“How do you know you got all of the men she met through this dating site?”
“We brought in her computer from home and went through all of the emails and anything having to do with it. We’re pretty confident that we matched up the men with the one’s she was communicating with online. Looks like she was just shopping a bit.”
“What about her work computer?”
“The law firm wouldn’t let us have it without a court order. Her secretary and supervisor went through all of her emails and they assured us there was nothing in them about dating or anything that might point to someone,” Jefferson answered.
“You believe them?”
Jefferson shrugged and said, “We have no reason not to. They’ve all been very cooperative except when it comes to privileged client information.”
“Anybody else we should look at?” Kane asked.
“Not so far. We’ll keep checking but most of the people she knew were lawyers and judges. Not exactly murder suspect types. I still think our best bet is to find a link between her and the judge.”
Jefferson started to get up from his chair but Kane held up a hand to stop him.
“There’s something else, Owen,” she said. “I want you to do me a favor. I want you to take Marcie Sterling under your wing and work with you on this.”
“Okay, no problem,” Jefferson said. “But it will probably take more than the two of us if this is what we think it might be. We’ll see.”
Later that afternoon, Jefferson sat watching the newly minted detective, Marcie Sterling. He was sitting at his desk, his left elbow on the desktop, his left hand covering his mouth and hiding the smile.
Marcie had personally spent most of the day the body was found walking the neighborhood where Rhea Watson had lived. She had been promoted to detective less than six months ago and had been assigned to homicide for only two weeks. Unknown to her, Selena Kane had specifically requested the assignment in an effort to get more women moving up the department’s ladder.
Marcie was a single woman, no children, who had decided on a career in law enforcement at age sixteen. She had graduated from Hamline University in St. Paul with a B.A from their Criminal Justice Program and was immediately hired by the Minneapolis Police Department.
Like any other cop, she had paid her dues riding patrol through bad neighborhoods nights and weekends. Barely three months on the job, Marcie and three other cops had answered a bar fight call in South Minneapolis. While breaking up the fight one of the drunks had punched her squarely in the forehead. Before the other three cops, all men, could react, Marcie had used her kickboxing training to put her much larger assailant face down on the sidewalk. Marcie Sterling had taken a huge leap toward earning the respect of every cop in the MPD.
Jefferson continued watching with amusement as she struggled to move her personal belongings to the desk adjacent to his. Fifteen minutes ago he had told her she was assigned to him and the Watson investigation. She tried to hide it but her excitement was obvious.
While Marcie was finishing putting her things in and on the desk butting up against Jefferson’s, a slight figure in short-sleeve shirt buttoned to the throat entered the room. He was carrying a six-inch high stack of papers and went straight to Jefferson’s desk. When he reached the detective’s desk he dropped the pile of paper in front of Jefferson. It hit the desktop with a loud thud.
“What’s this?” Jefferson asked. Ignoring the sergeant’s question, Jeff Miller, the department’s number one computer geek, turned to Marcie, smiled and said hello to her.
“Jeff,” Jefferson said. “What’s this?”
“You wanted all the cases Judge Smith handled on appeal that Rhea Watson tried and won. Here they are. There are seventy-four,” Miller answered. He picked up a few pages from the top of the pile, handed them to Jefferson and said, “This is a list of the names. Case names and numbers; names of defendants and all of the lawyers and judges. That includes all of the judges involved in the appeal and the trial judge. The rest of the pile are copies of the decisions. I thought you’d want those too.”
“I didn’t think there would be this many,” Jefferson slowly, quietly said while looking over the stack of papers.
“Jeff,” Marcie interjected, “can you go back and run a query to find out how many of those people are still alive? The judges, lawyers, defendants, everybody?” She looked across the desks at Jefferson and said, “Maybe we can narrow it down.” She looked at Miller again and added, “Can you check to see how many of the crooks are still in jail?” Turning back to Jefferson she said, “I assume we’re thinking about dirtbags with a score to settle.”
“Good point,” Jefferson said. “We’ll start on this,” Jefferson continued as he held up the papers he was holding. “Let us know about the dead and still incarcerated ones as soon as you can.”
“You got it, Sarge,” Jeff said but he was looking at Marcie. “I’ll get right on it.”
Miller left and Jefferson handed half of the list of names across his desk to Marcie. He set the pile of court case decisions aside and said, “We might as well get started.”
“Okay,” Marcie replied. “Where do you want to start?”
“Look for violent crimes first. Look for guys who were convicted of serious crimes. Then check them out on our database,” he continued referring to the desktop computer with arrest and conviction records. “Let’s see if we can find some with a history.”
The two of them started going down their separate lists checking each individual’s conviction and then his background. After an hour of this Jefferson stood up to stretch, looked across the cheap government issued desks at his new partner and said, “How are you doing?”
Sterling sighed and moved her head back and forth a few times to work out the kink in her neck from staring at the screen. She looked up at the tall black man and said, “I’m not really eliminating anyone. Even guys convicted of drug crimes. You check their record and there are arrests and convictions for other things, including violent acts.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jefferson agreed as he sat down again. He stared across the desks at Marcie for several seconds without speaking, obviously in thought. “Burglars,” he quietly said as if speaking to himself. “He got past Watson’s alarm…”
“Assuming it was on,” Sterling said.
