by T. E. Woods
Lilac’s tongue managed to work despite a suddenly dry mouth. “Drops are back on schedule. That’s a good thing.”
Boss slapped the driver’s headrest yet again. “Notice that, Jimmy? I ask Lilac one question and I get an answer to something entirely different.” He turned back to Lilac with cold eyes. “You thinkin’ about going into politics? Maybe figure you can use me as practice for them press conferences where it looks like you’re talking but nothin’ worth anything is comin’ from your mouth?” He paused. “How’d that Billy guy get my money? That’s all I want to hear from you.”
Lilac tried not to react to the bead of sweat tracing a spinal path downward. “We may never know. Billy’s dead. I don’t think he talked to anybody. I think the best thing to do right now is focus on the good news that things are back to normal and safeguard against any future thefts.”
Boss looked out the window. Lilac saw Jimmy’s eyes trained on the rearview mirror, watching Lilac. When Boss turned his attention back to the vehicle’s cabin, he looked straight ahead. But the threat in his voice left no doubt he was speaking directly to Lilac.
“It’s my job to figure out what’s best to focus on. It’s your job to do what I tell you. Now get out of this car. Go find out how Billy got my money.”
Lilac swallowed bile.
“Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
Boss reached over and opened the door on Lilac’s side of the car. “Next time I get my answers.” Boss leaned close again. “Either that, or I got no reason to see you again. Understand?”
Chapter 35
“Well, look at who finally decides to show up.” Nancy Richardson held open the door to Hush Money and stood aside as Rick and Horst entered the restaurant.
“I called them, Mom.” Sydney nodded at the two men and waved them back toward her office. “You guys want anything? Coffee? Maybe a sandwich?”
“Horst isn’t going anywhere until he explains why he was—what’s the term the kids are using now—ghosting! That’s right. Why have you been ghosting me, Horst?”
“I’m sorry, Nancy.” Horst gave her a kiss on the cheek. “No offense intended. Just been up to my ears getting ready for my vacation.”
“Vacation? Since when did you start taking vacations?”
“Since now.”
“Rick told me you were in Milwaukee,” Nancy challenged.
Horst shrugged, unperturbed. “Yeah. Well, now I’m back. Planning to take some time off.”
Sydney assumed it was a lie Horst concocted to keep Nancy from prying as to why he wasn’t at work. She wished he’d come to her for advice. There was no way such an unlikely activity as a Horst Welke vacation wouldn’t rouse her mother’s suspicion.
“It was me, Mom.” Sydney shot Horst a run-with-this look. “I made him promise me he’d take some time off. All he does is work, you know?”
“Of course I know. He’s like your father in that.” Nancy shook her head at the memory. “Only way I’d get that man away from his caseload was to play the guilt card. Tell him he was depriving you of childhood memories if he didn’t take us away a couple of times a year.”
“Well,” Horst told her. “You taught your daughter well. After Rick here gets himself shot she comes to me all tears and worry. Tells me how she’s afraid that if I don’t take time off next thing I’ll know is my time for fun will have passed me by. Made me swear right then and there that I’d call off a few weeks.”
Nancy looked toward her daughter, frowning. “You did? When?”
Sydney tugged on her ear. “A couple of days ago. I think it was after I visited Rick in the hospital. Seeing him there, knowing the worst could happen at any time for a cop. It…well…it made me think about Dad. Made me wish he had had more memories of pleasant times.” She hoped the invoking of her father’s memory would keep her mother from further investigation.
“Oh, Syd.” Nancy walked over to wrap her daughter in a long embrace. “You’ve had too many losses in your life, haven’t you?” She kissed Sydney’s cheek before releasing her. “Of course you’re worried about Horst.” She turned toward Horst with a kinder expression. “And I thank you for doing what you could to keep our girl from fretting. Not to mention the reality that some time off might do you good. What’s your plan?”
“So far, he’s been spending time at my place,” Rick offered. “Taking care of me. Making sure I don’t overdo.” He hesitated. “That is, when he got back from Milwaukee.”
Nancy nodded. Then she turned toward Sydney. “What has you inviting them down here?”
Sydney hesitated. She hadn’t thought through her deception that far. Luckily, Rick stepped in.
“That was my idea,” he said. “A few days with this guy playing mother hen was about all I could take. I called Syd to see if she could get him off my back. She suggested we come down and plan some activities.”
“Neither one of them knows anything outside being a cop,” Sydney added. “I’ll give them a to-do list for relaxation.”
A crash came from the kitchen. Nancy turned instantly. “I leave you to it,” she told them as she headed toward the source of the clatter. “If anyone knows how to have fun in this town, it’s Sydney.”
When Nancy was out of sight, Sydney gestured toward a corner table.
“How’d things go last night?” Rick asked. “Was it difficult for you?”
Sydney thought back to the dinner party. She had, indeed, been concerned that she might not be able to be in Leslie’s presence without letting it slip that her company’s properties had a way of showing up again and again during a murder investigation. But all that ended when Elaina walked through the door. Sydney had been able to do little other than stumble through the charade of making nice when all she wanted to do was hurry home, crawl under the covers, and chastise herself for her fantasies about Elaina being the link to her birth parents’ mystery.
