“Yeah. Maybe we should have seen it in the motive,” Mac said.
“How so?” Burton asked.
“The kidnappers have operated as if ransom is their motivation, with a personal element added in. For Wiskowski, maybe, that whole equation doesn’t work. He’s got more money than he could ever spend, so ransom doesn’t make sense, but he’s got motive up the wazoo personally. If he wanted revenge for his son, he could’ve just killed the chief and Lyman. Why go through all this bullshit and phone calls, switching vans, and the whole nine yards?” Mac let it hang in the air for a moment. “We didn’t see it because we’ve been working around the clock to find the girls. It was the first thing that looked good to us. A lot of the parts fit — just not all of them. But you know what really scares me?”
“What?” Burton asked.
“What’s really really scary,” Mac replied, “is that they scouted and planned it to the point of finding this McDonald guy and hanging him out to dry as part of this. They have been planning this for a long, long time to get that part right.”
“I can hardly wait to see what comes next,” Lich replied, resignation in his voice. “They’re way ahead of us.”
Dot showed up and asked if anyone needed anything else. Everyone begged off. Dot set the bill down and Burton grabbed it.
“You don’t have to do that,” Riles said.
“Naw. I got this. I usually don’t get asked out for breakfast by the local police. I appreciate the offer.”
“Well, don’t let me stand in your way,” Lich said with a smile.
“So what about other possible?” Rock asked.
“We’re continuing to work through the files,” Burton answered. “We never stopped, but nothing else has popped.”
“And the time is passing quickly,” Riles noted.
“Indeed,” Burton answered. “And I have a feeling we’ll hear from the kidnappers again real soon. So at this point, I’m going to start something else.”
“Which is?”
“The ransom. That demand is going to come soon, I think, and we need to be ready. To Mac’s point on how prepared the kidnappers seem to be, there may not be time to find out who these guys are. We may need to wait for the money drop.”
“I don’t like just sitting back,” Mac said with some annoyance.
“We’re not sitting back,” Burton answered calmly. “Just working dual angles is all. We need to be prepared. I don’t have any intention of stopping the hunt for these guys.” The FBI man’s answer seemed to satisfy everyone.
“Back at it then,” Mac said.
“We need a break,” Burton said.
“If the girls don’t get a break…” Rock started.
“I hear ya, I hear ya,” Burton broke in. “But I’ve got my guys, and yours, working the files. Until they get something to work, you guys need a few winks, just a couple of hours. Be back downtown by eleven.”
“He’s right,” Riles, yawning. A couple hours of sleep seemed like a good idea.
Everyone got up to go. Lich asked Mac to hang back. He wanted a few minutes with Dot. Mac stayed in his booth and sipped at the rest of his coffee. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He looked up to see Heather Foxx staring down at him.
“Good morning, Detective,” Heather said. “Can I join you for a moment?”
“Heather, Heather, Heather, you know I can’t tell you anything,” Mac answered.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied with a dismissive wave, opening a muffin she bought at the counter. She mixed cream and sugar into a to-go coffee. She’d had some sleep and looked good in a white linen coat and blouse with a short black skirt. She looked damn good. And she behaved herself the night before.
“Let me ask you something,” Mac started.
“Shoot.”
“How come you weren’t up front with the rest of the hyenas last night when Wiskowski was brought in?” Mac asked.
“No comment,” Heather replied with a mischievous smile.
“That’s my line,” Mac replied, smiling back.
“Really, what are we going to find out shouting questions as you guys walk in?” Heather retorted, sitting up. “My producers love that stuff, but I hate it. I’d always just prefer to talk to people, get a one-on-one interview after I’ve earned some trust. But just running around like an idiot?” She shook her head. “That ain’t for me.”
Mac liked that answer. It was the answer of a professional, and Heather Foxx was a good reporter. Maybe she deserved a little break. The Wiskowski raid had yet to hit the media.
