The St. Paul Conspiracy
Roger Stelljes
Roger Stelljes
The St. Paul Conspiracy
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 side 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 blond 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, D.C.
Even if he had only three days to prepare, the whole situation provided the perfect cover.
Through the gap in the hedge, he could see her place, which was part of an old mansion, now subdivided into expensive condos. She had the last condo to the north. He was looking at the rear entrance, across the narrow driveway and through the side door of the one-car, tuck-under garage.
The man darted across the driveway to the side door and quickly pulled out a key, a duplicate of the one left under the mat on the front step. The key slid smoothly into the deadbolt, giving a light click as the door unlocked. He slipped inside, quickly removed the key and quietly shut the door. Fetching a towel out of his small backpack, he cleaned and dried his shoes. With the towel again stashed in the backpack, the man moved through the garage to the back door and up the stairs, which took him into the kitchen. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and listened. Silence.
Moving through the kitchen took him to a hallway that led into the living room. The drapes were pulled over the large picture window that looked out to St. Albans Street. Just before the front door he turned right and took the steps up to the second level.
There were four rooms on the second floor. Along the back was a spare bedroom that Claire used for storage, a bathroom, and a second bedroom she used as an office down on the end. The front was a single open bedroom, thirty-five feet by fifteen according to the blueprints filed with the city. An arch divided the bedroom from a sitting area.
He went into the first spare bedroom, directly into the closet that faced into the hallway. Hiding in the left side of the closet, he kept the door open enough so he could get out without having to open it further. Through the opening he could see across the hallway into the master bedroom. Thin streams of illumination from the street light fought through the window shades to provide a dark outline of the king-sized bed and flanking nightstands.
In the closet, he checked his watch, 10:25 p.m. He tapped his throat mic. “Eagle Eye, this is Viper. I’m in.”
“Copy that.”
Eagle Eye was parked in the Mardi Gras parking lot across the alley from the condo with a view of both the back and front of the condo.
Viper. He’d used this code name as an assassin for the agency. It gave him a certain comfort level, put him in the right mindset for this little operation.
He sat sideways, so he could peer around the sliding door. If Daniels and the senator held to their schedule, they’d arrive within the next hour.
Forty minutes later his earpiece came to life. “Viper, Lexus in the alley, just turned in. It’s her.” Viper heard the garage door hum to life. The senator wouldn’t be far behind. He shut off the mic and took out his earpiece, securing it inside his collar.
He could hear Claire as she came up the backstairs from the garage and walked quickly through the kitchen to the front door. The front door opened. Viper heard quiet talking. The door closed and then silence for what seemed like five minutes. Then he heard movement up the stairs, rough and halting, as if only a few steps at a time. There was heavy breathing, and Viper imagined them slowly working their way up the stairs, warming up for what was to come.
Suddenly, they appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, Claire already down to her bra and panties. The senator stripped down to his dress pants. As they moved into the bedroom, she reached with her right hand and hit the light switch, turning on the left nightstand lamp.
Viper could see their profiles, as they finished undressing each other and fell into bed. He looked away, as a professional should. But he could hear them, especially Claire, and he couldn’t help himself. Daniels had the effect on him that she had on others. She was intoxicating, making love to the senator in a hushed breathy moan, the vertebra in her back visible as she arched, moving in perfect rhythm. He envied the senator, his hands on her small buttocks, moving with her in stride, making love to the incredibly beautiful reporter.
Hidden in the closet, invisible, Viper watched as Claire became the aggressor. She picked up the pace, moaning louder, back arched more, moaning louder, head leaning further back, moaning louder, writhing passionately.
And then she came, exhaling loudly.
Half an hour later, the lovemaking long complete, they lay on the bed, enjoying a little pillow talk about nothing in particular. She talked about the live report she had from in front of some local government building; something about a city spending a little too lavishly on its employees. The senator related a story about how he had just managed to avoid the check scandal when he was in
the House of Representatives.
At 1:15 a.m., the senator rolled out of bed and began to dress. All the while, Claire lay on her side, naked, watching him. She had not rolled over and gone to sleep. There had been no half asleep admonition to lock the door. Viper could see it in her eyes. She wanted him to stay. The senator finished his tie in a nice Windsor knot and walked over to the bed, leaning over and kissing her goodbye.
