Marc remained on the couch all night barely sleeping. He would doze off occasionally for short stretches, fifteen minutes here, thirty minutes there. Each time the leering, sinister, sadistic image of Howie Traynor smiling at him would enter his mind and snap him awake. By morning he was starting to feel like a teenage victim in a slasher movie. Howie Traynor was out of jail and on the loose and Marc wondered if he would ever sleep soundly again.
He did have one significant, comforting advantage. On the couch next to him was his 1911 Model Colt .45 fully loaded, one in the chamber and two extra magazines lying next to it. In fact, he had held the handgun in his right hand for most of the night half expecting Howie to somehow magically appear. Marc noticed the read on the clock change to 6:48 as he again replayed in his mind the scene from the court the previous afternoon.
While Judge Koch explained herself to the jury, the parties and the spectators, Marc sat stoically, almost numb at what she was saying. When Koch dismissed the charges and freed Howie Traynor, it took all of Marc’s self-control to prevent him from jumping up to object. His mind was having an argument with itself over freeing this monster, protecting his children and maintaining his ethical responsibility.
The judge quickly left the bench and Marc remembered looking at Craig Slocum. He was still sitting on the witness stand ashen faced and shrunken while the gallery exploded.
Howie slapped him on the back as Marc quietly said, “My God, she actually did it.” At least he believed he said something along those lines.
Marc stood up and turned to Howie who grinned and offered his hand to shake with his lawyer. Marc ignored the hand and softly told Howie the deputies would take him to the jail to process him out. Father John was at the table by this point, grinning like an idiot. Marc ignored him also as he gathered his things to leave.
Waiting for him at the gate in the bar with a puzzled look on her face was Gabriella Shriqui. She witnessed the attempted handshake by the newly freed defendant and Marc ignoring him. This should have been a moment of triumph for Marc. Instead the look on his face, a man Gabriella knew fairly well, was the face of a lawyer who had lost the case, not won.
“Marc,” she said to him as he approached her, “can I get an interview?”
He abruptly stopped, looked over at the other reporters waiting for him and curtly said, “No comment.”
Marc turned his back to them, walked through the courtroom and out the back. To avoid the media he even went down the hall to the stairs and walked down the fourteen flights to get out of the building.
The clock changed to 7:02 and his phone rang. He picked it up from the coffee table, looked at the I.D. and answered it. Margaret was spending the Holidays with her parents in Florida. This was the third time she tried calling and Marc decided it was time to rejoin the world.
“Hi,” he said when he answered her.
“Are you all right? You have everyone who knows you worried sick, especially me,” she said a little anger mixed in with her concern. “Why didn’t you answer your damn phone?”
Fighting the urge to hang up on her, he said “I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I needed to be alone for a while.”
“Why?” she asked concern back in her voice. “Marc, what’s going on? I heard what happened. It was all over the news down here.”
Marc took a moment to think about his response. He finally said, “I can’t talk about it. Look, I’m okay. I need to work some things out. If you need to call me, I’ll answer the phone. Stay in Florida. Have a nice time. Say hello to Mom and Dad for me, okay? I love you. Just give me some time.”
“I don’t understand…” she began.
“I know and I can’t talk about it,” Marc said.
At that moment the light in Margaret’s brain went on and she blurted, “Oh my God! He’s guilty. You found out he’s…”
“I have to go,” Marc said to cut her off. “I’ll talk to you later,” and he ended the call. “Smart lady,” he quietly said to himself.
Marc looked across the unfrozen surface of Lake of the Isles at an attractive young woman jogging on the path on the other side of the lake. He was sitting on a park bench, by himself, waiting for someone.
For December, the weather was quite mild. The snow was long gone, the ground was dry and temperatures would go into the forties again. The weather geeks were predicting a brown Christmas in a few days. Not normal but not necessarily unusual either. Northern Minnesota had two feet of snow and temps in the teens. Because of the size of the state this was not atypical either.
After talking to Margaret he decided it was time to get moving. He shaved and showered, made a phone call and set up this meeting. It was now almost 9:00 and he felt much better than he did after the trial ended.
“Hey, how you doing?” Marc heard Tony Carvelli say as his P.I. friend sat down on the bench next to him.
“Been better,” Marc replied shaking hands with his friend.
“So, counselor, what’s up?”
“I hadn’t thought of this when I asked you to meet me here,” Marc said ignoring the question. “Look familiar?” he added holding his arms out to indicate the area.
“Yeah, it’s Lake of the Isles,” Tony said. “So?”
“Turn around,” Marc told him. Tony swiveled to look behind them as Marc again asked, “Look familiar?”
“Yeah, it does. That’s the house where your psycho client murdered Lucille Benson,” Tony said referring to the big house on the corner with the wrought iron fence. Tony turned back to Marc and said, “Is there something Freudian going on here? What do you need to tell me?” he added.
Marc took a deep breath and started by saying, “I’ll tell you because I know you’ll know what to do and keep your mouth shut to protect me. I could get disbarred for this.”
“No problem, Marc,” Tony quietly, seriously said.
“The cops need to keep an eye on Howie Traynor. He’s on the loose and...” Marc paused.