“It was fine,” she lied. “Listened to a few Fitzgerald family stories. Heard a lot about international finance.” She explained the party was held for the benefit of Father Ian Moran, a former Madison priest who was now in charge of the U.S. branch of the Vatican Bank.
“Did they know who you are?” Horst asked.
Sydney thought that was an odd question. “I was introduced as Leslie’s friend, which I am. And her mother knew me. She’s been to Hush Money several times and originally wanted the dinner held here.”
“Who all was there?” Rick wanted to know.
Sydney named the few people in attendance. “Charles came late. We were already well past the appetizers when he arrived. Something about a meeting with the mayor.”
“Probably about the two killings in one week,” Horst offered.
“And let’s not forget me getting shot,” Rick said. “I’m sure the mayor had a thing or three to bend the ear of her chief of police. Madison’s not used to this kind of violence.”
“So, no one balked when you were introduced?” Horst asked.
Sydney frowned. “What’s this about?”
“Richardson’s a common name,” Rick offered. “Not to mention that it’s been almost twenty years.”
“Since what?” Sydney demanded. “What have you guys uncovered?”
Horst and Rick exchanged a look she couldn’t decipher.
“It’s probably nothing,” Horst told her. “We’re pulling on every string we have to connect the dots here.”
“You mean to connect Billy Tremble’s murder to the money found when Rick was shot? I thought we did that already.” Sydney clicked the facts off on her fingers. “Hundred-dollar bills. Same bags. Same day. Same caliber bullets. Same—what did you call it—double tap?”
“That’s right,” Rick said.
“Not to mention that the warehouse you guys staked out was owned by Prairie Construction, and the place where the tracker got dumped w
as next to a Prairie Construction site. No doubt in my mind the cases are connected.”
“There’s more.” Horst explained how Jillian Kohler had downloaded everything she could on what variables the two men knew to be associated with the two murders. “It included a list of holdings owned by Ted Fitzgerald.”
“You know that convenience store where the whole thing with Ossie and Frank went down?” Rick asked.
“I’ll forever remember it as the place you got shot,” Sydney answered. “But, yeah. I know it.”
“Turns out it, too, is owned by T. F. Properties,” Rick said.
Sydney’s eyes widened. “So that does it, right? Somebody at Prairie Construction is the lynchpin tying these things together. You thinking some foreman or something? Bringing in drugs? Maybe selling it to the workers? Leslie should know about this.”
Horst shook his head. “I don’t think we’re ready to let anybody know what we’ve found yet.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, this probably isn’t about drugs,” Rick explained. “These guys, whoever they are, were bringing in a couple of million dollars a week. You have any idea how many drugs that kind of money buys? Madison’s got a population of three hundred thousand. No way there’d be that much stuff moving through town without either our Narcotics guys knowing about it or bodies stacking up in ERs from overdoses. And since neither of those is happening, I say this is about something else.”
“What else could bring in that kind of a payment?” she asked.
“Guns?” Horst offered. “We got an airport right here. I could make an argument that if I was some no-goodnik—either an organization or even a country—if I wanted to buy a lot of guns, I might be looking for a small regional airport to move my inventory through.”
“Could be,” Rick ventured. “But I gotta believe there’s small airports closer to major gun manufacturers. A bad actor could make use of them and not worry about shipping the weapons into Madison from who-knows-where.”
“Plus, wouldn’t you imagine the feds would be all over something like that?” Sydney said.
The men shared another look. This one was easy for her to decipher. It clearly telegraphed their obvious lack of confidence in the abilities of federal agencies.
“What else would someone be buying for a couple of million a week?” Sydney asked. “Stolen art, maybe?”
“This is Madison, Syd,” Horst said. “Not Paris or Rome.” He paused. “I hate to say it, but maybe it’s people.”
“People?” Syd asked. “You mean like refugees?”
“Maybe.” Horst shrugged. “There’s big money in smuggling folks into the country.”
“Not that much!” Sydney thought about it. “What about the sex trade? Men and women getting moved around the country for sexual purposes. You read about that. I could see that bringing in a couple of million dollars.”
“I hear ya. But all we’re seeing is the money. There’s been nothing to suggest people—lots of people—are being sold.”
Sydney looked through Hush Money’s wide windows and watched dozens of people hustling about, running whatever errands brought them down to the Capitol Square. She saw a tall, dark-haired man across the street. For a moment, she thought it was Clay. But then he looked up. She breathed away the disappointment she felt when she saw it wasn’t him and fell back into silent thought.
“Wait a minute,” she said at last. “What if we need to flip this?”
“What do you mean?” Rick leaned forward.
As her idea took shape in her mind, Sydney’s excitement grew. “What if we’re thinking about this all wrong? We’re wondering what would two million dollars a week buy. What if it wasn’t buying anything?”
“I’m not following.” Horst scowled.
“What if the money was being sold?”
