First Deadly Conspiracy Box Set

by Roger Stelljes

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Just something that doesn’t seem right for his business dealings. He builds luxury homes. Is there a purchase somewhere that doesn’t fit?”

  Burton promptly sent one of his team members off on a computer search.

  “Anyone else from Wiskowski’s world unaccounted for?” Riley asked.

  “We can’t find his kid Steve yet,” Duffy answered. “We think he might be shacked up somewhere. He’s apparently a pussy hound.”

  “Steven Smith Wiskowski. Lots of money and a fast life,” Lich added, flipping through a file on the kid. Steve had his own run-ins with the law in the past over drugs, minor pot possession mostly. “He’s not much of a winner either. Word is he went after the reporter who did the TV story on Drew Jr.’s death. Apparently he thought it was exploitive.”

  “Kind of like Drew Jr. on those Hmong folks,” Rock replied. “A whole family of assholes, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What’s the story on the driver of the car we saw in Ellsworth?” Mac asked, getting back on track.

  “Worker named Frank McDonald is the driver. He’s down the hall in an interview room,” Burton said. “McDonald claims he left a construction site in Menomonie at approximately 7:00 p.m. Wiskowski is building homes at a development there.” Menomonie was a Wisconsin town, forty-five minutes east of St. Paul off Interstate 94. “He says he closed up one of their models at 7:10 or so and drove back. Says he pulled into Wiskowski Construction over two hours later, at around 9:30 or so.”

  “So what time was the call from Ellsworth?” Mac asked.

  “7:42,” Burton answered.

  “So he leaves the construction site and makes the call on the way home, right?” McRyan followed.

  “Yup,” Lich replied, looking at the notes. “Plenty of time to get it done.”

  “One other thing,” Burton added. “McDonald has a record.”

  “Really,” Mac’s eyebrows shot up.

  “He did time for extortion five years ago down in Chicago, so working with Wiskowski on a kidnapping is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “Or Wiskowski hired him into a good gig when nobody else would, and now his boss calls his marker due,” Mac added. “Either way, he looks good for the call.”

  “He does,” Duffy answered. “My guys worked him over. He denies making the call, but he says the timeline is two and a half hours to get home.”

  “So what’s he doing along the way?”

  “Said he stopped in Ellsworth.”

  “Really?” Lich said, surprised.

  “And did what?” Mac asked.

  “He’s got a little woman down there,” Duffy answered with a wry smile. “Apparently everyone in Wiskowski’s world is a hound. Anyway, she’s married, so he goes through town on the way home while the husband’s out playing softball and running around with the boys. The husband gets home by midnight on game night, so McDonald goes down, gets a little and gets outta Dodge before Daddy comes home.”

  “And it’s a perfect little cover to make the call,” Burton added.

  “Are we checking his story?”

  “We are,” Duffy answered. “The Ellsworth cops checked it out. She admits to the affair and that he was there tonight. She says he arrived just before eight, stayed about an hour, finished the job, and left.”

  “So he makes the call, goes to her house to cover the trip, and then comes home as if nothing happened,” Lich said.

  “This is looking better by the minute,” Mac added as he opened the door into the interview room.

  “So what now, I get the junior varsity,” Wiskowski said with a smirk as Mac walked into the room and sat down. The old man noticed the cup and looked Mac over again. “You’re McRyan, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Nice coffee cup. Hockey player at the U, right?”

  “Back in the day.”

  “You played for one of the national title winners.”

  “I did.”

  “I prefer football myself. I’ve donated a lot of money for the new football stadium,” Wiskowski said.

  “And to your church, don’t forget. I know you’ve been very generous with your church in Cottage Grove,” Mac wanted to soften him up.

  “I’ve given some money, yes.”

  “More than some, Mr. Wiskowski. The new church exists because of your donation.”

  Wiskowski nodded.

  “I for one am pleased folks like you have stepped up to help fund the new stadium,” Mac continued quietly. “I look forward to going to an outdoor football game on campus.”

