Blood Silence - Thriller (McRyan Mystery Series)

by Roger Stelljes

  “Well, as painful as I’m sure that must have been, it should also at least give you comfort,” Lyman answered. “You have one hell of an investigator working your case.”

  “I do … know that,” she replied. “I know that, but I also know that he will push things to the edge. He will keep going, no matter the risks. That’s who Mac is—brilliant, self-righteous, arrogant, fearless, yet totally careless. He thinks he’s indestructible.” She turned back to Lyman. “So now you’re going to do me a favor.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re going to give me Sally Kennedy’s phone number.”

  Lyman shook his head violently. “No, no, no.”

  “Lyman!”

  “Meredith, no. That is not a good idea. I can’t do that.”

  “You can … and you will.”

  “What are you going to say to her?”

  “That her fiancé is putting himself in danger. She ought to know.”

  “Don’t you think he’d have told her?”

  Meredith laughed—a knowing, experienced laugh. “No. Mac makes decisions first and tells you about them after they are made. It’s why we ended up divorced; at least to the extent you apply any fault in that to him.”

  Lyman was hesitant. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Maybe she can talk him into getting the hell out of there.”

  “You know, if she does that, it will hurt your case.”

  “Then I guess you’ll just have to make do with what he’s found so far. That’s my risk to bear, not his.”

  Lyman leaned forward on his elbows and stared at Meredith. She wasn’t leaving until she got the number. “Okay,” he sighed.

  Meredith immediately punched the number into her phone. “Sally, this is Meredith. Yes, that Meredith. Yeah, hi. Look, I know this is a little … awkward … and I hate to bother you, but do you have a minute to talk? It’s important.”

  • • •

  Deep Core Drilling had an office in downtown Williston, which Mac stopped into. When he asked about Adam Murphy, they directed him to Murphy’s boss, Dan Wheeler. The receptionist said Wheeler could be found at the North Station, a series of oil wells just north of Williston.

  Mac didn’t know much about oil or drilling for it, but he did know it could make a heck of a mess and was a dirty business. Yet everything at the North Station looked new to him. Maybe it was the light, almost whitish color of the concrete or the shine of the steel and aluminum. The only thing that looked older was the double-wide, which appeared as if it were simply dropped at one end of an open dirt area. That area, Mac saw, served as a makeshift and pothole-filled parking lot. Old, faded, dented, and rusted, the double-wide trailer had seen its fair share of work sites. Mac climbed the four weathered-wood steps and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he heard a voice yell.

  Mac opened the door, stepped inside, and said, “I’m looking for Dan Wheeler.”

  The man behind the desk was looking down at some papers and answered, “You found him.”

  “Hello, my name is McRyan.”

  Wheeler looked up quickly, and Mac got a hint of recognition in his eyes. “McRyan?”

  “Yes, Mac McRyan,” he stated, stepping forward to extend his hand. “This is quite the operation here. It looks brand new.”

  Wheeler nodded. “It is. So, what can I do for you, Mr. McRyan?”

  Mac took a seat in a folding chair in front of the desk. “I’m a … I guess you would call me a private investigator working for a lawyer down in St. Paul named Lyman Hisle. His client is a woman named Meredith Hilary. Meredith is accused of killing her husband and his lover, a woman named Callie Gentry. Have you ever heard of her before?”

  “Callie Gentry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t say that I have,” Wheeler answered as he casually put both legs up on an open desk drawer.

  “How about J. Frederick Sterling—have you heard of him? He’s a prominent lawyer, or was a prominent lawyer, down in Minneapolis. He was the husband in question.”

  Wheeler thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I can’t say that I have. Should I?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” Mac answered, looking Wheeler in the eye, trying to get a read on him. Wheeler didn’t flinch. He was going to ask about Adam Murphy but changed up. “How about Harold and Melody Buller? They had a farm place out near Ray. Are you familiar with them?”

  Wheeler nodded. “Sure, I know about the Bullers. Everyone does, at least around here. It was awful what happened to them.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  The Deep Core man shrugged. “I suppose what everyone else does. Word is that meth addicts broke into their farmhouse and killed the whole family. At least, that’s the story floatin’ around town.”

  “How about …” Mac made a show of looking at pages in his spiral notebook and then looked up. “How about Adam Murphy?”

  There was a little flinch. “Adam? Of course I know Adam, he was my … my … employee. He was … murdered in his apartment. God, it was just last week.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Wheeler shrugged. “He was a good kid, hard worker. I liked Adam a lot.”

  “Did you work with him closely?”

  “Closely? I don’t know, I suppose I did, in the sense that he reported to me. He worked for the company for a number of years, so yes, I did know him fairly well.”

  “What did he do for you?”

  “He was a geologist.”

  “And what does a geologist do for you?”

  “Uh, he did the typical work of a geologist for a company like us. His job was related to oil and natural gas exploration. He helped with the locations of our wells in and around Williston, for example.”

  “His death—it must be quite a loss for you.”