“So, where are you at on this Wiskowski thing?” Mac asked.
Heather looked at him quizzically at first, but then her right eyebrow rose just a bit at the hint of an opportunity. “You guys had him in for questioning overnight. I assume that you have something more than just his radio rant a few months ago — maybe something on a car or a truck — but beyond that I have no idea. However, my esteemed colleagues seem to have him convicted already.”
“Yeah, we heard that, too,” Mac answered. “Reporters should really get their facts straight before they hang a man, don’t you think?”
“I take it, it would be wrong to have hung him at this point then?” Heather asked, sensing she was about to get a scoop from the last guy she ever expected to get one from.
“Let’s just say that, if you haven’t been out in front on this, then you’re in a good position.” Mac gave her a little bit on the Northfield raid, just enough for her to check around, particularly with the Rice County sheriff.
“In other words, it may be fair to report, if someone were to do that sort of thing, that questions have arisen with regard to Mr. Wiskowski’s status as a suspect,” Heather said.
“He may not be completely out of the woods yet, but it would be fair to conclude that a few issues have come up that suggest Wiskowski is not involved with the kidnappings,” Mac said, smiling.
“Well, I hate to eat and run,” Heather said.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Mac answered. “I’m going to bed.”
Smith awoke to the tropical humidity of a Minnesota heat wave wafting through the window. He rolled out of bed and pushed the curtains to the side with the intent of viewing a clear sky, but instead found a grayish haze already hanging thick in the air. It was going to be a steamer.
Smith shook his head. People thought Minnesota was some frozen tundra, and that certainly could be the case in January. But in the summer months, Minnesota temperatures routinely hit the nineties, with periods of insufferable sultry air that could last for days on end. They were in such a stretch now, and there was no foreseeable break in the forecast. The afternoon trip to the river would be refreshing, but there was other business to attend to first.
He looked back to the empty right side of the bed. Monica was already up. Through the crack in the bedroom door he could hear her moving around in the kitchen. He also heard the sound of paper bags being unrolled. The unmistakable smell of a greasy drive-through breakfast drifted through the house. He sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed, looked at his hands and shook his head. He was wearing rubber gloves, even in bed. He and the rest of the crew were doing everything they could to avoid leaving a trace, so in the safe house, everyone wore gloves. It was an odd way to live, but it was only necessary for a few days. He picked up his watch off the nightstand, slid it over his gloved left hand, and checked the time. It was 8:27 AM.
Out of bed, he stepped across the hall to the safe house’s other bedroom and nudged the door open with his left foot. Dean and David lay side by side on olive green inflatable Coleman mattresses on the floor. Smith kicked them awake and then made for the kitchen, where he found Monica laying out a smorgasbord of McDonald’s breakfast options. The smell of grease, egg, sausage, and coffee lifted Smith out of his stupor. He walked up to Monica and kissed her on the lips. He sat down at the metal card table and opened a McGriddle. Taking the plastic top off a white Styrofoam cup, he carefully took a sip
of the piping-hot-coffee. He ripped the tops off of two creamers and poured in the contents, along with a pack of sugar to sweeten the cup.
Monica sat down with a separate bag, pulled out a yogurt parfait, and began mixing the fruit and yogurt.
“What time do you plan on leaving?” she asked as she sprinkled in the granola.
“I want to get going by nine o’clock or so and get into position as soon as we can — get a feel for the area for awhile before I move.”
Dean and David came shuffling down the hall, buttoning their shorts and sliding baseball caps onto their heads. The large men yawned as they surveyed the buffet. They each selected several wrapped items, sat down, and immediately commenced gorging. Smith told them he wanted to be on the road by 9:00. The brothers simply nodded as they stuffed their faces full of egg and sausage.
“While you’re gone, I’ll clean everything out of here again,” Monica said. “I’ll meet you in Hudson later.”
Forensics.
