First Deadly Conspiracy Box Set

by Roger Stelljes

  Mac. She’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks. He was the most perceptive person she had ever met, seeing things others didn’t, two steps ahead of everyone else. Cautious, he never over-committed to anything, keeping his options open, evaluating things from every possible angle before acting. Sally was both interested and, at the same time, fearful of what he might come up with.

  She knew Mac had doubts about whether Senator Johnson killed Daniels. Nobody else thought that way, but Mac had maintained to her in private what he thought. They talked about the case every so often, and Mac always said, “I still wonder about that case.”

  She wanted to think about something else, so she started looking at her e-mails. A quick scan told her that only about eight or nine were truly work related. That made her like most other working people—seventy-percent of her e-mails were personal. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the first work e-mail. Helen, right on time.

  “Shall we go see Charlie?”

  Oh, we’re on a first name basis now, are we? “We shall.” Not wanting to spend another minute in heels, she reached under her desk for a pair of black flats. She took one last drink of the warm Diet Pepsi, left it on her desk, and joined Helen in the hallway.

  “So, anything interesting happen today?” Helen asked.

  • • • • •

  The meeting was short with no real cop business discussed. It was a celebration. Drinks naturally were served, a little Irish whiskey. Flanagan wouldn’t have it any other way. With Knapp caught, his big headache was gone, even if the department was being questioned about his assassination. While there was some criticism, there was an undercurrent of “The bastard got what he deserved.” So, while the day wasn’t perfectly sunny for the chief, partly cloudy was just fine. Mac wasn’t about to ruin the day and kept quiet.

  “So, it’s off to the bar for all of you?” Flanagan inquired.

  “Yes, sir,” Riles responded. “We’re going to have a couple.”

  “But I think we’ll go easier than last night,” Rock added.

  “Well, good. You boys have earned it.”

  They all filed out. Sally whispered in Mac’s ear, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll tell you at the Pub. First I have to talk to someone.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “On the trail of an assassin.”

  They picked up McRyan as he pulled out of the parking ramp, all of them well familiar with the Explorer. McRyan made the short trek over to the Pub, parking in his usual spot in back. They watched him go in the back door from their perch across the street. Another van simultaneously pulled into the parking lot on West Seventh, across the street from the front. Shortly after McRyan had gone in, Kennedy pulled in, followed by Lich, Riley, and Rockford.

  Bouchard shook his head, snorting. “Man, these guys do like to drink.”

  “That they do,” Viper replied. “Of course, at a bar owned by ex-cops, I doubt the real ones are paying full price.”

  “Probably not.”

  Viper picked up the radio and called to the other van, “Kraft, head in and give us an eyeball.”

  “Copy that.”

  • • • • •

  Mac, Sally, Riley, Rock, and Lich were standing in the middle of the bar, each with a Heineken, talking about the case and how life would be a little dull going back to routine homicide work.

  “You say that now, Riles, but I stood here a few weeks ago, and you sure looked like you wanted to go back to mundane police work then,” Mac said, playing along.

  “That was then, this is now.”

  “Isn’t that a movie title or something?” Rock asked.

  Just then, on cue, Uncle Shamus showed up.

  “Shamus,” Riley said, “to what do we owe the honor?”

  “I need to borrow my nephew for a few minutes, but in the meantime, next round is on me.” The bartender instantly appeared with another order.

  “God, I love this family,” Riley said as he put down his empty and grabbed the full Heineken sitting opened for him on the bar.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mac said to everyone and followed Shamus upstairs.

  • • • • •

  Uncle Shamus had a large corner office in the back of the second floor. On the outside of the door it said, “OFFICE OF THE PROPRIETOR.” Every McRyan who had filled that role over the years had used the office. It was an impressive room, with high ceilings, crown moldings, polished wood floors, tasteful furniture, and a one hundred-year-old oak desk the size of a dining room table. In front of the desk were two old high-backed, burgundy, leather chairs. Sitting casually in one of them was Lyman Hisle, nattily attired in a gray Italian three-piece suit, a perfect Windsor knot in his black silk tie, even at this late hour. He was sipping an Irish whiskey, neat, when Shamus and Mac walked in.

  “Lyman, thank you for coming. I know this seems a little odd.” They shook hands and shared a smile.

  “I was intrigued when Shamus called. Am I to assume that you don’t want others to know of this?”

  Mac nodded.

  “So, pray tell, how can I be of assistance?”

  “This is off the record in my direction, and yours. I need some information.”

  “About PTA, Shamus says.”

  “You were on the board?”

  “I was.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Time mostly. PTA has a very active and involved board, and I couldn’t give it the time and attention it needed and deserved,” Lyman responded, shifting in his chair to look directly at Mac, one leg over the other, “So, tell me, why would one of St. Paul’s finest need to know anything about PTA?”

  “I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

  “Very well.”

  “Tell me about the power structure over there.”

  “Ted Lindsay is the president and CEO. We brought him in a number of years ago. He’s done a fabulous job.”

  “Where’d you get him from?”