  “It is,” Wheeler agreed, nodding. “People like Adam are very hard to replace, but we’ll have to try.” Wheeler’s face went tight, and his mood darkened. “You said you were investigating a murder in the Twin Cities of a lawyer and a woman—what does that have to do with Adam?”

  “My client’s husband had a file with some interesting documents in it, including a notation about Adam Murphy.”

  “A notation?”

  Mac kept going. “You indicated you’d never heard of J. Frederick Sterling. Yet Murphy’s name was in his file on Ms. Gentry’s business dealings. Can you think of any reason why my client’s husband would be interested in Adam Murphy?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know who any of these people are.”

  “Well, Adam Murphy worked for you, right?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “And his name appears in the files of a very prominent Twin Cities attorney on a matter he was representing Ms. Gentry on. Turns out Mr. Sterling and Ms. Gentry were spending a lot of time up in this part of the world. In fact, she owned land that was being rented and farmed by the Buller family. Don’t you find that odd?”

  Wheeler’s eyes lit up. “That’s perhaps why Adam’s name shows up. He sited the wells that are close to the Buller property. As you indicated, this Gentry lady owned that land, so maybe that’s the connection. Other than that, I don’t know why Adam’s name would pop up in what you’re looking into. What I do know is he was a good kid, a good worker, and his loss is …” The man’s voice trailed off. “Well, it’s been tough for all of us around here who knew him.”

  “Did he ever have any dealings with the Buller family?” Mac pressed.

  Wheeler shook his head. “No, or at least not that I know of, again unless it was part of locating of the wells, but we made that call a few years ago. Besides, our wells are not on the Buller property. It’s on the land of the next owner over.”

  Mac kept asking. “Did Adam ever have any trouble with coworkers?”

  “No—or at least I wasn’t aware of any.”

  “Did he have trouble with anyone here in town? I mean, it’s a little rough around here.”

&nb
sp; Wheeler shook his head. “Not that I ever recall. Certainly nothing I ever remember him mentioning to me. You have to understand, Adam was not someone who went out a lot. He was not a real social guy. He was a geologist, a scientist—a bit of a geek really, particularly when you look at most of the roughnecks around here now. Those guys, if not working, are out carousing and causing trouble. For Adam, I think a good night for him was quiet time with his computer. He liked research, searching for oil and gas, and he worked hard, very hard, and was very committed to his work.”

  “And he worked all those hours for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac sat back and stared down Wheeler, skeptical. “But you have no idea why Adam’s name would show up in my case?”

  “Other than maybe the placing of the well out by the Bullers’, I don’t. I’m sorry. I wish I knew more. Adam was my guy, my employee. I want to know what happened to him. It’s been very frustrating. The local police seem to have accomplished nothing in the investigation.”

  Mac didn’t necessarily buy Wheeler’s profession of love for his employee. It felt forced. “It’s odd—he ends up dead, the Bullers end up dead, Sterling and Gentry are dead, and the one thing they all seem to have in common is …” Mac spread his arms.

  “Is what?”

  “Deep Core.”

  Wheeler was taken aback. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything … right now,” Mac replied, glaring, waiting for Wheeler to flinch.

  “You think Adam’s death has something to do with the Bullers? You think his murder has something to do with these murders down in Minnesota?”

  “I’m just noting some interesting connections—at least at this point.”

  “Well, if there is something about Adam’s work with the company and what happened to the Bullers, I don’t know what it is. I do know that I’ll do anything I can to help you, if you can show me that there is.”

  This time the response seemed more earnest. Mac was having trouble getting a read on Wheeler. He would need another run at him, so he asked, “Are you serious about that?”

  “Damn straight. Have you talked to Chief Borland about this?”

  Mac nodded and then shook his head. “In one week’s time, the Adam Murphy case has quickly found its way to the bottom of the pile.”

  Wheeler sighed. “Sadly, I can’t say that I’m surprised by that.”

  • • •

  Dan “Speedy” Wheeler spread two dated beige blinds on the window of the double-wide as McRyan climbed into a black Yukon.

  He pursed his lips and watched as the Yukon’s taillights disappeared south on Highway 85 back into Williston.

  He’d handled himself well, especially given the surprise nature of McRyan’s arrival. However, it was still clear to him that McRyan would not simply go away based on their discussion. He might have dissuaded him some, but McRyan wasn’t completely disabused of the notion that Deep Core was at the center of what he was looking into.

  The man would be back.

  He reached inside his pocket for the burner phone. He punched the number. “You two best think about saddling up. McRyan’s in town.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “And you are?”

  Hotels in Williston were in short supply and in heavy demand. It seemed that as soon as one opened, some oil company would swoop into town, buy it, and turn it into lodging for its employees. So if you wanted a hotel room in Williston, you were going to have to pay and pay big, considering the area of the country. As a result, the hotel for the cost-conscious traveler, the Traveltel, was charging a robust $289 per night per room. Mac might have been working for free, but Edmund Hilary would be paying for his room and the adjoining room, both registered under the name of Junior Ortiz. The Hispanic name wouldn’t raise eyebrows in this part of the country, with oil workers galore from the southern United States, and Mac doubted anyone would pick up on the obscure reference to an old Twins back-up catcher.

