Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Adrianne was already moving on.

  “To have so few savings, Dad must have been the biggest pushover in Minnesota,” she fumed. “Katie told me after the funeral that Dad never once brought a collection action against a deadbeat client. And Dad paid Katie way over the going rate from the day he hired her.”

  “Who told you that last part?” Ian asked, surprised.

  “Katie did. Second to Dad, she’s the most honest person I’ve ever known. And she adored him. She knew he was paying her well. I hope you at least got her pay under control when she started working for you.”

  He didn’t answer that. “Adrianne, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m staying with Mom at night this week. I’ll let you know what I think after I spend more time with her.”

  “You do know Alzheimer’s can accelerate from a physical or psychological trauma, don’t you?”

  He didn’t. “You’re the psychologist, Adrianne.”

  “Well it can. Did Mom have any big shock the last few weeks? Sources of anxiety?”

  “Not that I know of. Look, it may be nine o’clock out your way, but it’s after eleven here. I can’t have this talk right now.”

  “You can’t keep me in the dark, Ian. This is my problem too.”

  “Then maybe you should come home.”

  Silence. When his sister finally spoke again, her voice had calmed and carried a note of guilt.

  “Ian, I appreciate what you’re doing with Mom. I’d be there if I could. With my new clinical practice and all, I just can’t afford to be away right now. But I still need to know what’s going on.”

  His blood pressure shot up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to let her off the hook now. For a moment he considered unloading on her about his own troubles. The moment passed.

  “Yeah. I get it,” he finally answered.

  “Will you let me know how it goes this week?”

  “I will.”

  “You know I love you, big brother.”

  Mom’s side of Adrianne: always avoiding lasting scars. “Yeah, me too.”

  After ending the call, it flashed through his mind that he should have asked Adrianne if she knew about Dad’s handgun. Or why Dad would have handled a trust with a fee of two hundred thousand. Dad had always been closer to Adrianne. But Ian had no interest in calling her back now.

  Instead, he settled back once more on the bench to get back to why he was here. Could he really take this case? And for such a fee?

  How could he not? Callahan was right: it wasn’t like he was being asked to do anything wrong. Then there was the fact that his dad had prepared the trust that called for the large fee. Honest Connor Wells. Careful Connor Wells.

  He looked down at the churning river. In the end, it all came down to how badly he needed the money—for his mom, for his practice. For the malpractice lawsuit, the monster in all this he’d mercifully forgotten for a moment.

  All right. He’d talk to Dennis about the lawsuit in the morning, then make his final decision after that.

  Once more he stared down at the big river’s flow beneath the bridge, which seemed to wash some of the hesitation from his mind. Yep. He’d make his decision in the clear light of morning after talking to his partner.

  He made his way in the dark back to the car. As he unlocked the door, he glanced back for a final view of the bridge. From this vantage point, the Mississippi was black and nearly invisible, leaving the bridge suspended in midair. Viewed this way it seemed less real. Less secure.

  He almost wished he hadn’t looked back as he got into his car and drove away.

  8

  TUESDAY, JUNE 5

  9:47 A.M.

  NATIONAL CAMERA EXCHANGE, EDINA

  SUBURBAN MINNEAPOLIS

  Sales Assistant Andrew Pinz set the camera he’d just retrieved from the back room onto the counter. “You clearly have an eye for quality, choosing a Kronzfeldt,” Pinz said. “Wildlife shots?”

  The customer shook his head. “Sports.”

  It was going to be a great morning, Andrew thought. A great morning. He was about to sell a preordered, high-shutter-speed Kronzfeldt Cyber-Shot, along with a high-end telephoto lens, all totaling nearly four thousand dollars. And it wasn’t even lunchtime. At this rate, by the end of the week he’d have earned enough commissions to pay off the credit card debt he’d taken on for his upcoming trip to Virgin Gorda.

  “Let me take a moment,” Andrew began, “and tell you about our warranties.”

  “No. I’d just like to pay now.”

  Better still. “Alright. Do be sure to fill out the warranty form online when you get home. Will it be check or charge today?”

  “Cash.”

  Andrew watched the customer pull out a stack of bills from a jacket pocket. While Andrew bagged the purchases, the customer counted out a series of hundreds, a few fifties, then twenties. He laid them on the counter.

  Andrew smiled as he recounted the bills; the last thirty were crisp and new. “Nearly exact. You have seventy cents in change coming.”

  “No need,” the customer said, taking the bag. “I have to run.”

  As the customer left the store, Andrew turned to the register and began dividing the bills by denomination. When he came to the crisp ones, he held one up to the light, expecting to see a recent printing date.

  The bills were twenties, but they looked all wrong. Not like forgeries exactly, but on the front, Jackson appeared too small.

  He studied one more closely. To his surprise, it was dated 1983.

  Andrew thumbed through the rest of the new-looking bills. All were twenties, and all were dated the same. Storing them neatly away, he closed the register.

  Apparently the customer had raided the mattress for this purchase. But Andrew didn’t care. So long as the man didn’t return the merchandise, his commission was set—cash or credit card.