  “He was the chief operating officer at Fillmore Electronics, a competitor. He was there two, three years, I think, and did good work. Before that he worked for the government. He was a spook sort of. He held numerous positions in the NSA, then the CIA, where he was deputy director of Operations before he left and went to make his fortune in private industry.” Lyman took a sip of his drink.

  “He seems to have done well for PTA.”

  “Sure has. Since 9/11, bad as it sounds, the company has exploded, no pun intended. There’s been a renewed emphasis on intelligence gathering. The equipment necessary for that is one of the company’s better areas. Even better, Lindsay’s connections in the government are amazing. He has friends, contacts—hell, spies—everywhere.” Lyman put his drink on the desk and counted on his fingers. “He knows when the military, NSA, or CIA contracts are coming up before anyone else, what the budget is going to be, and who the key decision maker will be. He’ll know what he needs to know about the person who has decision-making authority and what buttons to push in that direction.”

  “I heard he knows everyone in DC,” Mac added.

  Lyman agreed, “His contacts in Congress are impressive and he’s been an aggressive campaign contributor.” Lyman creased a smile, shook his head a little, and said, the admiration showing, “If Ted goes after something, he gets it.”

  Mac, interested, said, “You said spies?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he knows people all over the place with information. I wouldn’t doubt he’s spreading a little money around, which is illegal, but he’s a former pro, with a staff of former pros. For them stuff like that is second nature.”

  “Staff of former pros?”

  “Yeah,” Lyman said, sipping the last of his drink. “PTA has a security staff that is the size and has the budget of a small army. Old habits die hard, I guess. Lindsay’s paranoid and a nut about security.”

  “This security detail, how big is it?”

  “Oh, he’s got a couple hundre
d on staff, spread over all of the facilities. Not to mention the equipment. Hell, they use the same stuff they sell to the government.”

  “Who runs the security?”

  “Webb Alt.”

  “What’s his story?” Mac asked.

  “Former spook—although you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at him.” Lyman scratched his head, “He isn’t particularly impressive physically, but people are scared to death of the guy. He’s got a bunch of his old cronies from CIA and NSA on staff here in town.”

  “Lindsay,” Mac asked, shifting gears, “I imagine he’s made himself quite a fortune.”

  “He has, although not as big as he’d like.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, he thought he should be paid like Jack Welch. The board disagreed. We were sensitive to executive pay before it became a trend. So, there was some bitching.”

  “Did he threaten to leave?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if it was that bad for him. There were some whispers, but nothing ever came of it. We upped his pay a little more and threw in a few more options, and the whole thing seemed to blow over. He has it pretty good at PTA. A few more years, and he’ll retire with a $100 million in the bank, plus the potential of more with stock options. Not bad when most of your career was in government service.” Lyman held his glass out and Shamus refreshed his drink. “So, Mac, what’s this all about?”

  “In a minute,” Mac said, momentarily filibustering. “Has there ever been any financial issues or problems with PTA that you’re aware of?”

  “No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head, “As a board, we went over those books very carefully. Always have. We were very active and not a rubber stamp, something that bothers Lindsay from time to time. The SEC, the company auditors—the board never found any improprieties. PTA’s books balance, always have. It’s why the stock is such a winner.”

  “Tell me about James Stephens.”

  “Came to PTA with Lindsay. He’d been in government service as well, at Treasury and then at the CIA. He left the CIA with Lindsay and went to Fillmore. In fact, Lindsay brought five or six upper-level executives over when he came. It was a shame, that car accident.”

  “What about Jamie Jones, the most recent CFO?

  “I don’t really know much about her. She was well regarded and very well liked by Stephens.” Lyman furrowed his brow, “Mac, what in the hell is this all about?”

  “Let me tell you a little story, and you tell me what you think.” Mac related his theory.

  Lyman didn’t react much, sitting back in the chair, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. When Mac finished, Lyman took a long drink, looked away for a moment, and then took another long drink. “Christ, Mac,” he said after a minute, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Pretty thin. You couldn’t go into court with it, as I’m sure your girlfriend has told you.”

  “I know it’s thin, but is it possible?”

  “Well …” Lyman exhaled and looked down, almost sad, “Nothing would surprise me anymore.”

  “If I’m right, any chance this is going on at PTA without Lindsay knowing about it?”

  “No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head. “Lindsay knows everything that goes on at that company. Like I said, he’s serious about security.” Lyman scratched his chin, looked at the ceiling, “I’m certain offices are wired. There are video cameras everywhere that you can see, and I’m sure many you can’t. You have to use a personal code to make copies; all e-mail and Internet usage is monitored. Not randomly, constantly. I’m sure somebody eavesdrops on phone conversations.” He paused a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, “So, if PTA did this, Mac, Ted Lindsay not only knows about it, he ordered it.”

  “Interesting,” Mac replied, stroking his chin.

  Lyman cut him short, “But you know what your problem is?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll never find what you’re looking for.”

  Mac snorted.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “There’s always a way.”

  Lyman shook his head. “If Ted Lindsay did this, he would have taken care of all loose ends. He would have left nothing behind. If they did this, they’ll have anticipated your every move and covered all of their tracks.”