“Still we should be looking at guys with a history of burglary first then expand as we need to.”
“Okay,” Sterling agreed. “I had a couple of them,” she continued as she leafed through the pages she had completed. She looked back at Jefferson and said, “Although, any of these people could learn about committing a burglary while locked up in a criminal academy.”
“True,” Jefferson agreed. “But it’s still a place to start.”
At that moment Jefferson had a thought about a specific name he wanted to check. Using his right index finger on the pages of names, he quickly scanned down the list.
“Holy shit,” he quietly said when he found what he was looking for. “Here he is, Howard Traynor.”
“Who’s Howard Traynor?” Marcie asked.
Before answering, Jefferson picked up his phone and quickly skimmed through his call list, found the number he wanted and dialed it. While it rang he looked at Marcie and held up his index finger in a gesture requesting that she wait a moment.
“Hey, Owen,” Tony Carvelli said. “What’s up?”
“Are you still on Howie Traynor?”
“Yeah, we are. But I’m about to give it up, why?”
“You heard about Rhea Watson?”
“Sure, but if you’re thinking it was Howie, forget it. I already checked. We put him to bed just before eleven that night.”
“Shit,” a dejected Jefferson said into the phone. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, Tommy Evans was on him that night. He waited until the lights and TV went off. This guy is so boring I don’t think we can justify spending Vivian’s money on this much longer.”
“Do you have your s
urveillance records with you?”
“Yeah, you want me to check one?”
“Yes, the night that judge was killed up in Bemidji,” Jefferson said. He gave Carvelli the date and time of death from the autopsy report and waited while Carvelli checked.
“Found it,” Carvelli said. “Same thing. He got home that day about noon and never left. And Sorenson was on him until midnight. Next day, Maddy Rivers picked him up when he left for church at nine.”
“Okay,” Jefferson said. “I guess that takes care of Howie.”
“You thinking somebody is out for revenge?” Carvelli asked.
“It’s a place to start,” Jefferson answered. “If you think of anyone…”
“…I’ll let you know,” Carvelli finished the thought.
NINETEEN
Madeline Rivers waited for the red light to change on Seventh Street and Second Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. She was on Seventh, a one-way heading west, watching Howie Traynor drive into a parking ramp past the intersection a half-block ahead of her on the left side of Seventh. Maddy was in the left hand lane and there were two cars ahead of her waiting for the light.
Maddy had been on station at Howie’s apartment before seven that morning. Never one to be an early bird, the effort to get out of bed early enough to be there was almost painful. The night before Tony Carvelli and she had met with Vivian Donahue to discuss the surveillance of Traynor. Vivian had been adamant that it continue to the point where she actually threatened to hire someone else if need be. Tony had mentioned the call he received from Owen Jefferson concerning Rhea Watson and the murder of Judge Smith outside Bemidji. With that news, Vivian was even more certain to continue following Howie.
At eight o’clock, Howie came out of the apartment dressed for work at the church carrying a thermos and a bag lunch. Maddy decided to take a chance that he was going to the church. Instead of following him, she took a different route and got there ahead of him. She found a spot on the street, parked and within seconds Traynor arrived and parked in the church’s parking lot.
During that day, Maddy and two of Tony’s retired cop friends switched off watching the church. Shortly after 1:00 P.M. Maddy was back on stakeout. At 1:30 Howie came out and drove off. Within a few blocks, having followed him downtown twice before on the same route, she knew exactly where he was going.
The light up ahead turned green and a driver to her right honked his horn. “Relax, pal,” she whispered to herself. “This is Minneapolis, not New York.”
Maddy drove through the intersection, pulled to the curb in a no parking zone and stopped. In less than a minute she saw Traynor emerge from the parking ramp. He looked to his right for traffic then jogged across Seventh to the office building he was going to in mid-block between Second and LaSalle. She waited two minutes to be sure he wasn’t coming out then picked up her phone from the passenger seat and speed dialed a number.
Maddy reported in with Carvelli who told her to give it five more minutes then go. He would send one of the other guys, a new guy by the name of Franklin Washington, to pick up the tail of Howie.
When Howie Traynor came through the door of the parking ramp onto the sidewalk on Seventh, he looked to his right to check traffic. As he did this, he saw the brunette in the black Audi parked at the curb. He trotted across Seventh with a small, barely discernible smile on his face.
He entered the art deco office building. The building was the old Raines Building named after a long deceased railroad Baron. Built in the 1920’s, the artwork of stylish marble and granite flooring and walls still attracted art, design and architecture students from all over the country. Of course, this was totally lost on Howie Traynor.
Ignoring the looks his somewhat shabby appearance generated, he went immediately to the bank of elevators. The after lunch crowd was still returning to work and the elevator he rode to the sixth floor was practically elbow-to-elbow.
