Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

She stared at Ian. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Lisa Ramsdale.”

  The woman nodded. “You must be the lawyer. Yeah, she had to run some errands.”

  Ian felt his face grow hot. “I drove straight here from Minneapolis because she told me she could meet with me at three-thirty.”

  “Well, I’m Lisa’s daughter, Maureen. Rory’s too. Mom said I should meet with you instead.” Maureen turned away, leaving the front door open.

  Swallowing his anger, Ian followed. The living room was sparse but immaculate. He took a seat on a small sofa. Books were piled neatly on several tables, one lying open next to a notebook. Maureen sat across from him, a glass at her elbow. She picked up a notebook beside the glass with her right hand, a pen with her left, and began doodling.

  After a moment of silence, she looked up to catch Ian’s eyes boring into her as he tried to figure out what she was doing. “I’m working on a nursing degree,” she explained. “That’s why I’m living with my mother. And don’t mind this—I doodle to relax. So, Mother tells me you were hired to represent my grandfather’s estate. Go ahead with your questions.”

  Ian shook his head as she looked down at her pad.

  Well, he was here. “What you said isn’t exactly true,” he began. “I told her I was hired to investigate your father on a matter related to the estate.”

  She looked up at him again. “I always thought lawyers should be taller. And heavier. And have shorter hair.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Ian said, smoldering. “They let all kinds into law school.”

  “Oh, I’m not that easily disappointed. I just assumed that no matter how they went into law school, they all came out pretty much the same.”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

  “Mother believes my grandfather’s money is dangerous,” Maureen said. “Isn’t that a strange notion? She’s always thought that. Now she thinks I shouldn’t take any of it. Like it’s part of something bad.”

  The words resonated uncomfortably with Ian as he recalled Rory’s comments. He wanted to get to his questions, but instead found himself asking, “You believe that?”

  She set the pad and pen on a side table. “I believe it’s not that easy—giving it a label and then just walking away. Some people think all money’s bad. Well, what if my grandfather’s money is cursed? Maybe I can lift the curse, use it in better ways than somebody else. Maybe I’m supposed to have the money. Maybe I deserve the money.” Her eyes tightened on Ian. “What do you think?”

  Ian shook his head at what he was being drawn into. “I don’t believe in curses. Just actions and consequences and some credit for good intentions.”

  She smiled and leaned back. “Wow, you sound like a lawyer and a philosopher.”

  “Not really.” Ian’s irritation was morphing into embarrassment. “Could I get to my questions now?”

  “Sure, but I already know what you’re going to ask,” said Maureen. “Mother told me. You want to know if my father committed any crimes after my grandmother died. I was only twelve when that happened. That was just two years before my parents divorced.”

  “Sometimes parents confide in their children,” Ian said, “especially in a divorce. And sometimes children know more than their parents would ever suspect. Even at age twelve.”

  Maureen smiled. “Isn’t that the truth? But here’s the thing—I can’t tell you about anything criminal my dad may have been involved in. And before she went out, I asked Mom what she would tell you. She said she didn’t know of anything either. Mom’s always said that Grandpa and Dad did some messy things, and Dad never recovered—and it finally killed their marriage. She’s never explained what it was and I don’t care. To me, Rory was just the dad who disappeared when I was still a teenager. Except for gifts on my birthday and at Christmas, and the occasional guilty call, he’s been gone, out of our lives. But as for Dad being into any real crime after Grandma’s death? No. My mother said she didn’t know of any.”

  Ian thought about the amount of money that made up the trust and Rory’s comment about its source. “Did you ever hear that your father or grandfather might have been involved in any criminal activity before your grandmother’s death?”

  Her smile grew coy. “Now you want to know about my grandparents. That goes back even further. How much do you remember when you were that young?”

  Ian shrugged. “Not much. But even twelve-year-olds see things, hear things. Or maybe you’ve heard family rumors?”

  Maureen shook her head. “I don’t listen to rumors, even family ones, and I certainly don’t pass them on. And even if I did, ten minutes’ conversation with a philosopher-lawyer doesn’t make you family.”