“He’s not done,” Tony said completing the thought.
“I didn’t say that,” Marc said. “But I won’t dispute it either. I have to be very careful what I say.”
“I get it,” Tony said patting Marc on the shoulder. “Open your coat,” Tony said.
Marc was wearing jeans, sneakers, a light sweater and a coat more suited for autumn than December weather. Tony, being the cop and investigator that he was, noticed a slight bulge under Marc’s jacket.
Marc unzipped it and showed Tony the .45 in its shoulder holster.
“I have a permit,” Marc said as he zipped the jacket closed.
“I just wanted to know. Is it that serious?” Tony asked.
“Absolutely,” Marc answered.
Marc’s phone rang and he removed it from his coat pocket. He looked at the I.D. answered it and said, “Hi, sweetheart. I’m glad you called.”
“Are you okay?” Maddy Rivers asked him. “Gabriella called me after court yesterday and told me what happened and how you were acting. I tried calling you last night. Is everything all right?”
“I’m here with Tony,” Marc said. “Are you at home?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good, stay there and keep the door locked and a gun handy. Tony will call you in a little while and tell you what’s going on, okay?”
“All right,” a puzzled Maddy answered.
“Talk to you later and I’m really, really happy you and I are okay,” Marc said.
“Me too,” Maddy agreed.
The two men discussed Marc’s dilemma with his ethical obligation and client confidentiality. While not once overtly admitting to anything, Marc let the savvy P.I. know that Howie was guilty as sin. Tony assured Marc he would quietly inform the appropriate people, especially those who might be on Howie’s list. This included himself as one of the original arresting officers for the Benson murder.
They parted company and on his way back to his SUV, Marc took a call from his office. It was from Carolyn who had news and questio
ns.
“Are you okay? Are you coming in? Everyone is wondering,” she asked.
“I’m fine and no, I won’t be in probably for a few days. I don’t know, maybe I’ll stop by. Maybe Monday, which is what, the 21st?” he said. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Okay, I just heard from Glenda Albright, Howie’s personal injury lawyer. She has his settlement money. She wants a final bill from you. Says she’ll pay you first, before him.”
Marc stopped walking, held the phone to his ear and said, “I don’t want any money from him. I have trial expenses to pay and I’ll pay those out of my own pocket. Tell her I got enough.”
“Marc, I have a couple more time sheets I printed off for you on this case. He owes you…”
“I don’t care, Carolyn. I want nothing else from him,” he sharply said.
“All right, sorry. I’ll call her back and tell her,” Carolyn replied, slightly taken aback by Marc’s tone and attitude.
“I’ll call or maybe come by later, we’ll see,” Marc said as he continued toward his car. “Hey wait,” he said and stopped again. “Did Albright say what time he was going to be there?”
“Ten this morning,” Carolyn replied.
“Thanks,” Marc said and abruptly ended the call.
He took a moment to call Carvelli to tell him where Howie could be found at 10:00 A.M. If the cops could set up surveillance, they might find him there.
SIXTY-TWO
“How did you find this out?” Tony asked Marc.
Carvelli was in his black, sleek Camaro already on his way downtown to the Old City Hall Building and police headquarters. He was on Lake Street heading east to Hennepin Avenue when Marc called with the news that Howie would be at Albright’s office at 10:00. In answer to Tony’s question, Marc told him about the call from Carolyn.
“I don’t know if the cops can get a surveillance team set up by then. I may have to do it myself. I’ll get back to you,” Tony said.
Carvelli ended the call tossed his phone on the passenger seat and punched the gas. The big eight cylinder engine kicked in and the car jumped forward. He blew through a light as it turned red on Hennepin and took a left to go downtown. Halfway there he retrieved his phone, found the number he wanted and hit the auto dial.
“Jefferson,” he heard Owen Jefferson say when he answered.
“Hey, it’s Carvelli, you busy?”
“Licking my wounds. Why?”
“Meet me out on Fourth Street in about five minutes. I’ll pick you up.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I’m driving too fast to talk right now. Just meet me and I’ll explain when I get there.”
At 9:52 Carvelli found a parking spot on Seventh Street with a clear view of the Raines Building. Owen Jefferson was in the seat next to him.
“He may be in there already,” Jefferson said.
“Yeah, he could be,” Carvelli agreed.
“So, I don’t get to know the name of the source of your information. I just have to take your word for it, even though I could probably guess who it is,” Jefferson said.
“Yes,” Tony answered.
“If I need to get a warrant for something, this could be a problem.”
“We’ll think of something. And there he is,” Tony said pointing a finger across the street as Howie Traynor reached the building’s front door. “No car.”
“It’s probably still in impound. Hasn’t had time to get it out,” Jefferson commented as the two men watched Howie go into the office building.
While they waited Jefferson made a call to Rod Schiller, the head of the MPD surveillance unit. Jefferson explained what they were up to and asked the lieutenant about setting up a surveillance team.
“I’m not sure I can justify that, Owen,” Schiller replied. “Is this a new case? What’s going on?”
Jefferson covered the phone with his hand and said to Carvelli, “He needs to know why. How much can I tell him?”