  “I will not live to see it open.”

  “But your generosity will live on.”

  Wiskowski nodded but then spoke again.

  “Of course, the way my name is being dragged through the mud today, the U might not be so inclined to have my name remain.”

  “So why, given those good works, would you take Carrie and Shannon?” Mac was humanizing the girls, not mentioning their last names. “What possible good does that accomplish? All your hard work, all your generosity, all the work to build up your good name and then you do this?” Mac shook his head. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

  • • • • •

  2:54 a.m.

  Mac spoke quietly, going on an hour now with Wiskowski, trying to wear the man down.

  “Drew, we’ve talked a long time now. You have motive, you have the means, and we have your man making a phone call. We have those things locked down.” McDonald wasn’t admitting to making the call but Wiskowski didn’t know that.

  “And I’ve told you that I had…” Wiskowski coughed uncontrollably, doubling over until the coughing fit stopped, and he leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “I’ve told you for hours now, I have nothing to do with nothing.”

  “We’ll find the girls sooner or later,” Mac said, taking another sip of coffee, his cup having been refilled twice now. He’d kept Wiskowski talking for over an hour, walking through what happened to his son, the case, his anger at the chief and Hisle, and at the same time playing to his vanity about his legacy. “We’ll find the girls. The thing is, it would be better for you if you told us where they are now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Shannon Hisle is a Type I diabetic. She can get very sick if she doesn’t receive insulin. She could die if she doesn’t get her medicine.” Mac let it hang in the air for a moment. “Do you want that on you? Do you want to go to your grave with that on your conscience? You wanted revenge. Your son was killed in prison. You blame the chief and Lyman Hisle. So you strike back in a way you know that will hurt them. And you’ve succeeded. Trust me, I know both of those men, and they are hurting. You saw that yourself a few hours ago.” Mac paused, and then asked quietly, “But do the girls have to die?”

  “I had nothing to do with this,” Wiskowski answered. “I can see why you would look at me, I really can. And I don’t know what Frank McDonald is doing, but he’s done with my company I can assure you. But I have nothing more…” Another coughing fit shook him, the sixth time in the last hour. “I didn’t do this.” He coughed and wiped his hand across his mouth. “I have nothing to do with this.” Wiskowski slumped back into his chair, his head tilting to one side.

  As Wiskowski coughed again, an FBI agent stuck his head in and called Burton out.

  Mac slumped back into this chair, checking his watch. It was nearly 4:00 a.m., and he felt nearly as tired as Wiskowski. The old man’s lawyer sensed it as well.

  “My client has nothing more to say, detectives,” the lawyer said. “He’s answered your questions time and again. He has nothing to do with the kidnappings. He’s weak and tired. He needs to be allowed to go home and rest.”

  “Sorry Counselor, but we obviously think otherwise,” Mac answered, although the old man’s persistence was causing him to start to wonder if he was involved. He wasn’t breaking, and he should have by now.

  Burton stuck h
is head back into the room.

  “I’ve got something you need to see,” he said, looking at Mac.

  Mac and Lich moved back into the hall, joined by Riley, Rock, and Duffy.

  “What’s up?” Mac asked, yawning.

  “You said we should look at recent real estate purchases, right?” Burton asked.

  “Yeah, so? Did your people find something?”

  “Maybe. Most of the recent purchases are at least six months old, development parcels in the suburbs. There are multiple acres, clearly for residential housing, either high-end houses or townhouses. But there is one that’s odd. It’s for a single-family home down east of Northfield. It was bought by one of his smaller subsidiary groups, DSW Inc., which is run by Drew and Steve. And it was bought in the last month or so.”

  “After he found out about the cancer,” Mac said.

  “That’s right,” Burton said. “What could be the possible point?”

  “Are there other houses around?” Lich asked.

  “We did a satellite search of the property,” Duffy answered. “It’s off by itself. Well in from the county road. There are no other homes nearby.”

  “Nice country house, perhaps?”