“What?” Horst asked. “You mean like counterfeit?”
“Maybe,” Sydney offered. “But that’s not what I was thinking. What if the money wasn’t being bought or sold? What if it was being serviced?”
Rick leaned back. She saw an awareness dawning on him.
“I like it,” he said. “That would explain the regular deliveries.”
“Will one of you two please explain what it is you’re talking about?” Horst demanded. “What do you mean the money got serviced?”
“Laundered, Horst,” Sydney offered. “What if the money is coming up from somewhere…you saw Illinois plates…to be cycled somehow and churned back cleanly scrubbed?”
The three of them entered into an animated conversation, fleshing out their new theory. After a few minutes, Sydney was nearly exhausted by the excitement.
“We’ve got to let Leslie know,” she said. “Maybe she can mount cameras or extra security. We can find out who’s behind this.”
Rick laid a steadying hand on her arm. “Hold on there, partner. I think we’re onto something here. But like we said earlier, we got nothing concrete.”
“Scrubbing that much money every week feels pretty concrete to me,” she insisted. “Enough to get somebody killed if they tried to interfere.”
“And we don’t have clue one as to who might be involved,” Rick reminded her. “I’ll grant you, an organization as big as Prairie Construction would be capable of cleaning that much money. But until we know more, or even if this is what’s happening, let’s just keep this idea between us.”
Sydney saw the logic in his argument. But she hated the lack of an action plan. Grudgingly, she told both men she understood.
Yet again, Horst and Rick exchanged a glance. This one longer. And one she couldn’t translate.
“You’re not telling me something,” she guessed. “Something that breaks apart my theory.”
“No,” Horst said. “It’s not that. I think we’re onto something with the whole money laundering thing.” He paused and looked again toward Rick.
“Go ahead,” he said. “She’s in this deep, she might as well know everything.”
“What? What don’t I know?”
Horst reached out and took one of her hands in his.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “This is going to be bad.”
“Not bad,” he assured her. “Difficult. And I want you to know I meant it when I said Rick and I were pulling on strings. Could be we got something. Could be nothing.”
“For God’s sake, Horst. I’m not a child. What’s going on?”
“Remember we told you Jillian brought us that thumb drive? The giant data dump?”
“Yes. You were able to link the convenience store to Ted Fitzgerald.”
“Not to him,” Rick reminded her. “To his holding company. We need to stick to what we truly know right now. This isn’t the time for speculation.”
Sydney thought back to the imperious man she met the night before. The one who wore his hair like a lion and walked with a stick so large as to cast him in royal light. She remembered how dismissive he’d been to every member of his family, interested only in showing the powerful New York priest how successful he’d become.
“If you met Ted Fitzgerald, you’d say I wasn’t speculating about anything. The guy’s a pompous jerk. And what about all those properties you said he owned? It would take a lot of money to accumulate that kind of portfolio, wouldn’t you say? Maybe the construction business could generate that much income. But maybe he had a little help with whatever commission he was earning on washing that money.”
“Let’s leave the maybes for later,” Horst suggested. “We discovered another property Fitzgerald owns. An apartment on Hollister Avenue.”
Sydney held his gaze. “What’s that got to do with this?”
Horst drew in a breath. “Susalynne McFeeney lived there with her mother.”
The air left Sydney’s chest. “Dad’s last case…” She braced hers
elf against the table. “The world is small. Small enough to bring back old pains.”
Horst patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry if it brought you a moment’s hurt, but I’ve got something else to tell you. Something that might bring even more heartache.”
She tightened her jaw. “Go ahead.”
“The warehouse? The one Rick and I staked out.” Horst’s eyes were soft and kind. “I’ve been less than forthright about that.”
She glanced toward Rick. “You guys found something else? Something you didn’t tell me?”
Horst shook his head. “No, Kitz. You know everything that happened. Everything we found. What you don’t know is which warehouse we were at.”
A sudden well of tears blinded her eyes. She tightened her grip on Horst’s hand.
“Where Dad died?” she whispered.
Chapter 36
“You’re doing a wonderful job, Windy.” Sydney bumped shoulders with her stand-in head chef. “Roland’s been gone an entire week and Hush Money is running smoothly.”
“Has it only been a week?” Windy kept her eyes moving as she oversaw the busy kitchen. “I would have sworn it’s been at least six months.”
Sydney smiled, happy for the distraction of her busy restaurant. She had been plagued by intrusive memories of the worst day in her life since Horst told her the warehouse they’d been monitoring was the same one where her father had been killed.
And hearing Susalynne McFeeney’s name again, she thought. It’s too much.
She shook her head clear, and focused on Sands Cortell, the young man she’d hired to stand in for Windy as sous-chef. He was pouring a freshly made hollandaise over a plate of steamed asparagus. Sydney was impressed with how he cradled the ladle over a small bowl as he transferred the sunny sauce from pan to plate.
He’ll not spoil the presentation with one spilled drop. He’s a pro.
“Sydney!”
She looked over to see Gail, her hostess for the evening, standing just inside the kitchen. “We’ve got a situation.”
