The St. Paul Conspiracy

by Roger Stelljes

  She was a member at the University Club, where she had a locker. Nothing.

  They searched her mother’s place again and delivery records for her. They hacked into her mother’s bank records to see if she had been to Jones’s safe deposit box at any time in the last few months. Nothing.

  They did the same thing with Daniels. They went through her place again, through every closet, every set of drawers, computer, files, office, basement, kitchen, built-in cabinets, car, everything. Nothing.

  They searched Daniels’ mothers’ place again. They checked her mother’s bank records, no trips to a safe deposit box. No deliveries of any kind. Nothing.

  In a new twist, they went through Senator Johnson’s St. Paul residence, office, car, and even the cabin. Nothing.

  They were back searching at Channel 6. Alt was certain the documents weren’t there. But the boss wanted someone there every night until the documents were found.

  One solution that had been implemented was that they had very carefully arranged through a sea of paperwork to purchase both Jones’s and Daniels’s places. They would take possession of both after the first of the year. If the documents were still there, they’d be found because every wall in either place was coming out. Maybe they should be x-raying the walls. That was a thought. Alt would evaluate that one tomorrow.

  He reached into the fridge and grabbed a cold beer and thought of McRyan. He’d gone back to regular police work. Alt had stopped following him, especially after he’d made a less-than-subtle remark about being followed.

  His group continued to monitor McRyan’s and Kennedy’s places. Nary a word about Cross. McRyan had scared them. But the investigation, if that’s what one would call it, had been shut down. Surveillance since then revealed McRyan and Kennedy were going to take a vacation together. Alt was about ready to shut that part of the operation down altogether.

  Alt strolled to the den, dug around in the dark, found the remote and turned on the television. He dropped into his easy chair, flipped off his shoes and sipped his beer. He surfed through the channels until he found Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. He wasn’t a big movie guy but always liked the Jones flicks. The movies reminded him of going to the movies as a kid, the good versus evil storylines, the heroes, a simpler time. He’d seen this Jones movie a hundred times, which was the case these days, all the cable channels running movies into the ground.

  He turned to it just before one of his favorite parts, where Indy is in the old library in Venice, uses his dad’s Holy Grail diary, discovers the sequence of roman numerals in the library, and the entrance to the Knight’s Tomb, which is in the large Roman numeral X on the floor, and Indy says, with a sheepish smile, “X marks the spot.” This was of course after he previously said to his archeology class, “and X never marks the spot.”

  “That’s it,” he thought. The original Cross documents are buried in a hole somewhere. They just had to find the treasure map and where X marked the spot.

  Mac grabbed four turtlenecks out of his dresser drawer and threw them into his suitcase. He already packed fleece tops, long johns, socks, jeans, shoes, and his toiletries. His skis, boots, poles, coat, gloves and goggles were laid out in the living room. He had two ski coats, plus his leather coat he liked to drive in, laid out on the couch. He shook his head-too much stuff. He always overpacked when he traveled. Never a Boy Scout, he followed the motto anyway, “Be Prepared.” He had everything he needed for a long weekend, and he needed a long weekend away.

  Since the showdown at PTA fizzled, Mac was a grump. He never took losing well. He always thought Lombardi had it right, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.” He lost. He didn’t like it.

  The case gnawed at him, and he’d decided it wasn’t just because he lost, but because PTA got away with it. Because of jobs, money, reasonable doubt and politics, a deal had been struck. The chief and the rest of them were pissed about it, sure. They knew PTA got away with something, but they could all rationalize it, live with it, move on from it. They’d all seen it a hundred times before and would see it a hundred times again. “God damn it, Mac, look at O.J.,” Lich said one night at the Pub, “He was guiltier than my first wife, but now he’s hunting for Nicole’s killer on every golf course in America. It’s over, OVER, deal with it. Now pass the beer nuts.”

  Mac understood the deal; he just couldn’t rationalize it like everyone else. Maybe he wasn’t cynical enough or, on the other hand, maybe too idealistic? In his view of the world there was right and wrong, and there was justice. In his mind, the pursuit of justice didn’t include calculating bank balances, economic impact, or political power. No, for the victims, the dead, justice must come for them, no matter the cost. The deal that was struck with PTA was the antithesis of that.

  So the bitterness sat with him, percolated inside him, depressed him. Two women and a sitting U.S. senator were dead and the guilty parties were simply going to walk away just like that. And the worst part about it was that Mac still felt like he’d missed something. That there was still something out there to be found. Daniels, Jones, their homes, the senator-all of it kept rattling around in his attic, nonstop, pestering him, like a fly that would hover around his head and wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he swatted at it.

  That he couldn’t put the case out of his mind was not lost on people. The sour mood, lack of concentration, sullen expression all told the story. So Sally and the chief intervened, and now he was packing for a ski vacation up in Lutsen, Minnesota’s, finest ski resort. At first Mac wasn’t sure he wanted to go, but then Sally told him about the place, which belonged to a friend of hers. Isolated and private. Ski in and ski out. Fireplace. Satellite television so they could watch the Vikes game Sunday night. A hot tub. A lofted bedroom with panoramic views of the ski resort on one side and Lake Superior on the other. It was all good. Mac’s mood started changing, and he was looking forward to getting away. A little trip away seemed like a good next step for them.

