“It’s yours. We got it from your office this morning.” Mac reached for the first picture which was of Busch leaving the Lowry Lewis Building at 6:22 p.m. on the night of the murder. “As you can see you are leaving the office with this briefcase.”
“So what,” Busch answered.
Lich slid another picture in front of Busch and his lawyer. This picture was a close-up of the briefcase.
“As you can see, there are two of these small brass plates along the bottom of the briefcase, framed by the vertical stitching running down from the handle,” Mac noted and then pointed to the briefcase. “Now today there is only one brass plate on the briefcase. What happened to the other one?”
“You tell me,” Busch replied flippantly.
“Fine, I will,” Mac quickly replied as Lich placed another picture in front of Busch and his lawyer. It was the crime scene photo of a matching brass plate with blood smeared on it. “We found this at the crime scene. The blood on the brass plate matches that of Gordon Oliver. It also matches the brass plate for your briefcase. You want to know why I’m sure it is?”
Busch didn’t respond.
“I know because forensics took your briefcase and found Gordon Oliver’s blood on it right where the brass plate would go,” Mac pointed to the lower right corner of the briefcase and a small area of discoloration.
“You did a pretty good job of cleaning the blood off the briefcase,” Lich noted. “But I would have thought you’d have stumbled onto a CSI episode at some point and have learned that it’s really hard to get rid of blood. Even when you think it’s gone, it’s not.”
“You brought this briefcase to the alley behind The Mahogany. You hit Gordon Oliver in the back of his head, which knocked him down, and then hit him twice again. In the process, this brass plate fell off your briefcase,” Mac thundered on. “You told me to prove it and I have. To quote Gordon Oliver: ‘I’ve used all the tools in the toolbox.’ I’ve proven you were there, you hit him with your briefcase and you killed him. Stan Busch, you’re under arrest for the murder of Gordon Oliver.”
• • • • •
Saul Tobin was a good lawyer and knew that his client was guilty. It was only a matter of how long he would spend in jail. The rest of his life or maybe have a few years of freedom at the end of his life.
Fifteen minutes later, McRyan and Lich got a full confession from Busch.
Stan Busch didn’t go to The Mahogany intending to kill Oliver. He went hoping that he could buy Gordon Oliver’s silence or at least more time to take care of the Harris problem. In the alley, Busch had tried to reason with Gordon Oliver, even offering him $100,000 in cash as a down payment, which he had in the briefcase. Oliver wouldn’t give in, said that Busch had to come clean on Harris and if he didn’t Oliver would. Busch got upset, walked after Oliver and hit him from behind with the briefcase. The $100,000 in the briefcase made it heavier and the blow to the back of Oliver’s head sent him sprawling. Oliver fell and hit his head on the bumper. He looked dead and Busch hit him twice more to be sure and then placed the body in the back of the truck and ran from the scene.
Chapter Twelve
“It’s blackmail.”
Mac pushed his way through the backdoor into his house, a twelve-pack of Grain Belt Premium bottles in one hand and a plastic bag full of Chinese food boxes in the other. Meredith called and was ten minutes away. Mac opened a beer and took a long sip from it. He set the Chinese food boxes out and grabbed a couple of plates. He would wait for her to arrive.
How to handle this situation was something he’d run through his head for the past three hours. He’d considered a myriad of ideas. He’d given some thought to romancing her one last time and then dropping things on her but that didn’t feel right. Packing her bags and having them at the door had been another but that didn’t feel right either and, given the last two days, he was simply too tired to do it. Instead he opted for the direct approach. This would be a confrontation that ended on his terms.
Meredith pushed through the backdoor looking tired from the day. Her look softened slightly at the beer and Chinese food. “Ah, dinner,” she said, sitting down and starting to put some food on her plate.
“More like the Last Supper.”
Meredith stopped scooping food and sat back in her chair. “That sounds a little ominous.”
“Because it is,” Mac answered and slid a manila folder over to her.
Meredith was on guard now as she flipped open the manila envelope. The first picture was one of her walking with Sterling.
She frowned.
The next picture was of the two of them entering a hotel room at the Marquette in Minneapolis.
Her eyes popped open.
The last picture was of her in bed with Sterling.
Her jaw dropped.
“You son of a bitch,” she growled.
“That’s rich. You’re cheating and I’m a son of a bitch,” Mac growled back.
“What gives you the right…?”
“What gives me the right?” Mac railed in response. “Love and honor? For better or for worse? In sickness and health? Till death do us part? Ring any bells for you there, Meredith?”
“This is your fault, not mine,” she answered, pushing away from the table and standing up. “You screwed everything up. This could have been great but you had to go be a cop.”
“How shallow are you?” Mac replied angrily. “Don’t answer because I now know the answer. But you know when we got married I thought it was for love. I really did. I was in love. I thought you were too. But I was wrong. Instead, at the time I simply met your husband criteria. I’ve come to realize you’re like one of those old Andre Agassi commercials. Image is everything.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, seriously Meredith. It is. You wanted a trophy husband who was good looking, rich with the right career so that you could have some sort of perfect looking life. If love was included, well that would be a nice upgrade but it wasn’t required. It was as if picking a husband was like buying a car to you.”