Mason Johnson walked out of the bedroom, turned left and headed down the stairs. A few seconds later, Viper heard the front door open and close. After a brief moment, he heard the deadbolt lock into place.
Viper turned his gaze towards Claire. She had rolled over now. He could see her back, once again making out the little vertebra of her spine. The nightstand light oddly remained on.
The spare bedroom was carpeted, which helped to cover his approach as he slithered out of the closet and to the wall, putting his back to it and sliding towards the hall. The condo was quiet. The only sound was the hum of the furnace, starting up to keep the condo’s temperature constant. It provided just enough ambient noise to cover his approach.
His watch said 1:37 a.m. Timing was important.
He sprang across the room, jumped on the bed, rolled her over and clenched her throat. Viper saw the horror in her eyes. Frantically, she reached for his hands, but he was too strong. She flailed at him, striking his face, shoulder and arms, all the while kicking her legs, wiggling her hips, trying anything to get away. She tried to scream, but only gasps and croaks made it through his grip. He coldly looked in her eyes through his mask while pressing the life out of her.
After a minute, the flailing and struggling slowed and weakened. As he tightened the vice on her throat, her eyelids fluttered, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and he felt her body go still underneath him. Removing his left hand from her neck, he checked her pulse with his right.
She was dead.
Pushing off her and standing up, he checked his watch, 1:39 a.m. He took his mask off and massaged his jaw. Daniels was strong, and he’d been hit hard, but she had been tired, and he was too quick. There had been no time for her to react or scream. She never had a chance.
Viper carefully searched the condo. He had been through it once already the previous night, but he’d been ordered to search again. For the next hour he methodically worked his way through the bedroom, sitting room, office, hallway closet, built-in buffet, and spare bedroom. Next, he moved to the main level and eventually to the basement.
The information about his employer was not to be found.
He headed back upstairs to her bedroom. Was there anyplace he hadn’t looked? He searched the television cabinet. It was stocked with CDs and DVDs, but not with what he was hunting for. The computer was ignored, already searched and now monitored from afar.
He checked his watch, 2:30 a.m., time to get moving. Viper made a last trip to the master bedroom to look at Claire. What a shame, such a beautiful woman. He flipped off the light switch and headed for the stairs, sliding his mask back on in the process. He made his way to the garage, where he found the Lexus. A quick look inside didn’t reveal the documents. How about the trunk? He triggered the latch on the driver’s side door and popped the trunk. Empty other than a flash light, a pair of boots, and a window scrapper-typical accouterments for the coming Minnesota winter. Viper shut the trunk and moved to the rear door.
“Eagle Eye, Viper. I’m at the rear door.”
“Copy Viper. Go.”
Out the back door, through the hedge and down the alley Viper went. The pickup point was a parking lot between an apartment building and the Kozlak Foodmart. Viper moved his way to the side of a garage across the alley from the parking lot.
The black van turned into the parking lot, approaching from the other side of the alley. As the van turned toward him, the sliding door opened. Viper sprang from the side of the garage, across the alley, over the guardrail and into the van while it was moving. Once inside, he asked, “How’d Bouchard come out?”
“It’s done.”
Chapter Two
“Your day just got worse.”
Many St. Paul residents started their morning at the Grand Brew, a cup of coffee to get the workday started. For Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, a fourth-generation St. Paul detective, it was his way to start the day. Not only did he love the coffee, it was making him a little dough. Two childhood friends owned the Grand Brew. Mac had invested a little money six years before in exchange for a small piece of the action. That “small piece” was turning out to be a nice, and ever-growing, supplement to his detective’s salary.
Mac grabbed his coffee and looked at his watch, 7:30 a.m.-day of paperwork ahead. He had cleared a murder the day before, a stick-up gone awry. It took Mac and his partner a week to put the case together and find the stick-up guy, a nineteen-year-old kid they identified from a surveillance camera. They hauled the kid in, and he went quickly.
Mac’s partner was Richard Lich, or better known within the department, and often to his face, as “Dick Lick.” Mac often wondered what in the world Lich’s parents had been thinking. Dick was a veteran cop with money problems; two divorces would do that to a guy. That being said, when motivated, Dick was a good detective. He had an easy manner with people and a quick wit. When he was on his game, Lich was a good compliment to Mac’s blunt, if not occasionally abrasive, approach to matters. Problem was, as of late, Lich had checked out. Mac hoped he would snap out of it soon. He could use the help.
