by T. E. Woods
“The money sat there, locked in a Prairie Construction truck until two-thirty,” Rick told her. “No one came near that vehicle.”
“You’re certain?”
“We are,” Rick replied. “At 2:32 a man, dutifully caught on camera by yours truly, got in the truck and drove off the site.”
“Straight to Packers Avenue,” Horst continued. “To a holding lot for Prairie. Backhoes, tractors, land movers, all kinds of trucks and diggers. Guy pulls his truck into a warehouse-sized garage.”
“The money’s still there?” she asked.
“Couldn’t tell ya.” Rick let his eye linger on her bare shoulder just long enough for her to feel the heat. “I got plenty of superpowers, but x-ray vision isn’t one of them.”
“So now what?”
“Now we figure out who that woman was who made the drop-off. We assume she’s the same person who picked up the duffels from the warehouse.” Rick walked to his refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He tossed it to Horst. “Want one?” When Sydney shook her head, he pulled out one for himself and twisted off the cap. “Then we have to figure out who drove the truck back to Prairie Construction.”
“How are we going to do that?”
Rick took a long pull off his bottle. “License plates would be a good place to start.”
“And when the woman’s plates come back stolen and the Prairie plates come back registered to Prairie, then what, Sherlock?”
Horst chuckled. “She’s got you there, Rick.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Sydney thought. Horst and Rick said nothing.
“We’ve got to risk it,” she decided.
“Risk what?” Rick asked.
“We’ve got to trust somebody. Look, every day that goes by is a day longer for whoever’s framing Horst to come up with ways to bury him deeper. We’ve got to end this fast. And the fastest way to anything is a direct line.” She looked them in the eye, one after the other. “I say we call Leslie Arbeit.”
“The woman who owns the very company that just accepted two duffel bags of money?” Rick set his bottle on the counter, frowning. “Are you insane?”
“I know her. No way in hell would she be mixed up in something like this. She’s all about pleasing her father. Making him see how well she’s running the company. She wouldn’t risk everything the family’s built by doing something this crazy. I say bring her in, tell her what we know, and let her see the photos you took. She’ll be able to tell us who the guy driving one of her trucks is. Once we know who he is, we can lean on him to tell us the rest of the story.”
“Lean on him?” Rick scoffed. “You gotta stop watching so much late-night television.”
“I trust her,” she insisted.
“You know,” Horst commented, “when I was at Prairie investigating Billy Tremble’s murder, she struck me as a straight arrow. There was a time when a couple of her lawyer-types made noises like she shouldn’t answer some of my questions. Let me tell you, she shut ’em right down. Told me, right there in front of them, that if anyone on her payroll tried to be less than cooperative, I was to contact her directly.”
“She’s married to the police chief, for God’s sake,” Sydney added.
“The same police chief who suspended Horst!” Rick noted hotly.
“Well, now, let’s not blame it on him,” Horst said. “He’s following the letter of the law. Doing what he’s got to do. I’ve known the man twenty years. Since he was a patrolman. I got no worries about him.”
Rick shook his head stubbornly.
“Unless you can come up with another idea,” Horst said, “I agree with Sydney.”
Rick looked down and watched Jocko looking up at him. After several seconds, he huffed out his resistance. “So, which of us is going to give her a call?”
* * *
—
“Why am I here?” Leslie Arbeit began her questions the moment Rick opened his front door. “Where am I, by the way? Who are you?”
“I’m Rick Sheffield, Mrs. Arbeit. I’m a detective with the MPD. This is my apartment.”
Leslie’s voice softened. “You’re the officer who was shot.”
Rick nodded.
“Are you all right?”
“Better every day,” Rick assured her. He nodded toward Jocko, who sat at attention two steps behind him. “This is Jocko. Recently retired from the K-9 unit.”
Leslie held out her hand for Jocko to sniff before crossing to give Sydney a hug. “What’s going on? I finally had an evening all to myself. Barney’s got the parents out to Overture. Charles is tied up with budget meetings. I was looking forward to a long bubble bath. Then you call. Something that you can only tell me face-to-face? Come right away? Tell no one where I’ll be? I never figured you for that kind of drama.” She turned to Horst before Sydney could respond. “I know you. You’re that detective.”
“Horst Welke, ma’am. Known your husband a long time.”
She nodded, then turned back to Sydney. “Why are there two policemen here?”
Sydney put a gentle hand on her friend’s arm and led her to a chair at Rick’s kitchen table. Then she leaned over and maneuvered a mouse until a photograph appeared on Rick’s laptop.
“Who’s he, Leslie?”
Leslie glanced at the screen. “I don’t know. Should I?”
“Look closely, Mrs. Arbeit,” Rick instructed. “Does he look familiar to you?”
Leslie spent a few seconds with the picture. “Maybe a little.” She frowned. “What’s this about?”
Sydney manipulated the mouse again. Another photo appeared. “And this woman? Do you know her?”
This time Leslie took her time. “No,” she finally said. “I’ve never seen her before.” She twisted around to face the three of them. “Tell me what’s going on. Right now.” Her tone had sharpened.