  With everything loaded in the Explorer, he drove over to Sally’s place. Realizing he needed to get cash and gas, he stopped at the Super America. He jumped out and put the nozzle in and set it to pump itself and enjoyed the mild winter night. The temps up in Lutsen, five hours to the north, would be in the twenties for skiing. Great weather. Mac heard the nozzle pop, took it out and headed inside.

  He got his cash, grabbed a bottle of water and went to the cashier. As he paid, he noticed the security television, showing all the pumps, and thought of Knapp. That had been a lucky strike, noticing that camera, he thought. It was always those little things that broke cases. The security camera could have easily been missed, and they might still be looking for Knapp. Instead, he noticed it, and Knapp was history.

  Knapp and the surveillance camera got him back to thinking about PTA. He’d missed something on that case, he just couldn’t figure out what. There was an overlooked detail somewhere. Mac hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, lest people think he was obsessing, which of course he was. But he thought about the case morning, noon, and night. Enough already, Mac. Let it go! he said to himself as he climbed into the Explorer and drove to Sally’s.

  They stayed up until 10:00 p.m. and then went to bed. Mac laid in the dark room, spooning against Sally, her body warm. Mac never had been one for going to bed early. Carefully reaching over Sally, he grabbed the remote off her nightstand and powered up the TV. He liked spending time at Sally’s place because she had full cable, plus some premium channels. She was a big sports fan and liked movies as much as he did. Flipping through the channels, he caught the end of Ocean’s Eleven. A fun movie, the actors all looked like they had a good time making it.

  Mac flipped around some more. He caught a late edition of SportsCenter, catching some Timberwolves highlights. While not a huge hoops fan, he followed the hometown club. They’d won, beating the Bulls.

  Mac tried some more channels and came to Indiana Jones. He loved Indy and once dressed up as him for Halloween, with the
fedora, leather coat, whip, the whole nine yards. Indy and Marcus were in the library, looking at the roman numerals. Mac smiled, he loved this part.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Who are you?”

  Alt awoke stiff and sore. He’d fallen asleep in his easy chair and had overslept. He wanted to be into the office by 8:30 a.m. That was the time he woke up. A hurried shower, shave, and change of clothes put him downtown by 9:15 a.m.

  He walked into the operations center, and Bouchard and Hennessey were waiting for him. Alt saw it immediately-they were agitated. “What’s up?”

  “At the front desk at Channel 6 we found a log book, the receptionist completes it. We missed it the other times we were in.” Hennessey said.

  “How?”

  “It’s usually in a locked cabinet. For some reason, it was left out last night.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “It records packages dropped off and for whom. There’s one for a CD, October 26th, a large package from an outfit called Flash Local Delivery. Note indicated it was a large box. The signature looks like Daniels’.”

  “Have we checked this Flash whatever’s records?”

  “Hagen’s giving it a shot right now,” Bouchard responded and led them to the computer whiz.

  “What did you get?” Alt asked.

  Hagen looked up at them through pop-bottle glasses, “They don’t have any sort of system that I can crack into. They don’t exist in cyberspace.” If Hagen couldn’t crack them, they didn’t have a system, or at least one that was tapped into the outside world.

  “Where are they located?”

  “Over in South Minneapolis. Address puts them in a residential neighborhood.”

  Alt thought quickly, and then said to Hansen and Hennessey, “Take the big van. You might need some tools. We have to know if that’s our package.”

  Mac slept soundly, well after his normal waking time. He rolled over to find Sally standing at the end of the bed, dressed, with wet hair. “You making breakfast, big boy?”

  Mac smiled, “After a shower.” A quick shower, some jeans and a black mock turtleneck, and Mac was downstairs firing up the coffee and mixing some quick eggs. The TV was on, and he had it on the Golf Channel of all things as Sally walked into the kitchen, her hair now dry and styled. She looked like a million bucks in blue jeans and a white turtleneck with her shoulder-length red hair. She walked over and gave him a warm kiss, and looked at what he was mixing. “Scrambled eggs, yummy. Did you find the cheese and ham?”

  “All ready shredded and chopped,” he replied, pointing to the center island.

  “Looks great.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table to watch TV. “What’s with the Golf Channel?”

  “I like it. This is one of those segments where the pro teaches an amateur. I learn a few things watching these.”

  “I understand, but we’re going skiing.”

  “This isn’t Colorado. We don’t have a ski channel. Besides, you like golf. You might learn something.”

  Sally watched as the golf professional showed video of the amateur’s golf swing at a driving range. Then they cut back to the studio where the pro, amateur, and host were standing on some fake grass with a net, ready to do some sort of live demonstration. The host asked the softball question about the value of video. The pro responded, “There isn’t anything you can’t improve through the use of video.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Sally said.

  “What’s that?” Mac asked.

  “Pro says there isn’t anything that can’t be improved by video.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “I mean video tells you everything,” Sally said. “Don’t you remember in law school, when they videoed us making oral arguments?”

