Callahan took the pen and scribbled his name on the acknowledgment. Ian signed the account forms and, with much less certainty than his client, did the same with the acknowledgment.
“I’ve got another question,” Ian said. “Why does my firm need to hold the money at all? Why can’t it stay where it’s at till the distribution?”
“Because those were Mr. Doyle’s wishes,” Callahan growled. “I’d say it’s a compliment, Mr. Doyle thinkin’ his lawyer could do the best job of carin’ for the cash.”
“Very well,” Fordham said, focusing on the computer screen. “Over the past six months, per agreed-upon procedures, the trust funds have been accumulated in a bank associated with Wells Fargo, the First Trust Bank of Grand Cayman.” He looked up at Ian. “Your predecessor approved of these arrangements when he drafted the trust.”
“You mean Connor Wells,” Ian confirmed uneasily.
The banker nodded as he typed.
Would his father also have agreed to this arrangement? Ian wondered, glancing into the dark hallway. A wire transfer in the middle of the night?
“Twenty years is a long time,” Ian said aloud. “What if you’d been hit by a truck, Mr. Fordham, or changed jobs? Who would have done all this then?”
“Provision was made for a successor to handle the transactions,” the banker said. “Just as the trust provided that Mr. Callahan, as trustee, could select your father’s replacement.”
“Yeah,” Callahan said offhandedly. “Fortunately, Mr. Fordham and his wife are great fans of Grand Cayman, isn’t that so?”
The banker cast a nervous glance at Callahan. “Yes, that’s true.” He typed for a few more minutes. “Gentlemen, I will be transferring the entirety of the proceeds to the Wells & Hoy Law Office Trust Fund Account, routing and account number as follows.” He read off the bank account information. “At that point,” the banker continued, “the funds will be under your care, Mr. Wells. Once you’ve completed your investigation of the beneficiaries and you and Mr. Callahan concur on the results, you will each confirm distribution to the appropriate recipients. In the event you disagree, I will make the final decision. Is that understood?”
Callahan nodded.
Ian cleared his throat. “Yes,” he replied.
“Good.” Fordham typed a few more lines, then pressed the Enter button. “The wire transfer is in process. The funds will be in your new account this evening.”
“How much?” Ian asked.
“Nine million, two hundred and thirty-six thousand, two hundred and seventy-two dollars and eighty-six cents,” the banker said. “That’s the contents of the trust, net of certain transfer fees.”
“Which I’ll be looking at closely,” Callahan said firmly.
“Yes,” Fordham muttered. “Of course.”
Fordham walked them back to the lobby, where he shook each of their hands with the same soft, now-sweaty handshake. He turned eagerly away and retreated back toward the elevators.
Callahan looked Ian up and down. “So that’s handled,” he said calmly. “How’s the investigation comin’?”
“It’s coming,” Ian said, nearly claustrophobic in the dark lobby.
“Tell me about it.”
Ian considered the Irishman and the man’s complete comfort with the strange process they’d just completed. He took a breath and briefly explained the results of the criminal background checks he’d ordered, his review of McMartin’s and Callahan’s information, and his meeting with Rory Doyle. He quickly went through a summary of his talk with Rory’s daughter. “I’ve also met with a source who knew the Minneapolis underworld in the ’90s,” he finished.
“Who’s that?” Callahan asked.
Ian told him.
Callahan’s eyebrows rose. “Anthony Ahmetti? I’m impressed at your initiative, Ian. And what did your source have to say?”
Ian looked Callahan in the eye. Callahan had said the Albanian’s name as though it was familiar. “He just gave me some suggestions on getting more information. About Rory in particular.”
Callahan studied him as if catching a hint of Ian’s restraint in not sharing all of Ahmetti’s news—or even the ICRs. “Well, cheers to all that,” Callahan said. “That’s progress in just three days. That last bit especially. Though I doubt the rest of your inquiries with bosses and family will get ya anywhere with Rory.”