  He could already feel the sugary sand of Virgin Gorda between his toes.

  10:00 A.M.

  WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  Katie wasn’t at the reception desk when Ian returned. From the cracked door at the end of the hallway, he could tell his partner was in. He forced himself to head straight there.

  Dennis Hoy’s office looked like tornado alley, but then Ian had no memories of it ever looking any different. Even when he’d visited the law office as a child, papers had always been piled high and strewn in all directions.

  Ian’s sixty-four-year-old partner was seated on a love seat in the only area not covered in papers. He scrunched his forehead as Ian came into the room with a worried look on his face.

  “Dennis,” Ian began, “we have to talk.”

  The older lawyer nodded. “I know. I found the pleadings on Katie’s desk this morning. What’s going on with this lawsuit?”

  Ian hesitated, uncertain about how to start. “I haven’t seen it yet, but Katie tells me it’s some children of a woman Dad represented.”

  “I know that much,” said Dennis, his forehead growing red. “But did you know they’re claiming your father committed fraud by helping the other children? And that the Complaint is almost dripping punitive damages? Which would mean our malpractice insurance wouldn’t cover that part of the claim.”

  Ian felt his own face flushing.

  “I know the lawsuit’s probably hogwash,” Dennis went on. “Still, the timing couldn’t be worse. I was planning on telling you I’m retiring at the end of this month.” He paused, his voice tightening. “What I also haven’t told you is that Charlene’s asked me for a divorce, and for half of everything I’ve ever earned. Thirty-five years of marriage. Thirty-five years. A month before I retire, she wants out.”

  Ian’s stomach fell. He had to get this out. “It’s worse than that,” he said. He explained about their insurance having lapsed.

  The shade of color in Dennis’s face turned to purple. “What were you thinking?” he shouted. “You should’ve borrowed the money fr
om me to cover the premium.”

  Ian had never heard this tone from his even-tempered partner. “It was a miscommunication between Katie and me,” Ian said. He stopped and shook his head. “No, that’s not fair. Katie tried to tell me, but I wasn’t listening. This is on me alone. But Dennis, you knew my dad. You know there’s nothing to this lawsuit.”

  “No, I didn’t know Connor,” his partner roared as he straightened on the couch like a rocket about to launch. “We worked together for twenty-five years, and you and I have had more conversations these last five than I ever had with your dad. With Connor, this place was always an eat-what-you-kill operation—just like between you and me. Separate books, separate bank accounts. We could’ve been separate law firms, the way we operated. And with your father being the quietest lawyer I’ve ever known, I didn’t know Connor.” Dennis closed his eyes, his anger peaking.

  “I’ll take care of this,” Ian promised.

  Dennis seemed to collapse deeper into the couch. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know your dad was a great lawyer and a good man. But I can’t afford this, Ian.”

  “I told you. I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got some fresh work.”

  The explanation sounded hollow even to himself. Dennis dropped his face into his hands.

  Staring at the partner he’d worked with these past five years, Ian remembered when Dennis offered him his father’s slot at Wells & Hoy Law Office. It was just a week after Connor died. At the time, Ian was about to graduate from law school, busily interviewing at the same places as Brook and her boyfriend, Zach—big firms with growing litigation practices. Both Dennis and Connor had been estate planners, and Ian knew the offer to replace his father carried little likelihood of help in building the criminal-defense practice he really wanted. In fact, the proposal had the trappings of a courtesy.

  But the next day, Ian told Dennis in this very room that he’d join him as a partner with the same arrangement as his dad. Dennis’s expression had bordered on shock, though he’d never asked Ian to explain, and Ian had never volunteered his reasons.

  Now, at the end of their partnership, it had come to this.

  “I’m good for it,” Ian said more forcefully. “That’s a promise.” Then he headed back into the hallway, closing his partner’s door behind him.

  He stopped at the reception desk, where Katie had returned.

  She looked up, worry in her eyes. “Everything okay?” she asked. He could tell she’d heard the exchange.

  “Sure,” Ian answered shortly. He briefly explained his meeting with Callahan the day before, not mentioning the amount of the fee or Callahan’s final words. He dropped the envelope with the cash on her desk and told her to deposit it.

  He retreated into his own office. Seated behind his desk, Ian looked up at his parents’ wedding photo on the wall. His mother’s eyes, wide and excited, looked slightly down and toward Connor at her side, conveying a wisp of caution. He’d always assumed it was concern for not tripping on the train of her gown.

  But that wasn’t it. Ian understood that now. Intuitive Martha Brennan, just transformed to Martha Wells, must have been worried about marrying a lawyer. And rightly so. What a profession. Architects didn’t tear down other architects’ buildings. Engineers didn’t sabotage other engineers’ bridges. Doctors didn’t try to ruin other doctors’ reputations. Only lawyers, sharks, and spiders fed off their own.

  He looked again at the limited files on his desk. He’d best get to it. Clear away any distractions. Call Callahan and accept—tell him he had a lawyer.

  For the next week, Ian would be investigating this trust and little else until he’d earned that fee.

