ of a scarcity.”
“That’s your fault. Or the fault of whoever started circulating hot money.”
“I suggest ya look around at your other clients for that kinda behavior, Counselor,” Callahan hissed. “I hear ya represent a lot of criminal types.” Before Ian could answer, Callahan said, “Let’s stop bandyin’ this about. I’ll give ya three days—countin’ this one. That’s the same time ya had to complete your investigation for the trust. After Tuesday I’ll want the money and your report. You do a good job, ya still can have the big fee I promised.”
Ian didn’t believe the last statement in the least. He wanted to argue for more time, but discomfort was beating like a hot light on his skin. “Alright,” Ian said. “I also need some information.”
“Such as?”
“I have to know my father’s and mother’s role in this art theft. Other than Dad preparing the trust.”
The Irishman leaned forward. “I’m not sayin’ I know anythin’ about any theft, Counselor, but I’ll tell ya this. So far as I knew, your da did most of the things he did because he was married to your ma. Seemed to have a protective instinct about the woman. Kinda like his son. So she can tell ya what ya need to know.”
“My mother has Alzheimer’s,” Ian shot back. “She can’t tell me what I need to know.”
“I heard somethin’ about that,” Callahan replied. “Well, that’s all I have to say about the affair.”
Ian’s chest ached, filled with tension between wanting to press for more information and wanting to get out. “Then promise me that whatever happens, my mother will be safe. You’ll leave her out of it.”
Callahan paused. “That’s not an assurance I’m willin’ to give ya.”
“Why not?”
“Mostly I’d like ya to have an incentive to return the money. But also, because your mother and da have some responsibility here.”
“She’s got Alzheimer’s,” Ian repeated. “She can’t harm you.”
When Callahan didn’t budge—didn’t even blink—Ian raised the barrel of the gun. The next words came out as firmly as a statement in court. “If you harm her, if you even try to, I’ll kill you.”
Callahan grinned. “Still protecting her, little Master?”
A picture surfaced. Of staring into the face of a powerful man leaning down at a graveside, squeezing Ian’s shoulder until it hurt—and calling him that name.
His birthday dream. And something more.
Ian’s face flushed with rage. His finger strayed from the trigger guard to the trigger.
There was a click of metal. Ian turned his head.
The Marine was standing in the hallway leading to the front door, his clothes dark with dampness. In his hand was a new gun.
Ian exhaled. He moved the finger away from the trigger and lowered his weapon.
“Ease off, Aaron,” he heard the Irishman say once Ian’s gun barrel pointed to the floor. “Our guest was just leavin’. We’ve come to an understandin’.”
Callahan followed Ian to the front door, where Ian slid the gun under his shirt and belt before stepping out onto the stoop. Once there, he stopped. An impression took shape in his memory. Another image from his dreams. He turned back to Callahan. “Tell me, are you going to keep your promise to Jimmy Doyle not to harm Rory if I prove it was him who took the money?”
Callahan’s eyes widened into a stare—looking every bit as though he were staring at Jimmy Doyle’s ghost and the specter was looking back, straight into his heart.
“You’ve quite a memory, boyo,” the Irishman murmured. “You weren’t more than nine or ten at the time. But I’d suggest ya be forgettin’ that conversation and concentratin’ your questions on findin’ that money instead. Because if ya fail at that, there’ll be nobody ya care about who’ll be safe.”
36
SUNDAY, JUNE 10
10:39 A.M.
U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
As her call on her cell was answered, Brook nearly jumped in surprise. “Katie?” she said anxiously. “Katie, is that you?”
“Yes, Brook. It’s me.”
“Katie, I know you don’t trust me,” Brook said quickly, “but I’m trying to help Ian as much as I can. My office is trying to find him because they think he has access to stolen money from an old case—that he had some role in handling or laundering the cash. I don’t think they’re right. I’m putting my career on the line here, Katie.”
“It’s alright, hon. Slow down. Ian said I should trust you. It’s okay.”
Brook let out a sigh. “That’s great. Do you know where Ian is? I spoke to him last night. He was using somebody else’s phone.”
Katie gave a shaky whistle. “That’s the million-dollar question. I talked to him too—real short. It sounded like he was hitchhiking somewhere. Girl, this is getting out of hand. I don’t understand why Ian would disappear for so long with his mom in such rough shape. It’s not like him. And Martha’s place got broken into last night.”
“A break-in?”
Katie described the burglary at the house. “First thing this morning, I got her out to a cousin’s place who’s on vacation. I’m staying with her now.”
“Did you report it?”
“What do you think?”
Brook hesitated. “Katie, I think we can do a lot more good if we work together. I’ve got to know more about what’s going on.”
