A couple of detectives, a young blond-haired one in a sharp blue suit and an older bald guy in a rumpled shit-brown suit were talking on the front porch of the condo. Suddenly the young detective looked down and flipped up the mat. The key. Viper figured they’d find it. That was fine by him. No evidence of forced entry, meaning someone had a key or easy access to one. The senator, when they found him, would have to admit he used it. His prints would be on it.
Viper trained the binoculars on the young cop and watched him reach for his cell phone. It was a brief call, thirty seconds at most. He looked to the bald detective, said something and pointed away from the condo. They walked down the steps and looked to be leaving. Then they stopped, turned and climbed the steps to the neighbor’s condo to the right of Daniels’. The young detective pointed in a few directions, and the other detectives nodded. Directions given, the younger detective and the bald one left the porch and headed to the south and out of sight.
Viper thought a little more about what he had just seen. It looked like the young cop was in charge of the situation. He couldn’t be much over thirty years old. Yet, he seemed to be the one giving directions, with everyone else nodding when he talked. The bald guy, much the younger detective’s senior, hadn’t said much at all. Viper wondered why such a young cop would be calling the shots on a high-profile case like the death of Claire Daniels. He would have someone make a call. Maybe they caught a break.
As Mac walked through the door and into the St. Paul Public Safety Building, the intensity of the day hit him in the face. Faces were taut, voices low and serious. It was not St. Paul’s finest day, and all eyes were on the department. The desk sergeant saw Mac and Lich walk in and directed them up to the chief’s office.
Charles Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for eight years. At fifty-four years old, he was a thirty-three-year veteran of the police force who had worked his way up from uniform cop to chief. He was a tall, slender Irishman who seemed to have aged ten years in the last month, largely due to the serial killer. His once bright red hair had turned gray.
Chief Flanagan knew police work but, to put it charitably, the politics and public relations aspects of his job were not his strengths. His saving grace was that he had the complete and total support of the force, unusual for many big-city chiefs. He was, as Mac’s uncle Shamus liked to say, real police. The chief always stood behind his men. While that made him popular with the rank and file, it occasionally made him some enemies at City Hall, enemies now making his life miserable. Mac had known him for as long as he could remember. He had been with Mac, Shamus and Pat Riley, another St. Paul detective, when Mac’s dad was shot and killed.
Mac and Lich walked into the chief’s outer office, and his secretary led them in. As they entered, the chief looked up. He walked to Mac, shook his hand warmly and said, “Mac, it’s nice to see you, boyo.”
“Good morning, Chief. Nice to see you as well.” The chief’s appearance told Mac what kind of day it had already been. The suit coat had been jettisoned, the tie and collar loosened, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. There were three coffee cups on his desk, all half empty. If Mac didn’t know better, he got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, although a quick scan failed to reveal an ashtray.
“Lich, how are you?”
“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, boys, the shit’s hittin’ the fan. We’ll be speaking with the media soon,” Flanagan said, wincing. “I know you probably don’t have much, but Peters, Sylvia, and I need an update. So,” the chief said, pointing to Mac, “give us what you’ve got.”
Mac pulled out his notebook to give the basic run down. He finished with, “Forensics preliminarily puts time of death between midnight and 2:00 a.m.”
“How’d the killer get in? Were there any signs of forced entry?” asked the chief.
“Not so far.” Mac replied, explaining about the new door locks and key they found.
“Anything missing?”
“Doesn’t seem to be,” Mac answered. “The house isn’t ransacked in any way. She had jewelry in her bedroom, some fairly expensive pieces, which appear to be undisturbed. So, at this point, it looks like whoever got in was let in, or had a key. Maybe a boyfriend.”
“Do we know anything about who she was seeing?”
“Not yet. We’ll need to get down to the station and talk to the people she worked with. Maybe we’ll learn something there.”
Sylvia Miller, the department spokeswoman, piped in. “The media knows that it’s Claire Daniels. I’ve already been getting calls, and they, being the media, want to know when we’ll have something to say. What can we offer at this point?”