“You could have taken some of my desires into consideration when you made some of your decisions, Mac. The decision to become a cop was not one that we made. You made it. What I thought didn’t matter. If you loved me you would have taken that into consideration. Instead, you just went ahead and did it.”
“I had to.”
“Oh bullshit,” Meredith sneered as she paced around the kitchen. “This whole obligation to your family crap is what has driven us apart.”
“You know what I don’t get?”
“What?”
“What’s been so bad, Meredith? You live in a beautiful home. Was it beautiful when we bought it? Maybe not. But I made it that way. I worked my ass off on it. Do we have money? We do. Sure I don’t make what I would have as a lawyer, but my investment in the coffee shops has paid off. Our other investments, which I manage, are doing well. We have plenty of money together and more on the way. What was so bad? Why isn’t that enough for you? Why wouldn’t a loving husband and all that be enough?”
“It’s just not. Not for me,” she answered. “I had something else in mind when we got together. I envisioned something else and this wasn’t it. I don’t care what you think of my reasons, Mac. I just don’t care anymore. I’m not happy. I want out. I’ve wanted out for a long time.”
“What, so you and J. Frederick Sterling can go and live that life you’re looking for?”
“He’s unhappy like I am. That’s what led to this. We are both unhappy.”
“So he’s who you want to be with?”
“Yes. I’m sorry but I do.”
“He’s a two-time loser you know. You’d be wife number three.”
“I don’t care.”
Mac shrugged his shoulders. “Okay then. But I have terms.”
“Terms?” Meredith asked quizzically. “We’ll just split everything.”
“You see, that’s not going to work for me,” Mac answered, shaking his head. He held
up the picture of Meredith and Sterling in bed. “J. Frederick fill you in on his prenup?”
“I know he has one. She gets $350,000 upon the divorce. We’ve discussed it.”
“I bet that was scintillating pillow talk.”
“Jealous?” Meredith replied, satisfied with herself.
“Riiiight,” Mac sneered, “of you and J. Fred. I don’t think so. But I do have a question for you.”
“Which is what?”
“Has he asked for a divorce yet?”
“No but he’s going to.”
“Are you sure about that?” Mac asked with a tone that caught her attention. “Do you know about the infidelity clause in his prenuptial agreement?” The look on her face said she didn’t. “I didn’t think so. If he’s busted cheating on his wife he owes her $5,000,000.”
Meredith saw where this was going, “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.
Mac snapped his fingers, “Like that. I will not hesitate in the least.”
Meredith sat back down and stared daggers at Mac whose expression was emotionless. After a minute, she quietly asked, “What do you want?”
“I want it all. You keep your retirement plan at work and I get everything else including the house, the investments and the Grand Brew ownership interest. That’s the deal and it is non-negotiable,” Mac answered icily.
“The house? The investments? You take it all?” Meredith asked dumbfounded. “How is that fair?”
“It’s not, and I don’t give a rip,” Mac answered. He had the leverage and intended to use every last bit of it. He had no sympathy for or love left for her at the moment. She had betrayed him, hurt him and he was going to get his pound of flesh. He pulled an envelope out of his backpack addressed to Mrs. Sterling and slid it across the table to Meredith. “My terms or this gets delivered. Your boy will be out five million and he probably won’t look so attractive to you at that point nor you to him. You, in sooooo many ways, will get screwed over if any of this gets out. I’m already gone, but if this gets out, J. Freddy is gone, your career will be gone, everything. So this is the price you will pay for me to go away quietly.” Mac had done the math and on his terms he would come out of the divorce with nearly $500,000 between the house and investments. If Meredith ended up with Sterling after all this she’d be fine. “Agree to my terms and you can have those pictures and they’ll never see the light of day.”
“It’s blackmail.”
“Yes it is, counselor.” He reached inside his backpack and pulled out another manila folder that he slid across the table to Meredith. It contained a divorce settlement with his terms in writing. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to consider this. But you fuck with me on it and I will burn you at the stake, Meredith. I will do what I say. You know me. You know I will,” he said coldly, absolutely no emotion in his voice. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to look them over.” Mac pushed himself up from the table. He grabbed another beer and twisted the top off. “And you have five minutes to get out of my house.”
• • • • •
A half hour after Meredith left, Lich arrived. In the midst of his second divorce, he was the perfect person to commiserate with. The two detectives sat in front of Mac’s big screen in his family room, watching the Minnesota Wild play the Vancouver Canucks. After two periods, the Wild were leading 3-2. It was a good game, with three fights and lots of physical play. Mac was on his ninth beer at this point, every bit on his way to getting obliterated.
“You need another beer?” Lich asked as he pushed himself up off the couch, having finished his.
“Is the Pope catholic?” Mac responded, holding up his empty.
Lich was back in less than a minute with two beers and one of the Chinese food containers.