  “Doesn’t appear to be. Rambler, fairly large, but just a nondescript rambler out in the country.”

  “How big a piece of land?” Mac asked.

  “It was a twenty-acre parcel, maybe a hobby farm, but it’s in the middle of nowhere,” Duffy replied. “It wouldn’t be developed for years, if ever.”

  “What’s Northfield have to say about it?”

  “I called out and had them do a drive-by,” Duffy answered. “They said a couple of vans are parked in front of the garage. Otherwise, very little going on.”

  Burton looked to Mac.

  “What do you think?”

  “Let’s ask the old man.”

  Mac and Burton went back into the interview room. Wiskowski’s lawyer looked up.

  “I said, we are done.”

  “I got just one other thing I want to ask about,” Mac said.

  “What’s that?”

  “What do you know about this,” Mac slid a sheet of paper in front of Wiskowski and his lawyer. It was the property listing for the Northfield house.

  Wiskowski’s mouth opened and then his shoulders slumped, like he’d been caught.

  “What’s out at that house?”

  Wiskowski shook his head.

  “Maybe that’s why McDonald is involved.”

  “McDonald?” Mac asked, standing now, leaning down to the old man, his voice rising, “McDonald? What’s at that house, damn it?” He pounded the table, “What’s out there?”

  Wiskowski looked at the picture.

  “Ohh Steve.” Drew Sr. put his hands to his face. “I wondered why he bought that place. Why would he do this?” he pleaded to his lawyer, who just shook his head.

  “Steve?” Mac asked. “Your son?” They hadn’t been able to find Wiskowski’s son as of yet. “What’s Steve have to do with this?”

  Wiskowski pleaded with his lawyer.

  “Why would he do this?”

  Burton grabbed Mac by the arm.

  “We’ve been looking at the wrong Wiskowski. Let’s go.”

  • • • • •

  4:32 a.m.

  Mac and Lich were in the back of an FBI Suburban with Duffy and Burton in front. Two additional Suburbans followed. Just outside the east side of Northfield, the group met up with the Rice County sheriff and three deputies in a parking lot behind a church.

  Burton leaped out and was greeted by the sheriff.

  “You must be Agent Burton.”

  “I am.”

  “George Glenning, Rice County sheriff. The place you’re looking for is four miles or so up the road on the right side. House is set well back from the road in a light grove of trees.”

  “You do a drive-by?”

  “Did it myself, fifteen minutes ago. Looks pretty quiet. A few vans are parked in front of the garage, but no activity. Lights off on the main level, although I thought I could detect some light out of the window wells. Someone might be awake in the basement.”

  “Pretty sleepy, huh?”

  “That’s my read,” Glenning answered. “You have, what, twelve men? Plus my four. That should be plenty of power. How do you want to hit the place?”

  “Let’s go up nice and easy, without the Suburbans,” Burton answered. “If the girls are in there, we don’t want to give these guys any warning.”

  “So we pull up to the end of the driveway and walk in quietly, then.”

  “Yeah,” Burton answered. “From what you’re telling me, we’ll have a little bit of cover as we approach the house.”

  “A little. The trees are tall but not terribly thick—cleared out around the bottom. The grass is pretty high, but no brush or anything to hide behind. So you can get to a tree and have some cover, but we’ll be exposed when we go for the house.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  The Suburbans made the four-mile drive to the house.

  “Do you think the girls are really there?” Lich asked, looking at Mac.

  “I don’t know,” Mac answered, checking the clip for his Sig. “But the way Old Man Wiskowski reacted when we showed him the picture of the house, it was as if he put the puzzle together himself. It makes sense. The house is isolated. Steve Wiskowski was torn up about his brother. His dad’s going downhill and has been talking about Drew Jr.’s death. How it’s Charlie Flanagan’s and Lyman Hisle’s fault. The old man is dying in front of him and can’t do anything about Flanagan and Hisle, so the kid does. We haven’t been able to find the kid. The old man claims he doesn’t know where he is.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “This could be it.”