Mac was about to speak, but first looked to Flanagan, who nodded. “I know the heat’s on, but I don’t think we should release much. She was found dead this morning in her condo. I’d give them the usual bullshit that an autopsy will be performed. Indicate that we’ll be questioning people in the neighborhood, people she worked with, that sort of thing. Beyond that…” Mac shook his head.
“We’re getting hammered here, with the serial killer and then this,” Miller pleaded. “Can’t we go with more, the strangling, time of death, the sex information… any of that?”
“Not yet,” Flanagan answered. “It’s way too early. I don’t want us to get hung based on speculative information we’ll have to retract later. I don’t wanna compromise the investigation.”
“I understand that, but information’ll get out on a case like this,” Miller pushed. “The media pressure’ll be immense. One of their own is dead here. We need to throw them a bone, or we’re gonna get skewered.”
“Damn it, I fuckin’ know that!” yelled Flanagan, who then caught himself, obviously regretting the outburst. After a quiet moment and an exhale, he said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your situation, Sylvia. But we must let the detectives do their work. If we catch the guy, we’ll be fine. If not, I’ll take the heat.” Flanagan then turned to Mac. “This is your case to run. But be smart. You need help, boyo, ask, and keep Peters in the loop. And, son, all media requests go to Sylvia for now.”
“Avoiding the media is fine by me,” Mac replied.
“That goes for you too, Lich,” added Peters, his tone just a bit accusatory.
Mac smiled inside. Lich liked to talk.
“What’d I do?” pleaded Lich with his arms held open.
“Dick,” said Flanagan, “you have a rep for leaking. Not here. Keep your mouth shut.” It was not a request.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, boys, go to it.”
Mac and Lich left the room.
Once they were gone, Miller, always evaluating the public perception of things asked, “Chief, isn’t McRyan kind of young to be handling this?”
The chief gave Miller a long, severe look before answering. “You know his background. He’s got four good years as a detective. He’ll be fine. From your perspective, he should be someone we want in front of the camera. People will recognize the name.”
“That’s all true, but this isn’t a public service announcement. This is a murder case of a well-known reporter on top of a serial killer. This is very high-profile. McRyan doesn’t look very senior. People might wonder, is all I’m saying.”
“Your concerns are noted,” was Flanagan’s terse reply.
With that, Miller and Peters got up to leave. The chief asked Peters to stay.
With the door closing behind Miller, the chief asked, “She have a point on Mac?”
“No,” Peters responded without hesitation. “Mac’s fine. He’s young, sure, but smart. Lich’s fine too if he’s with it, and I made sure he was properly motivated this morning. Mac doesn’t concern me.”
The chief considered it for a minute “Real police. It’s in his blood.”
“Yes, sir.” Peters replied. “He’s a natural at this. He’s level headed, a natural leader, he wants the responsibility. Plus, he’s smarter than hell.”
>
Chief Flanagan thought it over. “You know, he reminds me of his old man.”
Peters smiled. “Me too, Chief.”
“Well, screw them all then,” Flanagan said, “We let the real police do their job.”
Chapter Four
“Claire’s dead.”
Mac and Lich got back in the Explorer and drove to Daniels’ place. Mac was jacked. It was not often he got a case like this. Lich, catching the mood of the moment, put it right, “This type of case-bring it home, and you’re set, Mac. Screw it up, and you might get night watch down in the jail.”
As they pulled onto Grand and were a few blocks away from Daniels’ place, Lich chirped, “Media’s in heaven. They’ll have a field day with us today.”
Mac couldn’t argue with him, it was going to be rough, especially for the chief and Sylvia Miller.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Lich said with just a touch of wry sarcasm.
Mac caught the tone. “You gonna be okay following my lead on this?”
Lich chuckled. “There’ll be no problem, Mac. I haven’t exactly been busting my hump lately, but I’m with you on this. No fucking around.”