Smith, Dean, and David were all in the system, so they needed to be careful, thus everyone wore gloves in the house, but that wasn’t all. For each of the past five days, Monica had cleaned the place like it had never been cleaned before. After cleaning each time, she dumped the garbage, linens, and cleaning materials far from the safe house. The next day, she started with new sponges, mops, and buckets. The vacuum cleaner was used twice a day and, when not being used, was stored in one of the vans. They never made meals or drank water out of the faucet. The only thing they used in the house was the toilet, but only the one upstairs and they flushed three times and cleaned it with every use. Monica also cleaned it twice a day on her rounds. If the house was discovered, Smith didn’t want to chance that even a single print or hair would be left behind.
“What time do you want to make the call?” David asked Smith.
“I want to make it by 11:30,” Smith said. He looked at his watch, “That’ll give ’em just over thirty hours to get everything together.”
“What time will you make it back to the river?” Monica asked. “I don’t want to be too early.”
“Two o’clock, maybe 2:30. We’ll go check on the campsite, set up the ladder, and make sure everything is still in place, especially after the storms last night.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. When the food was gone and the garbage completely cleared away, Smith grabbed the keys off the counter and Dean asked him.
“They’re not on to us at all?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?” David pushed.
“Positive,” Smith replied. “We’re clean.”
13
“ Prepared, complicated, motivated.”
Mac rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was 8:03 AM when he dropped Lich off. Mac agreed to pick him up in a couple of hours, and he powered up the window to keep the blazing heat out. Sometimes when storms blew through town, as they had the night before, a cool front would come in behind and bring some relief from the heat. This was not one of those times. Mac’s dashboard thermometer registered eighty-six degrees. It was going to be a miserable day.
Mac exhaled. There was a complicated plan in motion — a plan that was only partially executed, and they had no idea what was coming next. Furthermore, Mac worried that the kidnappers knew — had to know — that the police and FBI would be applying immense resources in search of the connection. The kidnappers either knew this and didn’t care, which Mac doubted was the case. Or they believed that the connection would be made, if ever, only after they were long gone, somewhere on the other side of the world, living off the ransom with new identities, never to be found. If the connection was that hard to find, the odds of making it were not in their favor.
Burton was worried about the timeline as well, so he was focusing on the money drop, figuring that might be their best chance. Having the money so close that the kidnappers could taste it might cause a mistake that the FBI and police could pounce on. The FBI man had the experience and the success, but Mac wasn’t so confident about catching the kidnappers when it came time to pay the ransom. Burton was good, no doubt, but they were up against someone with all the advantages at this point. And this was not a by-the-numbers case. The kidnappers were keeping them off balance and would be ready for the ransom drop. It wouldn’t be simple.
What bothered him the most was what was motivating the kidnappers. There was no reason to pick both Carrie Flanagan and Shannon Hisle other than to get at their fathers. This was as much about revenge or retribution — whatever you wanted to call it — as it was money.
Mac turned left and made his way to Berkley Avenue and halfway down he pulled up in front of Sally’s house. He snorted and shook his head. He always thought of it as her house, and she kept telling him he needed to think of it as theirs. Well, it might be “their” house, but she got the one-car garage, so he parked in the street.
Out of the Explorer, he stretched his arms, moved his head from side to side and yawned, the last day finally catching up with him. As he walked slowly up the driveway he ran everything through his mind again. He sat down on the back stoop and pinched the bridge of his nose. Another thing was beginning to gnaw at him. He didn’t feel like he or everyone else was really doing anything, pushing the investigation and beating the bushes, throwing out theories, doing what Lich liked to call “that investigative shit.”
Tired as he was, he could feel the time ticking away. He didn’t know what the clock was, but he was certain that they were way behind and that the time remaining was short. It was like being down by two touchdowns with less than two minutes to go, and the other team has the ball. Mac went inside and into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and went back out to the stoop. Making a pull off the water, he closed his eyes and tried to think about what they had done thus far and what they needed to do. He took out his notebook and started jotting down notes about the case. In the center of a fresh sheet, he wrote down his three concerns, boiled down to three words: prepared, complicated, and motivated.