“I agree. I’m scared. Really scared. I’m afraid to even go to the office. I don’t know when to answer calls on my cell. Could my phone be bugged?”
Brook hesitated. Was she really about to cross that line? From making a few calls and subtle hints in an interrogation to full-blown obstruction?
“You’re not being bugged—at least not yet,” Brook answered. “They won’t have gone that deep with Ian still mostly a suspected material witness. Staying away from the office? Not sure. It may be a good idea right now, though I don’t know if they’re watching it or not. Martha’s house as well.”
She�
�d done it. Crossed the line. Ian, you’d better be the man I think you are.
Brook’s phone vibrated with an incoming message. She held the phone out to read it: 11:00 lunch, where we met this week.
The number was one she didn’t recognize. But this week she’d only met one person for lunch outside the office.
“Katie,” she said excitedly, “Ian’s trying to reach me. I’ll call you this afternoon. Don’t answer any calls except from me or your family.” She paused. “Any numbers you don’t recognize—or even a call from me—don’t answer until the third try.”
“Okay.” Katie hung up.
Brook looked at the time, grabbed her briefcase, and headed to her closed office door.
She was turning down the hall toward the elevators when she saw Chloe at the far end of the hall. The clerk glanced in Brook’s direction.
Minutes later, Brook left the federal courthouse. She was nearly to the corner when a careful glimpse over her shoulder revealed what she’d suspected from her glance into the law clerk’s eyes.
Chloe was leaving the courthouse fifty yards behind, following in her direction.
11:12 A.M.
Standing in the foyer of Kieran’s Irish Pub, Ian shifted back to his left foot, juggling in his right hand the phone he’d just bought to text Brook. The shirt and suit pants he’d worn the past three days felt stiff and uncomfortable. The single gun he’d kept in his possession was a hard, cold lump against his back.
He was about to check the time again when something tugged on his elbow.
“Ian,” Brook whispered. “Come with me.”
She looked so fresh and pretty and safe, even trailing a hint of her perfume, that Ian felt the urge to kiss her. She didn’t give him the chance. He followed as she walked rapidly through the restaurant.
They came to the kitchen door, and Brook pushed through with Ian following. Startled staff looked up; one or two protested. They passed out a back door and into the street.
Ian kept following until they’d crossed Hennepin Avenue, where Brook ducked into the foyer of an old office building before finally stopping.
“Are things worse than I thought?” Ian asked as she turned to face him.
Brook shrugged. “Maybe. Nothing new in the investigation so far as I know, but I have a law clerk on steroids watching me. I don’t know yet what she’s figured out. I think she followed me when I left the courthouse.”
Ian’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t take you further into this.”
“Too late, cowboy. I just advised your legal assistant how to avoid detection by the police. I even gave her a code to avoid phone calls. So we’re past noble gestures. Just repeat what you said on the phone again. You know, the innocence thing?”
“I swear, Brook, I haven’t done anything wrong. Not intentionally anyway.” He hesitated. “Not sure I can say the same thing about Connor and Martha Wells.”
Brook watched his eyes carefully as he spoke. When he finished, she took his hand and led him through a side door to the fire escape staircase. They sat together on one of the concrete steps.
“Alright,” she said with finality. “All of it.”
It took nearly an hour to bring her up to speed. The only part he hedged was telling her more about the shooting in Northeast Minneapolis. He held that back, halting the story with the fight at the bar. That and his mother’s words the previous night about exchanging information with Ahmetti. For some reason, that seemed too fresh and personal to share just now.
He ended with the impressions, images, and words he could recall from his recent dreams.
“Those are no dreams, Ian,” she said. “Or at least you’re dreaming from something you actually experienced.”
“Yeah,” he acknowledged. “I figured that part out. I have to have been with my mom at the ’98 Doyle funeral in Florida and afterward. Getting involved with Callahan and Rory Doyle has brought those memories to the surface. I can’t say how much, but I saw and heard at least some of what I’m dreaming. And the old man has to have been Jimmy Doyle.”
“You mentioned dreaming something about a painting and a date,” Brook said. “You should know one of the Rockwells stolen was The Spirit of 1776.”
Ian stared at Brook. “I wish I could remember more.”
“You remember enough. If you’re right about even half of it, your dad was up to his eyeballs in this.” She thought a moment. “That part about your mom telling Jimmy Doyle they didn’t want the money? Whether they ultimately took it or not, it would have to mean your dad was entitled to a share of the money. Which means he must have participated at a high level in whatever they did. So your dad must have known everything. Including about the killing.”
Ian felt the blood go out of him. “What killing? You’ve never mentioned a killing.”