Tony thought about it for a moment before saying, “Don’t tell him about Kadella, that’s between you and me. Yeah, yeah, you knew where it came from,” Carvelli said when Jefferson raised his eyebrows at the mention of Marc’s name. “Give him the usual ‘reliable source’ bullshit for now.”
Jefferson went back on the phone and said, “Rod, we have a very solid reason to believe Traynor is guilty and not done. I believe it and…”
“That’s good enough for me,” Schiller said. “I’ll get right on it and get back to you.”
“Thanks,” Jefferson said and ended the call.
“You have to keep that to yourself about Kadella. He’s got his neck sticking out and is doing the stand-up thing on this,” Tony said.
“A lawyer doing the right thing. I should mark my calendar,” Jefferson answered him.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Carvelli growled. “Most lawyers are good guys. They have a job to do just like we do.”
“True enough,” Jefferson agreed. “There he is,” he continued when Traynor came through the door and onto the sidewalk.
Howie turned to the right to walk away from where they were parked. When he did this, Jefferson opened his door to get out.
“I’ll follow him on this side of the street,” Jefferson said referring to the opposite side of where Howie was walking. “Wait for me to call.”
Carvelli impatiently waited while Jefferson casually tailed Howie west on Seventh Avenue. Fifteen minutes after Jefferson left the car, Carvelli’s phone rang.
“Pick me up. I’m still on the south side of Seventh about a hundred yards from Hennepin. I can see Traynor. He’s at a bus stop on Hennepin probably waiting for a bus to go home.”
“I’ll be right there,” Carvelli said.
Two minutes after the call, Jefferson was getting back into the Camaro when a bus pulled up in front of Howie.
For the next half hour, the two men followed the city bus through traffic across the river into Northeast Minneapolis. At Central Avenue Howie disembarked and ran to catch a bus headed up Central toward his home.
“Where’s he going?” Tony rhetorically asked when the bus went past Howie’s street corner. They continued to follow him then at Eighteenth Street, Howie got off and Carvelli pulled to the curb.
“Why are you parking?” Jefferson asked.
“I know where he’s going,” Carvelli said. “That’s his bank,” he continued referring to the bank on Eighteenth and Central. “We followed him there a couple of times.”
“And he just got a check from his lawyer and he’s going to deposit it,” Jefferson said. “I wonder how much he got.”
“From the hanky-wringers that run Minneapolis? A lot, I’m sure,” Carvelli answered.
Less than ten minutes after he went in, Howie exited the bank. He turned down Eighteenth and began walking east.
“He’s heading home,” Carvelli said. “It’s only a few blocks,” he continued as he pulled away from the curb. Barely a minute later they were strategically parked close enough to Howie’s building to watch him go in when he arrived.
When he got inside his apartment Howie went to the front windows in the small living room, the windows overlooking the street in front. Howie used two fingers to carefully, slowly separate the vertical blinds just enough to peak out. He saw the black Camaro and the corners of his mouth turned up in a tight smile.
“Forget it, assholes,” he quietly said out loud. “I won’t make it that easy for you.”
For the next twenty-four hours, the MPD surveillance team stood watch at Howie’s apartment. Not once did any of the watchers see him at all. Not even a movement by a window. The church was also being watched with the same result.
“Owen, we haven’t seen anything of him since we started. Nothing. He hasn’t moved and last night no lights, no TV, nothing. I don’t think he’s in there,” Schiller said when he called Jefferson to let him know.
“What do you think Rod? Do we send somebody up there?” Jefferson asked.
“He hasn’t picked up his car yet?” Jefferson asked. “Oh shit,” he quickly added. “I just realized, he must have another car stashed somewhere. That’s how he got around when he slipped the surveillance before. Get your people up there. Call me back, I’m on my way.”
Jefferson stood up, grabbed his overcoat and told Marcie Sterling to come with him. Marcie knew Howie was being watched again and why. While they hurried down the hall toward their car, Jefferson told her about the call he had received from Schiller.
Halfway to Howie’s apartment, Schiller called him back.
“He’s gone,” Schiller told him.
“Kick the goddamn door in,” Jefferson yelled.
“We did. The refrigerator is empty, his clothes are mostly there but it looks like he packed up some and left. He’s gone, Owen,” Schiller repeated. “Now what?”
“Sonofabitch,” Jefferson muttered. “I don’t know. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
For the next few days, there was a quiet manhunt taking place throughout the Twin Cities metro area. It was kept quiet because no one wanted it leaked to the press that a psycho was on the loose because the cops and county attorney made a total mess of their case. The search for Howie rapidly spread to the entire state, the Upper Midwest and eventually went national. By that point the media knew what was up and were making uncomfortable inquiries. Howie Traynor had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Owen Jefferson tried to trace the money Howie deposited from his lawsuit. Without a warrant the bank, although wanting to cooperate, was prevented from doing so. Without a case or, at least, some probable cause, no judge would issue a warrant. The bank manager, off the record, did inform Jefferson that the money was gone but did not know and could not say where it ultimately ended up.
Certain Justice Page 40