Ian grew defensive. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I doubt Rory would’ve told his bosses he’d been sellin’ meth the night before or that he came home at night to tell his missus, ‘Had a great day. Robbed a Holiday station and stole some credit cards. Pass the peas, will ya, sweetie?’”
Defensiveness gave way to anger, amplified by Ian’s fatigue. “So where else would you suggest I look after twenty years?”
“No, no, do your lawyerin’, son,” Callahan said, shaking his head. “Really. Go ahead. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job in the end.”
Ian wanted to wipe the smugness from the Irishman’s face. “You know I’m handling each of your background investigations the same way.”
“Of course, son,” Callahan said with a smirk, his accent in full swing. “Why, if I didn’t have such a high opinion of ya, I’d think you were implyin’ I’m more interested in a larger share of the estate than the truth. The thing is, though, you’ve been thinkin’ about the trust for a few days, while I’ve been at it for twenty years. I know the players a bit better than you do. So do your job fairly. That’s what you’re bein’ paid for. But in the end, if you tell me the counterfeit son of Jimmy Doyle and his family are entitled to a third of the trust money, you’d best have gone a far sight past a criminal background check to prove it before I’ll sign off.”
Ian didn’t bother responding.
Callahan grinned and slapped Ian on the back with a blow hard enough to bruise. “Have a good night, Ian. I’m truly lookin’ forward to your report. And take good care of that money now, boyo.”
Ian watched him leave the building and walk out into the night. He looked back toward the elevator, where the banker had disappeared, digesting the odd scene he’d witnessed upstairs. Then he recalled Ahmetti’s comment about Jimmy Doyle working only with family, or the nearest thing to family, in the days he’d been associated with Kid Cann and his illegal enterprises.
Though exhausted, Ian decided he couldn’t go home to bed just yet. He pushed through the doors and turned up the street in the direction of his car.
21
FRIDAY, JUNE 8
2:15 A.M.
MINNESOTA STATE FAIRGROUNDS, ST. PAUL
Amidst shadows painted by starlight, Ian sat with his back against the cold brick of the Grandstand. The vacant Giant Slide was in front of him. Overhead hung the Skyride’s cables. The top of the Coliseum could be seen in the distance, down a street that, in the monochrome of night and the absence of State Fair crowds, looked as wide as a highway.
Ian looked again at the glow of the Ancestory.com website on his laptop. He’d joined their highest level of access as soon as he settled into this thinking spot two hours earlier. He’d begun by typing his father’s name and birthday into their search field.
In the two hours since, he’d checked every branch of Connor Wells’s family back five generations and a mile on either side. He followed that inquiry with a review for James Doyle, father of Rory Doyle, and came up with nothing. James Doyle’s family and his dad’s could just as well have been from different galaxies.
Next, Ian moved to his mother’s side of the family using her maiden name, Martha Brennan. The search was narrower since her mother was registered as a single parent. But no connection popped up with the Doyle family there either. The Brennan family came to America from Ireland in the late nineteenth century, Doyle’s the same. Besides that, they didn’t cross paths.
Ian kicked at a stone near his heel. Why had he felt the need to stay up half the night to do this research? What did it matter if his dad was related to Doyle? He may be burning t
o know why his dad got chosen to work the trust, but that wasn’t the problem. Whether Connor was or wasn’t a blood relation to Jimmy Doyle didn’t change Ian’s situation.
Until tonight, the big fee he needed so badly had him overlooking the strange clients, the ICR reports, and the unusual job he’d been asked to do. He’d even thought he could justify going on after Ahmetti’s hint that the estate might hold illegal money from the Cann rackets—since he wasn’t being asked to steal it and had no way to return it to any victims, fifty years on anyway.
But how did he interpret walking into a bank in the middle of the night and watching a wire transfer take place in an empty office? It smelled like laundering. And money being laundered meant money that was still dirty. Even if his dad had drafted the trust with the big fee, he wouldn’t have knowingly been a part of something like that. Not the dad he knew, right?
Right?