  As required, he sent a text updating Riley, affirming the fact that he continued to breathe air. Lich had finally texted several suitably snide comments in reference to the prostitute. Mac replied that he’d call him later with the full story, which actually got him to thinking about Amber for another reason.

  In the meantime, he went about setting up his protection, a tool that his friend Jupiter Jones gave him from his newest tech business start-up. Twenty minutes later, he conducted a final check of the new program on his laptop. It was operating as Jupiter said it would.

  Mac pushed himself off the bed and away from the laptop and went to the small refrigerator and grabbed a Miller Lite. He cracked open the beer and plopped down on the bed to relax for a few minutes, thinking about his next move.

  He’d covered some good preliminary turf, checking in with the police chief, a man overwhelmed by a job he probably lacked the requisite skills to handle. Then the meeting with the Wheeler guy at Deep Core.

  At some point, he needed to get more information on the Adam Murphy murder, and he had one idea percolating in his mind on how to accomplish that. He was going back to the sheriff in the morning. Perhaps if he had better luck there, the sheriff could grease the skids on access. If that didn’t work, he could always call Judge Dixon. The Judge would call someone in North Dakota, and he’d get a copy of the Murphy investigation file that way, but he hated having to play that card. On pride alone, he wanted access on his own terms.

  He took another swig of his beer and flipped on the television, catching the local news, which included a number of stories involving the oil fields and the politics surrounding a needed pipeline. The last story before the break was about Deep Core and their North Station operation going online ahead of its lease deadline of January 1. The irony was their operation had to go at the same time that oil prices were going down, half the barrel price of a year ago.

  It made him think again of Deep Core. The company was playing some role in this game, and he needed to figure out what that was. It got him to thinking about the Buller family, and he hoped the sheriff could help shed some light on those murders and whether he had any thoughts on who was really responsible. As Mac quickly flipped through the sheriff’s report, it was again all too clear Sam Rawlings didn’t buy the meth angle, despite what the black and white of the page provided. He would get into that tomorrow.

  As for today, he still wanted the inside story on the Adam Murphy murder. That brought his mind back to the first person he’d met in town—Amber.

  Mac dug the slip of paper out of his pocket and smiled. He dialed her up.

  “Amber, this is Mike. You met me at the gas station this afternoon.”

  “The good-looking guy just coming into town?” she asked, the surprise evident in her voice.

  “That’s an accurate description, if I do say so myself.”

  “I must say, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I have some availability tonight. What did you have in mind?”

  “Amber, I hate to disappoint you, but the reason I called is that I need some information, and should you make yourself available a little later, I’d be happy to pay you a little something for it.”

  “Pay me for information?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a cop? Because I’m not a snitch.”

  “I used to be a cop. Now, I guess I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking into a case and could use a little help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Where do the police go to drink in this town?”

  “That’s all you need?”

  “For now, yeah.”

  “That’s easy. It’s a place I never go, for obvious reasons. It’s called the County Line.”

  • • •

  He tweezed open the blinds one more time, scanning the immediate area. The only people and vehicles he could see were ones he recognized and knew should be there—the vehicles of members of the crew operating the nearby well. With the sun now well down in the west and th
e dark moonless sky enveloping western North Dakota, Wheeler set the security system and locked the dead bolt on the double-wide office trailer and jumped into his Deep Core pickup truck.

  On the off chance McRyan was following, he took a circuitous route to the farmhouse, taking several rights and lefts and driving through the residential neighborhoods of Williston. Other than tanker trucks, there was nothing in his rearview mirror as he turned off Highway 85 and made his way down the desolate dirt road to the farmhouse.

  Inside, he found Royce and Clint waiting, sitting at the kitchen table, fresh coffee awaiting his arrival.

  “You weren’t followed?” Royce asked, easing himself down to the table.

  Speedy shook his head. “No. I took my time, did a couple of double backs, and nothing but oil and water trucks. I don’t think he’s that suspicious.”

  “Yet,” Royce suggested.

  “That’s right, yet,” Speedy agreed. He pulled out his cell phone. “The old man wants to talk about this.”

  “O’Herlihy?” Clint asked with a hint of nervousness.

  Speedy nodded. “I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake here for all of us and for him.”

  Two minutes later, Deep Core President and CEO Selwyn O’Herlihy was on the line with his deep Texas drawl. “No pun intended, boys, but y’all just can’t seem to cap this well, can ya?”

  “No, sir,” Wheeler answered while Royce and Clint both nodded.

  “These people are like cockroaches,” O’Herlihy complained. “You kill one, and two more appear.”

  “In this case, one, but he’s not like the others,” Royce answered. “This one fights back.”

  “Any chance this McRyan fella could recognize you two gunslingers?”

  “I don’t see how,” Royce answered, shaking his head. “The only time he would have even seen us was when we tried for Hilary. He saw the truck and fired at us, but it was dark—he couldn’t see us. If he had our faces, they would be out there for the world to see. They’re not.”

  “Y’all failed on Hilary,” O’Herlihy drawled.