  “Vaguely.” Mac said as he poured the eggs into the pan, adding the ham and cheese.

  “I sure do. I learned a ton about myself watching that. I keep some of those lessons with me today.”

  “I know what you’re saying. I remember in college we watched tons of video of our games and of the opposing teams. Learned a ton about myself, picked up tendencies of the other side. So, yeah it helps,” he replied. “You know who else was a fanatic about video?”

  “Who?”

  “Claire Daniels.” Mac said as he moved the scrambled eggs around the pan.

  Sally shot him a disapproving look. “Aren’t we done with that, yet?”

  “I’m just saying. When we went through her place, she had DVD copies of all of her reporting, videos of herself working out and playing golf, just like this guy on TV. She was anal about it. I remember the sports guy at Channel 6, saying she was a total perfectionist, super hard on herself, vain in that respect. She critiqued every report she did. It’s why she was so good, I guess.”

  “I imagine so,” Sally said. “We’re not going to talk about that case all weekend are we?”

  “No. I promise.”

  Flash Local Delivery was located in a residential neighborhood on Oakland Avenue in South Minneapolis. Quick research by Hagen found it had been incorporated six months earlier by an Everett Flash, hence the business name. A Yellow Page ad indicated same-day delivery, personal pickup, and confidential service with a personal touch. No kidding, it was being run out of the guy’s house. Hansen and Hennessey found Flash working in an office on the side of a detached garage. As they went in the door, Flash was on the phone, writing down some notes on a legal pad. A laptop was plugged into the wall, no phone line. No wonder Hagen couldn’t get in.

  Flash hung up and asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen.”

  “We want to see if you remember a package you picked up on October 26th and delivered to Channel 6,” Hansen said.

  “Did you send it?”

  “No, a friend of ours did.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I could help your friend,” Flash answered, “but I can’t tell you anything about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hennessey replied, “but our friend was killed shortly after she sent the package. We’re trying to track some things down. It would really help if you could provide us with some information.”

  “I protect the confidentiality of my clients,” Flash replied.

  “Well,” a menacing look overtaking Hennessey’s six-foot, three-inch frame, “We would appreciate your cooperation on a voluntary basis. But I assure you, cooperation we will get.”

  Flash gave Hennessey a look, and then one over to Hansen, equally big, who could give an intimidating look with the best of them. Flash was going to give them what they were looking for, whether he liked it or not. “So, you say your friend was killed?” Flash replied, having sized up the situation.

  “That’s right,” Hennessey replied.

  “Well, in that case, I guess they can’t complain can they?”

  “No, they can’t,” Hansen replied, relaxed now, a pleasant grin replacing the menacing look.

  Flash started through his records.

  Mac and Sally jumped into the Explorer to start towards Lutsen. He turned onto Grand Avenue and drove east towards Snelling, where he would take a left and get to Interstate 35 to head up north. It was 10:00 a.m. and they would get to Lutsen by 5:00 p.m., with a few pit stops and lunch figured in. Sally was talking on Mac’s cell phone, checking in with work. She flipped it closed and handed it back, “Thanks.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, they have a new copier at work that does scanning now.”

  “Scanning?”

  “Yeah, it’s like a copier, except it scans the document into the system and saves it as a Word document. All part of an attempt to become a paperless office, which will be virtually impossible. However, it’ll allow me to put some documents on CDs to bring home and work on-”

  “Wait a minute! Scanning? Could you scan the documents onto a disc, you know, a CD?”

  “Sure.”

  “The discs, now you would copy onto say a CD right?”

  “
Most likely.”

  “And the CD, those disks also look a lot like a DVD right?”

  “Yeah. Mac why are you suddenly so interested in this?”

  “I wonder,” Mac mused, intrigued.

  “Wonder what?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he mumbled, thinking.

  “What?”

  “Something you said just triggered something in my mind.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Something I saw when we were at PTA last week?”

  “Which is?”

  “They had a scanner like you were talking about in this copy room Pat and I were in.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sally replied. “But what is this triggering thing?”

  “You mentioned putting documents on CDs right?”

  “Sure, so I could take work home.”

  “Daniels had a bunch of CDs and DVDs we never really looked at.”

  “Fine. But I don’t see where you’re-”

  “Going with this?” Mac finished. “It’s probably nothing. But we never looked at these CDs and DVDs because the station gave us every report she ever made. But now I’m wondering if Jones could have scanned the documents Stephens gave her onto a CD and given that to Daniels. I never thought of it until now. Maybe there’s something on those CDs and DVDs Daniels has.”

  “But I thought you reviewed those Cross documents that Lindsay gave you guys last week.”

  “We did,” Mac said, shaking his head. “But those documents were bullshit. They said this Cross place was an explosives factory with some warehouse where they destroyed surplus arms and weapons. They shut the place down in October 01. But what I think really happened was they got to Landy Stephens, and she told them what she told us. Banker’s box full of documents, with a ledger book. So, they trot out this banker’s box and ledger book, and we go home with our tails between our legs. But we have no real way of knowing those documents were real.”