Mac told Lich everything about what happened, Meredith cheating, hiring Biggs to investigate her, J. Frederick Sterling, the prenup, the showdown with Meredith, everything. Lich just listened and laughed when appropriate and was amazed at how harsh Mac was in demanding terms in the divorce. It helped Mac to vent but in the end he felt sad and empty. “I just can’t believe I’m sitting here and all of this happened.”
Lich nodded and said, “I hear you, brother.”
“What happens next?” Mac asked. “You’ve been through this, what did you do?”
“Everything wrong,” Lich answered.
“How so?”
“After my first marriage broke apart, I immediately started dating again and I was remarried within a year. That marriage lasted five long, agonizingly painful years, Mac. It was a mistake and frankly it has screwed me for the rest of my life financially. I’ll be paying through the nose.” Lich’s second wife was a social worker and made half what he did. Between alimony for her and his first wife, Dick wasn’t going to be left with much for himself.
“In retrospect what should you have done?”
Lich took a sip of his beer and then said: “If I had to do it over again, Mac, I’d have taken my time. I would have taken a lot of time. I wouldn’t have jumped into anything right away. Men often do that and it ultimately doesn’t work well. The first time around I never let myself heal emotionally and I made some bad decisions and here I am again and I gotta tell you, it’s pretty tough. I find it hard to push out of bed in the morning sometimes,” Lich said, stuffing Chinese food into his cheeks.
“What gets you up in the morning?”
“The job,” Lich answered, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “It’s the one thing that I have done well in my life most of the time. I get up and I go to work and I try to help people. Like today, we brought some closure to Gordon Oliver’s mother, that’s no small thing.”
“No, I suppose it’s not.”
“No it’s not. It matters, Mac. What we do matters. It’s something that didn’t seem to dawn on your wife, or soon to be ex-wife, but what we do makes a difference. And let me tell you one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a good cop, Mac. Very good.”
“Thanks, partner.”
“Don’t mention it,” Lich responded, taking a big swig of his beer. “When I was assigned to work with you, the captain thought you needed a veteran hand to guide you through the work. From what I’ve seen, the apple didn’t fall far from the Simon McRyan tree. So if I were to impart any guidance on you, it wouldn’t be about police work.”
“What would it be about?”
“Get healed. Get yourself some casual tail, put some murderers in the can and make a difference. And in time,” Lich held his bottle out towards Mac in a toast, “you will find a woman worthy of Michael McKenzie ‘Mac’ McRyan.”
Mac smiled and clinked bottles with Lich, “I’ll drink to that.”
THE ST. PAUL CONSPIRACY
McRyan Mystery Series
By
Roger Stelljes
Chapter One
“I’m in.”
Halloween.
The van turned left off of Grand Avenue and northbound onto Grotto, stopping mid-block at the alley. A man jumped out, quickly ducking between the back of a dumpster and a building on the right side.
Ten fifteen p.m., no moon, nothing but the stars. Fifty-seven degrees with a light breeze—balmy for the last night of October in Minnesota.
He looked east down the alley between Summit and Grand Avenues. The left side was residential housing, early twentieth-century Victorian mansions converted into condominiums—a fashionable trend in St. Paul. To the right was a combination of alternating businesses and red and brown brick apartment buildings, hip because of their location along the popular Grand Avenue. At the far end of the alley to the right was a hot nightspot, Mardi Gras, which specialized in Cajun food and Creole music. Revelers in costumes of all kinds would be in and out all night.
The van pulled away, turning right on Summit and disappearing from view. Dressed head to toe in black, the man invisibly picked his way through backyards, around garages, over fences and under trees to the other sid
e of the block. Within five minutes he was looking through a gap in a hedge at the backside of the condo.
He had done this many times, for many years, but rarely in his home country. He worked alone, although there was the usual need for technical assistance. When he did this for the government, he stalked his prey for weeks or months at a time, getting to know their every move, learning about the people they saw and when they saw them, getting the layout of where they lived and worked. Did they have pets? Lovers? Family? He would probe, follow, observe, determining the perfect place to strike. That had not been the case this time.
There hadn’t been weeks; there had barely been three days.
The mitigating factor in his favor was that his target, unlike most in his career, didn’t consider herself one. In fact, she wasn’t concerned about security at all. She had no security system. She left a key under the front steps mat and followed a routine schedule, always working at night and never home until after 11:00 p.m.
Claire Daniels, investigative reporter for Channel 6. She was good, the best in town and would be until she left, which was to be soon, a network job in the offing. Having watched her on television for the last few years, he understood why.
And then there was her beauty.
Like many female television reporters, Claire was stunningly attractive. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvaceous body she worked on relentlessly. The man had watched her workout at the club three times now—aerobics, treadmill, Stairmaster, bike, weight machines. There was no messing around as she worked with feverish intensity, excellent technique, sculpting her body to absolute perfection.
Claire was the desire of every man in town. She had desires of her own, and currently it was Minnesota’s senior United States senator, Mason Johnson. The two were dating, in the loosest sense of the term, meeting late at night, usually at her place, usually when the senator’s wife was in Washington, DC.
Even if he had only three days to prepare, the whole situation provided the perfect cover.
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