Brook’s eyes filled with worry. “Sorry. Don’t know why, but I just assumed you knew.”
“I’ve got to hear it all now. All of it.”
Brook leaned back on her elbows and told him about the crime. She related it like an opening statement at trial. Ian listened with pained but grudging admiration. So detailed. Almost personal. Through the shock at what she related, he recalled that he hadn’t seen Brook in trial in years—and that she must be very good. Hearing her skilled portrayal of the crime made his father’s role in it that much more sorrowful.
By the time Brook finished with the shooting of the security guard, Ian felt sick. He recalled his mother’s comments, telling “Connor” they had to be done with this once and for all.
“Look, I’d rather you wouldn’t pass on the crime details to Katie just yet,” he said. “I don’t want to draw her too far into this.” Brook nodded her agreement.
Ian leaned forward and pulled the gun from behind his back.
“That’s what you threatened Callahan with?” Brook asked. “Is that your dad’s gun?”
Ian nodded as he ejected the magazine. “Yeah. I stashed another one in Loring Park.” He went silent as he counted. “There are two bullets missing,” he said softly.
“You haven’t fired it?”
“Nope.” He pushed the clip back into the grip.
“You know how to use it, though?”
“Well enough. I took a class in college.”
Brook shook her head. “Ballistics could prove if that gun was used in the art theft thirty-five years ago.”
Ian felt worn and jagged. “A week ago, my dad was a quiet guy who took care of his family and didn’t overcharge his clients. Not wealthy like your folks, but content to make an honest dollar. Now ballistics can prove he was a murderer at a multimillion-dollar art theft whose only saving grace was that he may have turned down his share of the money after killing a security guard.”
Brook looked away. “Sorry. Telling you that way, I must have sounded clinical. This has got to be terrible for you.”
In the distance Ian heard people entering the foyer, followed by elevators rising. A few muffled voices passed through as well. No one entered the stairwell.
“The only thing worse than my dad’s involvement is my mom knowing about the crime and just carrying on. Living her life with Dad—raising her kids—like nothing happened. It changes everything I know about her too.”
“Ian,” Brook said, taking his arm, “you don’t know what she knew or when she learned about any of it or how she felt about it. You told me your parents didn’t even get married until 1987. That was four years after the art theft. Look, this is really, really hard, but we’ve got to set some of this aside for now and try to figure out what’s going on. Size up who took the money, for starters. Before it’s too late.”
He looked at her and nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. You’re right.”
“Good. Now, let’s start with motive to steal the money from your account.”
“Okay.” Ian thought for a moment. “Either Rory or Sean had plenty of motive to take the money. Sean could have wanted all of the trust cash and not just his share. He hadn’t the op
portunity under the trust terms until the banker moved it the other night, because the trust said until then only the banker was to have the account information on where the money was being stored. On the other hand, Rory had motive because it’s looking like he didn’t qualify for his share at all.”
“Yes,” Brook said, “but we’ve got to assume that whoever stole the cash from your account is likely the same one who’s been passing hot money the past couple of weeks. Who had a motive to do that?”
“Nobody,” Ian said. “Throwing around hot money would get the FBI to sniff around and maybe reopen the case—just at the moment they’d planned on taking the cash for themselves.”
“There’s one possibility,” Brook began. “The thief might have wanted to spread the hot cash to set you up for the blame. They could have assumed that once the money disappeared from your account, you’d likely go to the police yourself and the case would get reopened anyway. So the thief might have been trying to set things up in advance to look like you were the one who stole the trust money. Then you couldn’t go to the police. Plus there’d be the added benefit that the other trust beneficiaries would also think you were the thief.”
“I said something along those lines to Callahan last night,” Ian said. “I suppose that when my dad was still the lawyer set to handle the trust distribution, there wasn’t any risk he’d turn to the authorities, since it looks like he was involved with the art theft. But once he died, things changed. Come to think of it, that’s why I was the natural to replace him as the attorney for the trust.”
Brook looked perplexed. “Why?”
“Think about it. That decision was Callahan’s to make. If Callahan never intended to take the trust money for himself—you know, was content to allow it to be distributed and just get his share—his choice of me to replace Dad would make sense, because if I learned about the art heist, there was at least a chance I wouldn’t go to the police since it would implicate my own parents. Especially my living mother. But if, on the other hand, Callahan was always planning on stealing the trust money, I was a good choice because I could be set up as the trust thief in advance, just like you described. The FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office would buy it, thinking I’d ‘inherited’ Dad’s right to part of the theft proceeds. So either way, choosing me made more sense than grabbing a lawyer off the street.”
Fatal Trust Page 20