Sydney took a deep breath and charged in. “Leslie, we have reason to believe Prairie Construction is being used to perpetrate a very significant crime.”
Leslie stared at her for a moment, then looked toward Horst. “Does this have to do with the body that was found on one of our building sites?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Horst answered.
“What makes you think Prairie is involved?” she demanded. “Besides being the place where his body was dumped?”
Sydney decided the best way to tell her friend was to tell it all. She started with Horst’s discovery of Billy Tremble, the body found on her property, flashing around hundred-dollar bills, as well as Billy’s hidden aerie. She told her about the stakeouts. How, on at least two occasions, bags of cash were left at an empty warehouse owned either by Prairie or one of her father’s holding companies.
“And don’t forget the sack of cash at that convenience store where Rick here got shot,” Horst added. “That’s the money I’m getting framed with.”
Leslie’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, you’re getting framed for what?”
“That’s not important right now,” Sydney continued. “Except to note that the convenience store is also on property owned by T. F. Properties.”
“We own a lot of property, Sydney. Crimes happen. It’s unfortunate, but it’s a fact.”
Sydney countered with what Rick and Horst discovered that day. “Those duffel bags were delivered to a truck belonging to Prairie Construction. Then that truck drove to one of your garages.”
Leslie’s face hardened. “Then arrest the man who drove it in.”
“I think that’s one way,” Rick offered. “But then, at best, all we have is a low-level delivery guy. Perhaps a more effective way is to find out who’s behind it all.”
“And who do you think that is?” Leslie demanded.
Sydney took a long inhale. “Our working theory right now is that it’s Ian Moran.”
&
nbsp; The stony corporate determination disappeared off Leslie’s face. To Sydney’s astonishment, Leslie began laughing. “Ian Moran? Father Moran? The same man who controls enough currency to buy and sell any ten countries you’d care to name. That’s the man you think is schlepping bags of cash through my warehouses? Why on earth would he do that?”
“The money he controls isn’t his,” Sydney said. “We think that somehow, and that’s where you’d come in, he’s laundering it. Maybe even through Prairie’s books.”
“This is my company, Sydney. If that much unauthorized money was moving through it, I’d know.”
“Would you?” Rick challenged. “I mean no offense, but my guess is you have an entire floor of accountants and bookkeepers. I believe you can recite every annual report, but do you know how those numbers came to be on the pages?”
Leslie was silent while she considered his observation. Then she turned to Sydney.
“Why Ian Moran?” she demanded.
“He’s used to having nice things. Lots of money. He’s on your board of directors.”
Leslie shook her head. “I’m not buying it. Not him.”
“Well, someone’s doing something with that money,” Horst said. “The deliveries are coming in every week.”
Leslie looked back at the computer screen. Then she took a long appraisal of the three of them. “You really believe this?”
“We saw the money, ma’am,” Horst answered.
Leslie reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Charles. If someone—and I don’t care even if it’s the sainted Father Moran—is using Prairie for a cover for criminal activity, it ends tonight.”
Sydney reached forward and gently pulled the phone out of Leslie’s hands.
“Sydney!”
“I’m sorry, Leslie, but we can’t let anyone at the police station know what’s going on right now.” She explained how Horst had been set up. Only someone inside police headquarters could have sent the text, blocked the camera, then made certain it recorded Horst leaving that evidence locker.
“And you have no idea whatsoever which cop is behind this?” Leslie asked.
“We do not,” Rick answered. “And I can tell you that if we were to involve your husband, he’d tell you the same thing. The closer you hold the information, the better.”
Leslie nodded. Then she stood. “Can I have a copy of that photograph, please?”
Rick handed her several.
“Thank you. Tomorrow I’ll check our employee files. Every Prairie employee has a photo ID badge. I’ll call you as soon as I know this man’s name.”
She hugged Sydney before shaking hands with Rick and Horst. Sydney escorted her to the door. The moment Sydney opened it, wood exploded inches from her face. A second eruption blasted the glass out of Rick’s picture window.
“Everybody down! Down!” Rick yelled.
Jocko leaped and threw his body over Sydney and Leslie. Three more shots fired in rapid succession. Drywall exploded and fell on top of them.
They heard the slam of a car door followed by the squeal of wheels.
“Stay down!” Rick commanded as he and Horst stepped over the prone women and out onto his porch.
Sydney tried to lift herself off the floor, but the weight of the golden retriever combined with Leslie’s shove to keep her on the floor.
“I’ve got to get out there,” Sydney yelled. “Horst…Rick—”
“Are policemen who know what they’re doing,” Leslie interrupted. “And they have guns. We don’t.”
Sydney struggled to overcome her urge to act until Rick reentered the apartment.
“We’re clear,” Rick said. “Whoever it was is gone.” His attention shifted to his dog. “Good boy, Jocko. Good boy.”
Jocko climbed off the women. Sydney jumped up and reached a hand to Leslie.
“Everybody all right?” Horst asked.
Leslie checked herself for blood. “I’m fine.” She turned to Sydney. “You okay?”