The door opened behind him and Sally, dressed for work, stepped out onto the stoop. She sat down, kissed him on the lips, and put her hand up the back of his shirt to scratch his back while he continued with his notes.
“Prepared, complicated, and motivated?” Sally asked.
“That’s what these guys are?”
He surrounded the three words with notes, thought, and names. He was tired, exhausted really, and needed sleep. But his mind was working a little now, churning, moving, and he wanted to get it down on paper, and then sleep on it for two hours. He would let it all roll around in his subconscious. Fifteen minutes later, his head hit the pillow with “prepared, complicated, and motivated” percolating in his mind.
14
“ In reality, a million dollars isn’t that much.”
11:47 AM
Smith walked past the bank, through the alley, and across the street into the quiet city park. He was in Duluth, Minnesota, two hours north of the Twin Cities. Sitting at the far southwestern tip of Lake Superior, Duluth was an old port city with a large and deep harbor. At one time, Duluth was a booming shipping town, a pickup point for taconite, iron ore, and agricultural products to be shipped through the Great Lakes and onward to the Atlantic. However, with the decline of northern Minnesota’s mining industry, Duluth had suffered both economically and in population, which was now just over 87,000. Back in the 1950s it had been well over 100,000. Still, Duluth was a beautiful town, built into the rocky hillside overlooking the largest of the Great lakes. The steep cliffs and the roads traversing them vertically made him think of San Francisco, though without the Golden Gate and the trolley cars. As Smith looked back between the buildings, he could see the lake off in the distance, its dark cool blue water meeting the deep cloudless blue horizon, making the lake look like an ocean. The cool water of the lake also moderated the local temperature, making things more comfortable in Duluth than the rest of the state. While the temperat
ure was going to hit the sticky upper nineties in the Twin Cities, Duluth was an easy seventy-four degrees as the noon hour approached.
Smith turned to the task at hand. He’d chosen the park weeks ago. Set in an older neighborhood on the southern end of town, it was pleasantly empty, as it had been when he first visited. Nonetheless, Smith wore a baseball cap pulled down tightly, wraparound sunglasses, and a nondescript outfit of jeans, a plain white T-shirt, orange reflector vest and tan leather work gloves. He carried an orange toolbox containing a variety of tools including screwdrivers, wrenches, and a hammer. To anyone walking by, he would look like a run-of-the-mill city maintenance worker.
The pay phone sat on the wall outside a small, octagonal cinderblock building that served as a warming house for ice skaters in the winter. He checked the door of the building, which was locked. He looked through the metal-grated window to make sure it was empty inside. It was. Scanning the area around the park, he noted only an older woman walking her yip dog on the far side of the park at least a hundred yards away.
With the park clear, Smith opened his toolbox, took the top tray out and pulled out a roll of quarters and his voice-masking device, which he placed over the phone. He dialed the number for Flanagan. The chief of police picked up on the second ring.
“Flanagan.”
“Hello, Chief, and greetings to the many members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation listening in. Good day to you all. Chief, we want five million dollars total for your daughter and for Shannon Hisle. The cash is to be in non-sequential hundred-dollar bills. No dye packs or GPS tracking devices. Keep it simple and comply. You have until 6:00 PM tomorrow. We will call your office phone at that time with instructions for the drop.”
“What about our daughters? I’m not giving you anything until I speak with my daughter live on the phone.”
“Sorry, Chief but that isn’t possible now. If you go to Griffin Stadium at St. Paul Central High School and look under Seat10, Row 15, Section C, you’ll see why. We have a little gift for you that will, I think, motivate you and Mr. Hisle to meet our more than reasonable demands. Good day.”
Deadly Stillwater Page 12