  9

  TUESDAY, JUNE 5

  9:31 P.M.

  WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  The office phone jangled on its perch on the window ledge over Katie’s shoulder, startling her. Setting down the firm’s lease bill, she twisted to glance at the clock beside the phone.

  Who could be calling at this hour? She waited several rings until finally it stopped.

  Katie let out a ragged sigh. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. Dennis had slunk out after the explosive meeting with Ian in the morning, never to return. Ian had locked himself in his office all day, reviewing the new trust and clearing up other clients’ work. When she’d finally dared to poke her head into his office, he announced the next seven days would be focused working on the trust, all the time. True to his word, he was still at it in the library. If he hadn’t sent her off to finish reconciling the books for the month, she would have insisted on helping.

  The phone rang again. She looked down the hall toward the library door. Ian must not be expecting a call since he wasn’t getting it. It was probably just another salesperson.

  After the next ring, it stopped again.

  She turned away from the window and picked up the next bill to review—when the ringing erupted again. Frustrated, Katie reached for the phone.

  “Yes?” she said sharply.

  “Hello,” an apologetic voice began. “I’m calling from Wells Fargo Bank. I’m sorry to call so late, but we need to confirm there have been no unauthorized transfers from your account today. We’ve intercepted a hacker trolling business accounts and are contacting all our business clients who transacted business today to ensure all transfers on their accounts were authorized.”

  Katie shook her head at the interruption. “Hold on.”

  She put the phone on hold, turned to the computer, and typed in the access password. When she’d opened Outlook, she got on the internet and typed in wellsfargo.com. Once the bank’s website came up, she entered the firm’s identity code followed by the law-office password.

  The security page faded, replaced by the account status page. She quickly scanned all transactions for the day, turned back to the phone on the windowsill, and took it off hold.

  “Ma’am?” the voice on the phone said.

  “No unauthorized transactions,” Katie responded curtly.

  “Thank you so much. Again, I’m very sorry for the late call, but I’m sure you understand.”

  The phone went dead. Katie dropped hers back on its cradle. She didn’t understand. Why call at night when it was so unlikely they’d reach anyone?

  Her back still to the computer and her piles of bills, Katie took a moment to stare out the window at the puzzle pattern of lit windows in the surrounding buildings. So many people working late. Some probably trying to impress a boss or beat a deadline, others avoiding somebody at home.

  A light flickered out in an office window across the street—the sudden darkness reminding her she’d have to hustle if she had any hope of getting home before Richard went to bed. She turned away from the window and once more back to the pile of bills, the annoying banker quickly forgotten.

  Standing in darkness a few feet back from the sixth-story window that looked out over the street, the photographer set down the cellphone and returned to the camera and tripod. Even without the lens’s magnification, it was clear the legal assistant—her back now visible through the window across the street—suspected nothing. As the photographer watched, the light on the woman’s computer screen flickered dark once more. The woman didn’t appear to notice, deep into a document in her hand.

  The photographer was just as indifferent as the legal assistant to her computer returning to sleep mode. He’d already gotten what he needed.

  In the darkness of his empty room, the photographer reached out and adjusted the new Kronzfeldt digital camera with its foot-long telephoto lens, which rested only inches from the windowpane. With a finger touch, he switched the screen operation mode from Capture to Image Review. Within seconds the auto shots he’d just taken were ready to analyze.

  The shots captured the legal assistant’s keyboard and computer screen. Fortunately she’d sat with her back to the window when she operated the desktop computer. Over se
veral weeks’ time, the photographer had to slip into half a dozen offices on this side of the street to find the best view looking down and over her shoulder—from an office with no late workers to contend with.

  The first set of shots engaged both the woman’s keystrokes and the screen images as she typed the password gaining access to the computer. Those shots were clear and had good resolution, he saw with satisfaction.

  Pulling a notepad and pen from a jacket pocket, the photographer clicked through each of the images that followed from the moment she rested her fingers on the keyboard. At ten shots per frame, covering both the screen and keyboard, the camera had captured each typed letter at a rate of one every two to three frames. He wrote down each letter the instant it appeared on the screen.

  ConnorWells, it read when finished.

  He shook his head. The ID displayed no imagination. He could have guessed it without the bother of the night’s efforts.

  He turned next to learning the Wells Fargo website User ID that followed. Since the bank’s site displayed those keystrokes on the screen as they were made, there was no difficulty gaining that information: all he had to do was digitally enlarge the image on the computer screen when she finished typing.

  IanWells. Just as simple.

  The hard part was figuring out the law firm’s Wells Fargo customer password. The photographer picked up on the digital display where the User ID shots had ended. The customer password wasn’t displayed on-screen as typed letters, numbers, or symbols, but as asterisks only. That meant in the frames that followed, it was necessary to manipulate the critical images: widen and refocus each frame in order to view the legal assistant’s fingers striking each key and write down the correct strokes when and where pressure was detected on the keyboard. The process was all the more painstaking because of the need to expand the frame after each keystroke to encompass her other hand to detect whether she’d pressed the Shift button for capitals or symbols.