  “There’s always something.”

  Lyman snorted. “I have great admiration for your abilities and those of your imbibing friends downstairs. You know that.” He squinted and slowly shook his head, “But I have no idea how you get at PTA on what you have. I mean, think about it. You have not one piece of physical evidence, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then good luck finding it.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lyman, you act as if these guys are infallible.”

  “They’re pros is what I’m saying, Michael. If they did this, they did it without leaving a trace of physical evidence. I mean, where is your evidence? All you have is a theory at this point, and that wouldn’t cut it. Most judges would never let you get to the courtroom with that, and if you did, you’d go down quick and easy anyway. I’m talking an elementary defense here. Your girlfriend would tell you that. Shit, you know that. You went to law school.”

  “Lyman, we haven’t started even looking yet.”

  “If they did this, they have a huge head start on you to cover their tracks.” Lyman started ticking his fingers off again. “If they did Jones, they blame Knapp, reasonable doubt. If they did Daniels, they have the senator, reasonable doubt. You think they might have done Johnson, but it sure looked like he committed suicide, reasonable doubt. Knapp? You’ve got family members of the victims with plenty of motive, reasonable doubt. The only way you get them is if you can find a smoking gun. Ted Lindsay’s too good at this sort of thing to leave something like that behind.”

  The three men went silent. Lyman had given Mac a lot to think about. If PTA had the juice to kill Jones, Daniels, and the senator, they had the resources and people to accomplish it. They’d have the resources and people to stymie them if they tried to go after the books, to look for some financial irregularity, which was the only reasonable supposition as to why to take out Jones. If the auditors, board, SEC, or anyone else didn’t find it, how would Mac? What resources would have to be expended to get at the records? What damage would their pursuit do to the department? Would the department even let them go after PTA? Mac’s theory looked good when he was mind mapping. But the devil is in the details. How could he go after PTA, without knowing what he was looking for?

  The enormity of the task hit Mac. He got up and walked to the back window and looked down at the back parking lot. You think you’re so fucking smart.

  Uncle Shamus, sensing what Mac was thinking, ended the silence, “What are you going to do?”

  Good question. But Mac had never backed down from anything in his life, and he wasn’t about to now. “Lyman, with all due respect for your view of Ted Lindsay and company, first thing tomorrow I’m going to start taking a look at PTA and a second look at Jones, Daniels, and the senator.” Mac hoped he wouldn’t be alone. He would have to convince Riles and the others if he was going to have any chance.

  “You have any idea what you’re looking for?” Lyman said.

  “No. The only thing I can think of is a financial issue of some sort. Why else take out Jones. But …”

  “But what,” Lyman asked.

  Mac met his eyes and held them.

  “I’m thinking Jones was killed because she found something they didn’t want her to find. Maybe she left it behind or maybe she shared it with Daniels, so maybe that’s where we look.”

  “Well, good luck to you. But one thing,” Lyman asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you do find anything that harms the company, you let me know. That’s the quid pro quo I want for speaking with you tonight,” Lyman stated. “I want to know. There are thousands of employ
ees at PTA. If you’re right, Lindsay ordered it. That could literally kill the company. So, I need to know so I can inform those who remain on the board. I may be gone from there, but I care about the company. Its health is important to this city.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Mac, why don’t you get back to the bar?” Uncle Shamus suggested.

  “Yeah, okay. Shamus, I need to use Patrick’s Room.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I need to get going as well,” Lyman added and gave Mac one last look. “I’ll hear from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck,” Lyman said as he shook Mac’s hand. Shamus opened the door and patted Mac on the back as he walked out. Lyman would wait a few minutes and leave on his own down the back steps.

  • • • • •

  Kraft had loitered thirty or so feet away from the door to the office. With his back to the wall, he alternately watched the door, a couple of attractive thirtyish women sitting at the bar, and a Wolves game up on the TV.

  As he put his beer up to his lips, the door opened and McRyan came out, with his uncle closing the door behind him. But he also noted legs sitting in a chair. Kraft decided not to follow and waited to see who the other person was. Five minutes later, Lyman Hisle exited the office.

  • • • • •

  Mac came back down to find Sally listening to Riley, Rock, and Lich talk about Sheila Bradley and her two big assets.

  “I’m telling you, they were the size of cantaloupes,” Riley was saying, cupping his hands in front of his chest. Obviously the drinks were feeling good as Riles was revving up. “Mac, am I lying?”

  Mac looked at Sally, who just smiled. “No, you aren’t. I want all you guys to join me in the basement for a minute, I want to show you something.”

  “What’s that?” Rock asked.

  “Just come down. Rounds on me,” Mac replied neutrally. He grabbed five beers off the bar and turned for the backstairs, joined by everyone. In the basement was the Pub game room with dartboards, pool tables, and a few video games. A couple of big screens added a sports flavor, the Wild game playing in the background. Behind the stairs was a hallway. In the hallway was a built-in cabinet in the wall. Mac slid open the middle drawer, reached under the ledge and popped a latch. The cabinet, a remnant from the bygone era of prohibition, was the hidden door to Patrick’s Room.