Disembarking, Traynor quickly went to the tastefully decorated offices of Adams & McBride, an all-female law firm. The firm normally and almost exclusively catered to women clients dealing with women’s issues. They were not “man-haters”. In fact, all seven lawyers were happily married. The two founding partners simply decided to concentrate their business on women. Glenda Albright liked to portray herself as a hard-core feminist in public. In private she was a pragmatic, self-promoting, publicity hound and money chaser. She was renting space in the office to handle the wrongful imprisonment suit for her tainted DNA clients.
Howie looked around the familiar reception area and saw two men seated in client chairs. One of them, Gene Parlow, he knew from prison. The other, Aaron Forsberg, was not someone he recognized.
Howie checked in with the receptionist who pleasantly informed him that Glenda would be out soon. He stepped over to the two men as Parlow arose from his chair. Howie and Parlow exchanged a prison yard handshake and awkward man hug.
“Hey, dude,” Parlow said. “Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, you too Gene,” Howie answered him. Traynor turned to the third man, extended his hand and said, “Howie Traynor.”
Forsberg hesitated for a moment, looked up at Howie then almost reluctantly took the proffered hand and slightly shook it while saying, “Aaron Forsberg.”
Howie sat down on Parlow’s left and asked, “You both here to see Glenda Albright?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up? Did she tell you anything?” he asked looking back and forth at them.
Parlow shrugged his shoulders and said, “No.”
Forsberg said nothing, just shaking his head slightly.
The door to the offices opened and Glenda came out to collect her clients. The woman was in her late sixties but could easily pass for mid-forties. Of course living in Southern California gave her access to some of the finest plastic surgeons in the country. She also knew how to dress, especially for the cameras.
Albright quickly shook hands with the men who stood up when she came through the door. They followed her back to a glass-enclosed conference room with a great view of South Minneapolis. They all took a chair at the long conference table. With Glenda at the head, she started to explain the purpose of the meeting.
“Okay,” she began. “We’ve had a settlement offer from the City of Minneapolis and Hennepin County with the backing of the State of Minnesota.”
“How much?” Parlow quickly asked with obvious lust in his eyes. Traynor and Forsberg sat quietly assuming she would get to it.
“They all want to settle as quickly as possible. They don’t want to drag this out for three or four years.”
“Three or four years?” Parlow asked. “It could take that long?”
“If we have to go to trial, it will easily take that long,” Albright answered him.
“I thought there were four of us,” Forsberg said. “Where’s the other guy, the Mexican?”
“I don’t know,” Albright said. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Don’t worry about it. The offer is quite a bit more than I thought it would be. I was looking for between one point two and one point six million.”
“How much?” an anxious Parlow asked again.
“Two point eight million,” Glenda finally answered him. “After fees you will each receive…”
“Four hundred sixty-nine thousand,” said Forsberg, the former investment banker who was able to run the numbers in his head. “And you’ll get nine hundred twenty-four thousand which is bullshit, Glenda.”
“Four hundred grand!” Parlow said. “When do I get it?”
“Wait, Aaron,” Albright said. “I know all of you agreed to the standard fees of one-third. But because I’ve been able to scare them into a big early settlement without going to trial, I’ll cut that down to twenty percent.”
“That’s five hundred sixty-grand each, including you,” Forsberg said. “I’m not taking it, Glenda. It’s more than enough for these guys. They’re career criminals, street thugs…�
�
“Who the fuck you think you are, asshole?” an angry Parlow asked glaring at Forsberg.
“I was an investment banker. A very successful one making seven figures every year,” he said glaring back at Parlow. “That’s twice as much as this every year.” With that he slammed his fist down on the table, stood up and angrily stormed out of the room.
While all of this was taking place, Howie pushed his chair away from the table about two feet. He leaned back, crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap and quietly listened.
After Forsberg slammed the door behind him, Albright looked at the other two men. “There’s more,” she began. “You wouldn’t get the money all at once. It would be structured over ten years.”
“What does that mean?” Parlow asked. “I wouldn’t get it for ten years…”
“No, you’d get it in equal payments paid monthly for ten years,” Albright said She looked at a legal pad she had placed on the table in front of herself. It was filled with notes and figures. When she found the one she was looking for, she continued by saying, “Four thousand six hundred sixty-six dollars per month.”
Being told he wouldn’t get the money up front, Gene Parlow slumped back in his chair.
“What if we say yes and he still says no?” Howie asked pointing a thumb at Forsberg’s now empty chair.
“I don’t know,” Albright said. “I don’t think they would go for that but I can ask. Look,” she continued, “You don’t have to decide anything this minute. I obviously need to let him cool down,” she continued referring to the departed Forsberg. “I’ll talk to him in a couple days. Give it a few days and we’ll meet again.”
Howie Traynor parked his car in the small lot behind the Reardon Building on Lake Street and Charles. He was facing the south side of the building and turned his head slightly to his left. Howie was looking for the black man in the Chevy sedan who had followed him from his lawyer’s office. He saw the man drive by and the man was looking into the lot for Howie as he continued down Charles. Howie got out of his car and walked toward the back door.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 150