Mac jumped into his Explorer, put his coffee in the cup holder just as his cellphone vibrated. He took a look. Just like that a seemingly slow and easy day turned busy. His captain was looking for him.
“McRyan.”
“Peters. St. Albans, between Summit and Grand, cleaning lady found a body.” Mac wrote down the address. “I called Lich. You’ll be there first. Keep me advised and keep your cell on.” Click.
Well, good morning to you too, Mac thought. Captain Marion Peters was a good guy, an old-guard cop that Mac and the rest of the McRyan clan knew well. The gruff manner had more to do with last night than the body on St. Albans. The University Avenue Strangler had struck for the fifth time.
The University Avenue Strangler. Good grief, Mac thought. It wasn’t a cop moniker. That was a media creation and cornball as hell, but that was the media. If you have a serial killer, which they did, the media had to give him a name. A name made for great headlines in the Pioneer Press and Star Tribune.
Four women, now five, had been killed, strangled, sexually assaulted and dumped into vacant lots in the vicinity of University Avenue. The signature item identifying the killer was a balloon left behind, marking the body like a buoy. The balloon was always the same-a smiley face. “Have a Nice Day.”
Of course, with a serial killer, people, including politicians and especially the media tend to go into a panic. Mac saw it on the morning news shows, the media in full glory, hyping the murder of another innocent victim for ratings, providing “Team Coverage” and “Exclusives you’ll only see on Channel 12.” City council members had already been on the tube reassuring everyone that the police would find the killer. Undoubtedly, Captain Peters’ gruff mood had something to do with the latest murder, the media swarm, and, Mac suspected, hysterical calls from city politicians demanding something be done. As if it was that easy.
Mac pulled out onto Grand and headed east to St. Albans with a murder to work on. He was thirty-two years old, six-foot-one and one-hundred ninety pounds. He was ruggedly handsome, with blond hair and icy blue eyes. His short hair formed around a taut face, with a square jaw and a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon in his chin. He had three crisscrossing scars under his chin, the result of stitches from hockey-related cuts. He worked on his wiry, strong body frequently and was proud of the fact he remained in “game” shape, no heavier than his college hockey-playing weight.
Mac had taken a somewhat circuitous route to being a cop considering his family. Growing up, all he ever
wanted to be was a detective just like his dad, the famous Simon McRyan. It didn’t hurt that his grandpa and greatgrandpa, several uncles and cousins-all of them were cops. It was the family business. As a kid, his two best friends were his cousins, Peter and Tommy. All three were going to be like their dads, St. Paul cops.
But then Mac turned out to be a straight-A student and great highschool hockey player, garnering an athletic scholarship to the University of Minnesota. After four years, he graduated again with straight A’s and had captained the Gophers to an NCAA Championship. He was engaged to the prettiest and smartest girl on campus. His road to life had been paved for something other than police work.
So, while Tommy and Peter joined the police force after college, Mac and his fiancee enrolled in law school. He graduated summa cum laude, second in his class. He had a job lined up with Prescott and Finnerty, a prominent law firm with a $100,000 starting salary. His lovely wife, also a lawyer, would make equally as much in another law firm. With his name recognition, perhaps politics would follow. He was set for a wealthy life with a beautiful wife.
Then two weeks after the bar exam, while standing on the eighth tee at Somerset Country Club, his life changed forever. His cell phone rang. Peter and Tommy had been killed in the line of duty, shot as they responded to a bank robbery.
Mac was a pallbearer for both, the only one not in a police uniform. As he stood by one casket and then the other at the cemetery, he looked to his family, more than twenty of his cousins and uncles in uniform, laying it on the line to protect their families and city. Listening to the priest speak of the commitment his two cousins had made, he felt selfish and empty. What had he done that compared to Peter and Tommy? Why had his lot in life been different? The athletic and academic success, the law degree, marrying the pretty girl-did that mean that being a cop was for someone else? That his family and their sacrifices were beneath him? That he shouldn’t feel the same sense of obligation that four generations of his family had?
The St. Paul Conspiracy Page 1