“Thanks.”
“So, what’s on our agenda?”
“Check out the condo. Then we’ll head down to Channel 6 and talk with her colleagues. Her mother’s been notified. We’ll have to talk with her as well, although word is they weren’t close.”
As they approached Daniels’ condo, the media horde became evident, with television trucks and microphones everywhere, people running back and forth. To avoid it, Mac dumped the Explorer in an open spot along Grand, half a block away. He and Lich got out and made their way towards the condo, casually winding through the news vans, and ducking under the crime scene tape.
Mac saw a uniform cop and said, “Go get me Clark and Green,” and to Lich, “Let’s take a closer look around the condo.”
As Mac entered the bedroom, forensics was getting ready to transport the body. Morgan had nothing additional to give them; they would have to wait for the autopsy. On his first time through, Mac had gotten the feeling that very little was amiss, but he wanted to look around and get a feel for Daniels.
The bedroom was really two rooms. There was the area where her bed, dresser and closet were located. Claire must have slept on the right side normally, as there was a phone and an alarm clock on that side of the bed. The drawer on the right nightstand was filled with the usual stuff one might expect, including a notepad and pen to take messages. The drawer on the left side held a brass tin that contained condoms, which was interesting, for if nothing else, she was prepared.
He took a look at her closet, a deep walk in. Claire had been a clotheshorse, which was not surprising for a television reporter. There were a couple of boxes with personal effects, some family pictures, and a high school yearbook from Bristol, Ohio. Mac took out the yearbook and thumbed through it. Bristol was a small town as Claire’s graduating class looked to be about fifty students. He found Claire, with a last name of Miller, so she must have been married at some point or changed her name. Her graduation picture certainly indicated that she must have been the object of many a Bristol boys’ dreams.
Mac left the closet, and went to the other side of the bedroom through a wide archway into what was a large sitting room. When she was home, Claire obviously had spent most of her time here. The room was tastefully furnished with a plaid love seat and chair combination. There was a large entertainment center and collection of DVDs and CDs. Claire was a Meg Ryan fan, owning copies of Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, and even Kate and Leopold. There was also a run of movies that had some of the hotter scenes around. She owned Sliver, Body Heat, 9? Weeks, Basic Instinct, and a few Andrew Stevens and Shannon Tweed B movies, flicks one would typically find in a frat house. There were even two porno flicks, which he found mildly amusing, something he would have expected to find in a couple of his buddies’ places, but not here.
There were also a number of DVD copies. Upon closer inspection Mac saw that they were DVDs of her TV work. Each was indexed and well organized, indicating the story she had reported and the date. She also had some videotapes of her work in Denver and Salt Lake City.
A door from the sitting room led into the hallway. On the other side was an office. She had an L-shaped desk with a glass top. A desktop computer sat on the left corner, a tower of CDs to the right. Forensics would go over the computer with a fine tooth comb.
There were a couple of filing cabinets. A quick inspection of the desk revealed she was, again, very organized. Mortgage, investments, insurance, vehicle information-all segregated in colored folders with typed labels. There was little else in the office of interest. It didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed or was out of order. As he finished, Lich came in and just shrugged his shoulders-nothing of interest found downstairs.
They walked back down the hallway to a built-in cabinet. It had bookshelves on top, a drawer and cabinet on the bottom. The cabinet had spare towels, washcloths and some bathroom supplies. The drawer had some decorative washcloths and towels, probably for when Claire entertained. There were a few books, trinkets, and a wood Roman numeral X on the shelves.
A tour of the spare bedroom revealed a junk room, with some old clothes hanging in the closet and a few pieces of exercise equipment. They walked back into the master bedroom. Lich spoke first. “Gotta be someone she knows, because, best as I can tell, nothing’s out of place.”
“You may be right,” Mac replied, unable to argue with the premise. He headed down the steps. As he reached the bottom, he saw Clark and Green walking up. Mac tilted his head up in greeting as they approached.