Self-assurances that would have been rock solid a week before felt shaky now. Ian looked up at the fairgrounds he loved. Gazed to his right, toward the silent Midway.
Connor Wells didn’t like crowds. That was why Mom—and never Dad—took him and Adrianne to the State Fair every August. Mom would inch their car through traffic up Larpenteur Avenue to battle for a parking spot. They’d step out into the hot morning sun to follow the same route every year: start at the Pet Center, do the rides at the Kidway, take an air-conditioned break in the Merchandise Mart, hit the Dairy Building for a towering bag of chocolate chip cookies with all the milk they could drink, have something fried and on a stick, and take in the Coliseum and barns to watch the horses. Then came the climax: spend their last dollars and energy on the Midway carnival rides and barkers’ contests before limping sore-footed and exhausted back to the car.
It was a predictable annual rite of passage, never missed until they grew too old to be seen in public with either parent.
Except, Ian now recalled, for that one summer. The summer his dad had substituted. He hadn’t thought about it for years.
He must have been ten when Martha came down with the flu and broke the news that Dad had been persuaded to go in her place. That Fair visit, he and his sister had left the car to find themselves in a death march behind their father’s long and relentless strides. They barely stopped for the kids’ rides. The cookie and milk lines, Connor declared, were too long to endure. Their walk through the barns left no time to pet horses, let alone watch them show. The rocket speed was spoiling it all.
Then they reached the Midway.
The full memory came back to him now. In the flurry of their dad-driven pace through the Midway, he and Adrianne had been allowed to use up their remaining dollars on the Spider ride, Tilt-A-Whirl, and attempts at winning stuffed animals. Water guns, softballs, and ring tosses followed—all for nothing. Every single ticket gone in a heartbeat. Their disappointed faces couldn’t have been missed, even by a man rushing to get home.
In mid-stride to the exit, Connor stopped them in front of a pistol-shooting gallery. “Wait,” Dad ordered. “Wait right here.” He disappeared into the crowd. Minutes later he returned with a handful of fresh tickets.
He handed a bunch to the barker. Ian and Adrianne picked up pistols next to each other and rapidly fired away. Nothing. Ian didn’t hit the target once, and his sister did no better.
Ian set down his pistol and turned to his dad. Two lanes down, the barker was handing Connor a stuffed animal big enough to be in a zoo. Dad passed it to an astonished Adrianne without a word, then gave the barker the last of the tickets. Picking up the pistol for another round, he aimed and squeezed off ten popping shots in quick succession. Each was perfect, each a bull’s-eye. Connor passed another giant stuffed creature to Ian. Afterward they resumed the hurried pace to the exit and the car.
It was a moment when the rules of the universe were briefly altered, enough for their predictable father to do the unpredictable. Yet even that shocking interval at the Fair had been too solitary, too much of an aberration to shake Ian’s worldview of his father’s limitations. After a week, the matter had been forgotten.
Ian looked down at the laptop that had gone to sleep, wondering again what he really knew and didn’t know about the man.
Maybe there was no blood connection to explain Connor’s selection to perform the trust work. But that selection wasn’t random. There was some reason Jimmy Doyle had chosen his dad. Somehow Ian had to find out.
In the meantime, though, he was done with the case. In the morning he’d call Callahan and tell him he was withdrawing. He’d figure some other way out of his money problems.
Walking away from the fairgrounds toward his car, Ian cast a final glance over his shoulder. The space was so silent this night that he could hear the wind in the trees—an impossible feat on crowded Fair days.
And for an instant, in the midst of the silence, he could imagine the popping of his father’s pistol at the distant Midway, scoring an incredible twenty for twenty before his children’s astonished eyes.
22
FRIDAY, JUNE 8
1:52 P.M.
U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Brook leaned her head back, took a deep breath, closed her eyes. She stretched her fingers and opened her eyes once more to the list her boss had given her the day before.
“Hello?”