  Nothing was coming of this, Ian realized. He glanced at his watch. “Would your brother, Liam, have any more information? Was he close to your father?”

  “Very close, at one time,” she answered. “But he left town years ago, moved to California. He’s only in touch once in a while.”

  “You’re twins, right?” Ian recalled Callahan’s description.

  Maureen nodded. “But Liam never got over the divorce, even after all these years. Mom’s always said he was another casualty of a dysfunctional family.”

  “I’m going to need any tax returns or financial records your mother has for Rory,” Ian said.

  “There are none. I helped Mom clean out all that stuff years ago.”

  After a ninety-minute drive, this was all he got? He could have covered this ground on the phone.

  “So how much money are we talking here?” Maureen asked.

  Ian considered giving her a figure, but after the runaround he decided against it. “A lot,” he replied. “But there’s no guarantee.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve learned not to believe in guarantees when it comes to money.” Then she smiled again. “But just in case the money comes my way, why don’t you leave a card so we can talk about how you define ‘good intentions.’”

  18

  THURSDAY, JUNE 7

  4:45 P.M.

  ST. PETER, MINNESOTA

  Ian’s phone rang just as he reached St. Peter on his route back to the Twin Cities. He glanced at the screen’s readout, saw it was Harry Christensen, and pressed a button to answer through the Bluetooth. “Yeah, Harry.”

  “Hey, I heard back from my man Ahmetti.”

  “That was quick. What’d he say?”

  “He’ll take a meeting with you.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight at eight. Doggy’s Bar on Hennepin Avenue.”

  Not tonight, Ian thought. Not with the meeting at the bank at eleven and needing to see his mother. And really, not Doggy’s.

  “C’mon, Harry. Doggy’s was probably a dive back when John Dillinger still came to town. How about a club in the Warehouse District? Any place that opened after Kennedy was president.”

  Harry laughed. “It’s where he said to meet. I think he’s old-fashioned. And be prepared to negotiate. He said yes so quick I’m sure he’s got a price in mind.”

  “How will I know him?”

  Another bark of laughter. “I described you. Scrawny lawyer, in over his head. He’ll see you coming, trust me.”

  “Wiry, not scrawny,” Ian replied.

  “Hey, confirm you got that retainer for me.”

  Ian said he would, then ended the call.

  Another long night. At least after the first meeting he could still sandwich in some time to spend with his mother.

  The phone rang again.

  “Willy’s here at the office,” Katie said when he answered. “He’s brought over the original charging papers and more information about his case. Says he can meet with you when you’re ready to talk.”

  Not tonight, that was for sure. “Maybe tomorrow. Or tomorrow night. Maybe we can meet someplace. Ask him where he’s living now.”

  Silence. “He’s living over on the northeast side.” She gave Ian an address.

  It was nea
r Larry’s Bar. “Okay. Tell him I’ll give him a call.” How much could he cram into a single night?

  He accelerated the Camry as he left St. Peter in the rearview mirror.

  4:45 P.M.

  U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  A knock on her doorframe pulled Brook’s eyes off the computer screen displaying the brief she’d been trying to write the last four hours since “lunch” with Ian. Brook looked up to the office’s newest law clerk from St. Thomas Law School, diminutive and fresh-faced, holding a stack of papers in her hand. Chloe something. Chloe Moore.

  “I heard you were looking at ICR reports on a few people,” the young clerk said eagerly.

  Brook flinched. She’d had her legal assistant retrieve the reports from a buddy at the Hennepin County Prosecutor’s Office, but it was supposed to have been confidential. How did the law clerk learn about it?

  “Yeah. Doing a favor for someone. But keep it to yourself, will you?”

  “Sure,” Chloe said. “But I saw the names you were checking and dug into anything the FBI or Federal Strike Force might have shared with us on the same names.” She held up the stack of papers.

  Brook groaned inwardly at the expansion of this mess. “That’s great, but I’m good.”

  “Oh . . . you don’t want these?”