“Nothing so far,” Green said. “We’ve gone through the apartment buildings across the street. There are a couple of apartments where people didn’t respond, though, so we’ll have to go back.”
“Okay, keep at it. Lich and I are heading down to Channel 6 to talk to her work people. If you get anything, give me a call.”
Nobody had anything to add, so Mac and Lich headed out. Word had spread that Mac was lead on the case, and the media had identified him. As he and Lich headed towards the Explorer, a throng of reporters approached and started shouting questions. “No comment,” and, “You’ll have to work through media relations,” was all Mac would say. Lich, on his best behavior, said nothing.
There were two U.S. Senate dining rooms. One was for use by current members, their families, as well as any former senators. The other dining room, a small one, was only for current senators. It was perhaps the most exclusive restaurant in Washington, if not in all of the country.
Senator Mason Johnson was having a late lunch with the junior senators from Wisconsin and Iowa. They were discussing various issues involved in a farm bill before the Agriculture Committee, of which all three were members. The Republican senator from Iowa had sponsored the bill and was explaining to his esteemed Democratic friend from Wisconsin his displeasure with other Democratic senators who were, in his terms, “fiddlin’” with his bill.
Senator Johnson was hearing their conversation, but he wasn’t really listening. Rather, he was enjoying his tomato-basil soup out of an exquisite fine-china bowl and thinking about Claire.
As he was finishing his lunch, a senate page approached their table. He had a note for the senator. “Come back to the office right away-Jordan.” Jordan Hines was Johnson’s best friend and chief of staff. Hmmm, he wondered. What could be so important? Johnson excused himself and made tracks for his office in the Russell Senate Building.
The senator was conflicted. He knew his own marriage was over, although he had not discussed divorce with his wife. While he was only fortyfour years old, he had been in Washington for fourteen years, six as a congressman and eight as a senator.
His years in Washington had taught him one immutable truth about his job: it was demanding on a marriage. There were long hours at the capital, traveling, raising money, as
well as spending time in the home state. His wife was a good woman, intelligent, attractive, but not one to stay home and be the dutiful senator’s wife. In their many years in Washington, she had become a force in a number of political causes, some of which differed from his own political philosophy. The time she spent on her career and the time required for his had strained the marriage. He had brought up the issues with Gwen, hoping she would understand the importance of what he was doing as a senator and would give up some of her work to be there for him. However, the more he brought it up, the more strained things became. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spent a night together or made love. He needed her love, her attention and affection. Instead, he often found himself alone at the end of the day. They had simply drifted apart.
Then he met Claire. It was early September, at a birthday party for a political supporter back home. He was standing next to the bar, having a gin and tonic and talking to a group of friends when he saw her walk in. She was wearing a black strapless dress and, while very tasteful, it left little to the imagination. Then she flashed that smile he had seen on TV. She was stunning. While he had noticed her, as every other male in the joint must have, he had not made any sort of a move towards her. It was another half hour, and suddenly someone grabbed him by the arm. It was his friend Conner Lund, and with him was Claire Daniels.
“Mace, Claire wanted to meet you.”
It was not often that he was made uncomfortable, even intimidated by anyone, and in particular a woman, but Claire had that affect on him initially. It was her beauty. She was the most attractive woman he had ever met. However, once he met her, shook her hand and spent a few moments with her, he liked her immediately. He found her to be warm, funny and intelligent. They talked for what seemed like hours, both within a group of people, as well as by themselves. There were numerous times each of them broke off to converse with others, but somehow they always ended up back together. At the end of the night, as everyone was leaving, he found himself standing next to her, waiting for the valet to bring up his car. He wondered how he could mention somehow seeing her again. She made it easy. As the valet pulled up her car, she mentioned she was going to be in D.C. in a couple of weeks. She wondered if they could get together for lunch. Of course, he said, just call his office. He didn’t even know if he was scheduled to be in town, but he decided he’d make sure he was.
The St. Paul Conspiracy Page 3