Chloe was standing in the doorway, her eyes bright. Brook was so bored that for an instant she was actually glad to see the Energizer Bunny of a law clerk.
“How’s it coming?” Chloe asked.
Brook shrugged. “Two hundred seventy-seven potential individuals and businesses that could have deposited twenties at a Wells Fargo branch on Tuesday. I’ve called eighty-eight so far. No luck.”
“Isn’t this detective work?”
“Usually it is,” Brook said. “But Agent John Soukup is our assignee from the FBI stolen-art section, and he’s been out interviewing tellers at the branches where the bills were received. So Eldon asked me to do this.”
“Did they check the bills for fingerprints?”
Brook’s initial pleasure at an interruption was already fading. “Yes. Nothing.”
Chloe had to have detected the tone, but pressed on anyway. “You know, I could look over the list if you’d like. Take some of the names to call.”
“No,” Brook answered instinctively, then more civilly said, “No, I really shouldn’t do that. Eldon dropped this on my plate. It wouldn’t look good to assign it to anybody else.”
Chloe looked like she might question that logic, but didn’t. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know if you change your mind.” She turned and disappeared.
Guilt trickled in at her treatment of the clerk—even one she found annoying. Something about Chloe made her reluctant to get involved in another project with her. Ambitious law students came and went, but there was more to it with Chloe. Definitely more.
Still, she could probably muster more patience for Chloe if she was having any luck on her new project. Finding a depositor who recalled receiving and depositing a group of twenty-dollar bills, based on nothing more than that they were stiff and over thirty years old, was proving very hard. So much so that Brook’s heart was barely in the effort. The task had also proved too boring to push from her mind the previous day’s encounter with Ian.
With an effort, she picked up the master sheet of depositors once more.
All right, where was she? Until now, she’d simply been working her way from the top of the page down, dialing depositors. That method took no imagination at all. Maybe there was a way to organize the list to reduce the number of calls required, eliminate the obviously weak contenders.
Brook began reviewing the entire list. An ice cream shop. Unlikely. Probably not a lot of twenties there. She made a mark. Car dealer? Not a lot of cash transactions there. Her eyes stopped at an entry:
Wells & Hoy Law Office—6/5/18—4:27 p.m., $12,000
Weird, she thought. The bigge
st share of the hot money deposits they were investigating went into the downtown Wells Fargo branch on Tuesday, June fifth. This showed Ian’s firm depositing into the same branch that same day.
It also happened to be just after she’d visited Ian’s office. That was a strange coincidence.
That was the day Ian got the new client with the trust, the one she’d overheard Katie and him discussing. Then on Wednesday Ian stopped by to ask her for investigation reports he had no business seeing. It was for the trust case involving beneficiaries who might have been involved in criminal activity.
She looked again at the deposit list. Retainers were typical with new cases. If Ian had just gotten this case on Monday, this could be the deposit of a new cash retainer from that client the next day.
Brook opened the desk drawer where she’d kept a copy of the ICR reports she’d given Ian. The pile was thicker than she remembered. Until she recalled that Chloe had delivered a few new reports after her adventure at Kieran’s. Strike Force and FBI papers, she’d said.
Uncertain what she was looking for, Brook started paging back through the pile once again. Nothing piqued her interest as she neared the bottom.
The final report was an FBI memorandum dated June 9, 1998. Brook hadn’t seen it before. Clearly it was one of the records Chloe had delivered after Brook was with Ian at Kieran’s. The summary page was titled St. Louis Park Robbery and Homicide—January 14, 1983.
Brook stopped abruptly. That was the cold case she was working on for Eldon. She kept reading, more slowly now.
Surveillance of Potential Suspects—Funeral of Christina Doyle—Port St. Lucie, Florida.
Her pace began to increase.
Particular attention has recently been directed to Rory Doyle as a person of renewed interest, based upon reports of spending inconsistent with his present employment. Mr. Doyle arrived at the funeral in a late model Mercedes . . .
She skipped to the bottom of the report and its conclusion.
Fatal Trust Page 12