  Brook forced a smile. “Sure. Thanks. Leave them on the desk.”

  Clearly disappointed, Chloe turned and slipped from the room.

  She was getting nothing done, Brook fumed. All thanks to Ian. It ticked her off in a serious way that he was getting to her. Why should she be the one bothered about the scene at Kieran’s when it was Ian who was displaying the emotional intelligence of a maple?

  Except it was she who’d turned a talk about ICRs into an autopsy of their friendship and its limitations—even bringing up Zach, for heaven’s sake. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

  Another knock startled her.

  “What is it?” she said, looking up.

  Eldon Carroll, her boss, stood in the doorway.

  “Brook Daniels! Glad to see you’re in.”

  Brook forced another smile. So her long walk after lunch with Ian had been noticed. “Sorry for the outburst, Eldon. I’m a little . . . behind today. And I had a long lunch with a friend.”

  Eldon nodded tersely. “Fine. Fine. You’re here now. Which is good because I want to bring you in on something.” He stepped into her cramped office and took a chair, a thick folder in his hands. “You may have gotten wind that I’ve put together a team on a new case.”

  “Heard rumors, yes,” she replied.

  “Well, it’s really not a new case. It’s actually a cold case that’s gotten new life.” Eldon’s eyes began to light up. “This one could get some attention. Certainly the Star Tribune and Pioneer Press. Maybe national.”

  Emotionally winded, Brook had trouble mustering the expected enthusiasm. “Okay” was all she got out.

  “Last week,” he went on, “the FBI let us know they’d learned of some bills being circulated. Twenties going back to a theft and murder at a small art gallery thirty-five years ago—in St. Louis Park.”

  “How do they know the bills are related?” she asked.

  “Because the gallery got some cash at the bank before the heist, and the proprietor noticed they were fresh bills—as it turns out, sequenced. He pocketed a few that didn’t get stolen, enough to put out a bulletin on any related twenties after the rest of his cash and some big-time art was stolen. Anyway, last week a Wells Fargo branch got an anonymous call about ‘hot twenties’ coming in. They started scanning all the Jacksons they were collecting and, lo and behold, half a dozen came up from the old watch list.”

  Eldon looked at Brook as though awaiting a reaction.

  “That’s pretty exciting,” Brook said, a little too late.

  “Exciting? It’s a lot more than that. Then on Tuesday, we got another big hit of the bills.” Eldon shook the file in his hands. “This is serious business, Brook. The St. Louis Park job was, and still is, the largest art theft in Minnesota history. One that’s had everyone clueless for over three decades. We catch the bad guys on this, it’ll be a big mark for all of us.”

  He sounded as though he was ready to measure the Minnesota Attorney General’s office for furniture, Brook thought. Or maybe even a Senate office.

  But he was right. This could be a career maker. “Who are we working with at the FBI?” she asked.

  “The stolen art section’s a little shorthanded for a couple of weeks, but we got a young agent assigned: Special Agent John Soukup. I said we’d pitch in. I’ve already got Cassidy Morrow doing legal research. You know Cassidy, right? And I want you to follow up on this.” He handed Brook a portion of the file.

  She opened it. Inside was a multi-page FBI memo titled Deposits. “You say there was a tip about these deposits?”

  “Yep. Somebody called it in.”

  “Isn’t that a little strange? Who spends hot money, then calls in a tip about it?”

  Eldon’s voice dropped a notch. “Could be a perp with a grudge. Maybe an anonymous store clerk who handled a bunch of old bills that still looked new. They got suspicious but didn’t want to get involved.”

  That last one sounded like a stretch, Brook thought. Who suspected a crime just by seeing a handful of thirty-five-year-old twenties?

  Still, she could hear the cracking of thin ice underfoot from her last question. “So you want me to follow up on trying to trace the depositors who might have handled the twenties?”