When Sydney said she was, Leslie grabbed her in a long embrace. Sydney felt the woman shivering against her.
Leslie released her and stepped away, wiping pellets of glass off her shoulders. “Good luck keeping Charles out of the loop now.”
Chapter 50
Charles Arbeit thanked the officers as they left Rick’s apartment. They’d been there more than six hours, scouring for casings, taking photos of the scene, and interviewing neighbors.
They’d come up with nothing.
When the last officer left, Charles turned toward the four people remaining in Rick’s apartment. He spoke first to his wife.
“You could have been killed.”
“I wasn’t. And before you start preaching, I’ll remind you I was invited over.” Leslie’s gaze seemed to dare her husband to criticize her. “I didn’t know why. As it turns out, I’m glad I came.”
“You believe this?” Charles’s struggle to keep his voice calm was obvious. Rick, Horst, and Sydney had told Charles the background of why they’d asked Leslie to join them. Rick had insisted that no other officers be in the room when they did, a suggestion that clearly irritated the chief of police. “Ian Moran is stealing a fortune from the Vatican, laundering it through Prairie Construction, and is behind the murders of Billy Tremble and Frank Vistole. And, by the way, he’s got inside help courtesy of the Madison Police Department.” He raised his hands in frustration. “Can you hear the absurdity of it when I say it out loud?”
“Perhaps,” Leslie agreed. “But something’s going on. And it involves Prairie. You saw Rick’s photographs.”
“There’s nothing to indicate those bags had cash in them,” Charles countered. “For all I know, the guy’s wife was dropping off his laundry.”
“At work? Who’s being absurd now?”
Horst rose from his chair. “You’ve known me a couple of decades, Chief. You were a class behind me at the academy. I ever give you one indication—one scintilla of a hint—that I could be a cop on the take?”
“Of course not. This investigation is going to clear you. But you’ve got to let it run its course. Damn it, Horst! I ordered you not to have any contact with anyone on the force.”
“Because you suspected what we’d do?” Rick asked. “Somebody blocked that camera. Somebody texted Horst to come to that evidence room.”
“You’re supposed to be on desk duty!” Charles roared. “Working half time and spending the rest of your day healing. Not snooping around cold cases!”
Rick, Sydney, and Horst exchanged glances. They hadn’t told Charles about their delving back into the Susalynne McFeeney case.
Charles responded to their nonverbal wonderment. “I’m the chief of police! I get dozens of reports every day. One of them is an access list to the file room. Name, time, and what’s requested. What the hell are you doing poking around in the McFeeney case?”
Sydney stood, squared her shoulders, and stared Charles in the eye. “My father died working that case. There’s a connection between Susalynne’s murder and what’s happening here.”
“And you think this based on…?” Charles asked.
Sydney listed every coincidence and link she, Horst, and Rick had uncovered. Charles listened, expressionless. He was silent for several heartbeats after Sydney concluded her explanation.
“Where’s the box now?” Charles asked.
Rick pointed toward the back bedroom. “I’m going to take it into the station tomorrow.”
“Go get it.” Charles’s voice was low.
No one moved.
“Now!” Charles bellowed.
Horst went to the bedroom and returned with the evidence box.
“This is everything?” the chief demanded.
“Yes,” Sydney said.
Charles turned to his w
ife. “Did these three tell you about this case, too?”
“My interest is in what they had to say about Prairie,” Leslie retorted. “I’ll leave the rest of it to you.”
Scowling, Charles took the evidence box and hoisted it on his hip. He gave each of them a look of disappointment. He inhaled long and deep. When he spoke, his voice was calmer. “I’ll return this box to Cold Case. Rick, prepare a report of any new findings you think you’ve come up with. Bring it directly to me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Directly to me.” Charles shook his head. Then he looked at Horst. “Somebody’s inside. I know that. But you can’t go off looking for him or her alone. You got that?”
“My reputation is at stake here, Chief. My life.”
“I understand. And I’m asking you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Charles and Horst shared a gaze for several seconds.
“Don’t have much of a choice, now, do I?”
Charles gave a tired smile. “No, Horst. I guess you don’t.” He turned to Sydney. “Your father was a good man. A great cop.” Charles’s voice was soft and filled with sympathy. “But he’d be the first to tell you that coincidences don’t make a case.”
Sydney nodded, chafing against feeling like a little girl who’d just been chastised.
“Leslie, I think it’s a good idea for you to go through the photo IDs of Prairie employees. See if you come up with a match for the guy moving the duffel bags.”
“Then you believe them.” Leslie’s tone revealed her continued skepticism. “You believe Moran’s laundering money through my company.”
“I believe we have a lead on the duffel bags stuffed with money,” Charles replied. “I believe in taking things one step at a time. Bring what you learn to me. To me, Leslie. No one else.”
“I understand, Charles. There’s no need to scold.”
Charles grimaced as though he didn’t believe that. “And as for the three of you”—he looked toward Horst, Rick, and Sydney—“not a word of this to anyone. No friends, no family, no reporter, and definitely no one on the force. Until we find out who’s dirty, as far as you’re concerned, this was a random drive-by. You got that?”