  “I’ve heard of crazier things,” Lich said, pulling on his vest.

  “It at least makes some sense,” Mac answered and then added, “We’ll know soon enough.”

  The Suburbans stopped at the driveway, and everyone jumped out. They carefully made their way up to the house, a single-story with white siding and brick halfway up the front. To the right, the driveway swung around to a detached three-stall garage with two vans parked in front. As the group approached the edge of the tree line, there was a noise to the right. A man in blue jeans and a dirty white T-shirt came out the side door to the detached garage, wiping his hands with a rag. The man saw them, dropped the rag, and took off running towards the woods behind the garage.

  “We got a runner,” a sheriff’s deputy yelled and took off after the man.

  “You know what that means,” Lich said.

  “Something’s going on here,” Mac answered.

  The sheriff looked left.

  “Now,” he said. Two deputies ran up to the front door. Everyone else fell in ten feet behind. One deputy opened the screen door and the other used the big ram. The door blasted open.

  “POLICE! FBI!” Burton and Duffy yelled as they burst in and went for the basement stairs. Mac and Lich were right behind and went left down the hallway.

  “Back right, Mac!” Lich yelled.

  “POLICE!” Mac yelled as he burst into the back right bedroom. A man sat up in bed and immediately put his hands up.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  “On the floor! On your knees!” Mac ordered. The man complied quickly. Mac pushed him down onto his stomach. “Hands!” The man again complied. Mac quickly cuffed him and then was up again, following Lich across the hall to check on Riles and Rock, who had their man subdued.

  Mac and Lich then cleared the bathroom and closets in each bedroom.

  “McRyan, Riley, get down here!” Burton called from the basement.

  “Are they down there?” Mac yelled as he bounded down the steps two at a time. “Are they… here?” Mac’s jaw hit the floor as he came to the bottom of the steps. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” he groaned.

  Rows and rows of mature marijuana plants lined up beneath the room’s ult
raviolet lighting. Its street value was likely in the millions. Steve Wiskowski, kidnapper or not, was definitely a drug supplier.

  Burton sighed, “Well at least the DEA will be happy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “The Ransom.”

  TUESDAY, JULY 3RD

  Just before 7:00 a.m., Mac, Lich, Riles, Rock, and Burton slid into a large booth at the Cleveland Grille. Going to the Grille was like going into a time warp back to the late 1960s or early 1970s. It had old mustard and orange vinyl booths, a speckled tile floor, and very Brady striped wallpaper. It also served the best and most filling breakfast around. Everyone was exhausted and needed to fuel up. The Cleveland would do the trick.

  Mac loved the place, the food, and the old atmosphere. Lich loved the place because his girl Dot worked his table. Lich and Dot hooked up at the same time as Mac and Sally last winter during the PTA case. Dot was a treat: a wonderfully warm, salt and pepper haired waitress in her late forties who wore a uniform two sizes too small to show off her ample topside. Lich, of course, loved it. He came in each morning, she doted on him, and he’d pat her on the ass. Mac loved her to death and often wondered whether, if the two got married, if he’d have to call her Dot Lick.

  “The usual, Hon?” she asked Mac, setting her right hand on his shoulder.

  “You bet.” The usual was the CG breakfast burrito; chock full of eggs, sausage, hash browns, peppers, cheese, and salsa. “Get everyone the same,” he directed. “Trust me,” he said, looking to Burton. “You’ll love it. It’ll fill you up, and you’ll thank me for it later.”

  While they waited for their food, they began the postmortem on the raid. No evidence of the girls was found at the Northfield house and alibis were checking out. Wiskowski Sr. was still of interest, but it was dying by the minute. Everyone knew, in their hearts and heads, that he was a dead end.

  “I thought it was Wiskowski,” Mac groaned, sipping at a large glass of ice water. “I can’t believe how wrong I was about him. It all fit, right down to the house out in the country.”

  “It wasn’t just you. We were all wrong,” Burton said. “I thought it was Wiskowski, too. I’d have bet my pension on it.”