  “That’s right,” Eldon said. “Reach out to them and see if we can narrow this down quickly based on the age of the depositor, businesses versus personal, that kind of thing. I’m also putting Cassidy to work combing the list of suspects from the investigation back in the day—seeing who’s still alive and in Minneapolis. We’ll then cross-reference with each one you find. As a starting point, Wells Fargo has helped by narrowing the deposits to two hundred seventy-seven potential cash depositors at three possible branches.”

  Brook thought it over . . . 277, several days of grinding work at least. “Okay, chief. I’ll get on it right away.”

  Eldon grinned. “Put your heart into it, Brook. This could be huge. For everyone involved.”

  Brook nodded enthusiastically. “Got it.”

  Only when he was gone did Brook let out a sigh. She reread the memo. The list of depositors had been broken down by branch. She scanned the list, wondering where to start.

  The good news was that maybe this would get her focus off Ian in a way her brief hadn’t. Maybe.

  Pushing aside the stacks on her desk—including the new one from Chloe—she spread out the depositor list and reached for her phone.

  19

  THURSDAY, JUNE 7

  7:54 P.M.

  DOGGY’S BAR

  HENNEPIN AVENUE, MINNEAPOLIS

  Ian approached the scarred wooden door of Doggy’s Bar. Beside the door was a glass display case featuring tonight’s acts.

  He shook his head. He was too young to have known Hennepin Avenue in the days when clubs like this ran from end to end, mixed with flophouses and bars. But he’d seen pictures and read the stories about when this strip was the center for sports betting in America, with speakeasies and worse as thick as flies, and bank robbers like Dillinger and Al Karpis walking the street unafraid. By the time Ian was old enough to venture downtown alone, those days were long gone. Places like Doggy’s were the stubborn bits of driftwood in a gentrifying sea of new stadiums and office buildings from Nicollet Avenue to the Warehouse District, from the Mississippi River to the Basilica of Saint Mary.

  Taking a deep breath, Ian pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bar looked a lot like Larry’s except in deeper decline. Its now-empty stage was set back to one side of a wooden bar, scratched and in need of polishing. A stale smell hung in the air. The low light suggested dinginess awaiting a wrecking ball.

  As Ian
’s eyes slowly adjusted, he saw there were only a few people camped out at the bar and tables—an older group, with hardly a face under fifty.

  He felt somebody come up from behind.

  “Excuse me.” A massive hand circled his body with a metal wand.

  Startled, Ian asked over his shoulder, “This some kind of a frisk?”

  There was a snort, followed by a low rumble. “You’re not the kinda guy likely to come in here with a gun. You’re the kinda guy likely to come in here with a tape recorder.” The thick hand slapped his shoulder. “Mr. Ahmetti’s in the corner booth.”

  When Ian glanced behind him, the man had already slipped into the shadows beside the entrance door.

  He walked to a booth in the back. No one was sitting nearby, as though a ring had been drawn around the table defining a no-man’s-land. Ahmetti sat with his back to the wall, a clear drink on ice before him. White hair crowned a lined face and sharp, appraising eyes. Like an ancient accountant, Ian thought. He looked up as Ian approached.

  “I appreciate your meeting me, Mr. Ahmetti,” Ian said, taking a seat.

  “Sure. I’ve got plenty of time these days.”

  Tired as he was, Ian didn’t try to make small talk with an eighty-year-old, recent ex-con. Instead he launched right in. “I need to know something about a few people I’m told you might have known.”

  “Yeah. Don’t tell me. We’re talking about Rory Doyle, Sean Callahan, and Ed McMartin, right?”

  “Right,” Ian said, surprised. “How’d you know?”

  “’Cause Talk Show told me something about beneficiaries of a trust and Jimmy Doyle, and that’s the likeliest crew to be involved in something like that.”

  Apparently Harry had picked the right guy. “I need to know if any of them was involved in criminal activities from 1998 up to the present.”

  Ahmetti settled back and crossed his arms. “Care to tell me why that question?”

  “I can’t,” Ian said. “Attorney-client privilege.” A necessary lie.

  Ahmetti shook his head. “That’s a load. But I don’t really care.”

  “Then will you help me?”