Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  The gallery had closed early at eight-thirty because of a monster Minnesota snowstorm settling in. Two security guards had already canceled, unable to make it through still-unplowed roads. The owner’s only employee offered to stay on until the one remaining security guard arrived at midnight from his day job at the Southdale mall. The proprietor had declined. Get on home, he’d told his assistant. As it was, he’d be slogging through deep drifts for hours.

  The grateful employee had slipped away.

  The owner went to his office to count receipts while he waited for his security guard to arrive. Those receipts were bolstered by a surprising cash payment on an early sketch, Rockwell’s The Scoutmaster. Nearly fifteen thousand in cash needed sorting. It was a very good start to the exhibition.

  Until everything exploded.

  It was shortly after eleven when two men appeared, coming through the back wearing ski masks. They quickly bound the owner’s hands behind him and put tape over his eyes and mouth. Then they lowered him with surprising gentleness onto the wooden floor.

  Within seconds, the owner distinguished three more voices and sets of footfalls in the gallery. He lay shaking from adrenaline, fear, and a flow of cold air along the floor from outside, listening to the zip of knives slicing paintings from their frames, counting the departing artworks by the crash of the frames to the floor.

  The tearing finally stopped. The last frame fell. They were packing up. The guard would be there in another half an hour after they’d left, the owner told himself. The ordeal would soon be over.

  Six rapid gunshots punctured the silence. Unable to cover his ears, the owner twisted spasmodically into a fetal position, certain that now they would return for him.

  They didn’t. He was still curled in a defensive ball when the police arrived to free him, summoned by a neighbor who’d heard the shots. He walked, heartbroken, back into his gallery strewn with frames where he saw the blood splayed across the floor like brushstrokes leading outside onto a canvas of snow.

  They found the guard’s incinerated body an hour later in a burned-out garage a mile away. It lay beside the escape car—a stolen Mustang seen leaving the scene by a taxi driver going the opposite direction on the empty streets. The thieves had taken the only shots. The guard had arrived early and, once wounded, was likely taken alive from the gallery because the thieves feared he might identify them if left behind. His murder was the strangest piece of the puzzle. The two shots to his chest were a brutal act by a crew that had otherwise operated with complete professionalism.

  The thieves had gotten away with over fifteen thousand dollars cash money and eight Norman Rockwells, the most valuable of which, The Spirit of 1776, was worth in excess of eight million on the open market at the time. If fenced right after the theft, the thieves might have garnered a quarter of that amount. If they were able to wait years or even decades to sell it, they could have gotten much more.

  Apparently they were patient. One of the biggest barriers to tracking down the thieves and murderers was that none of the paintings surfaced in the fifteen years of active investigation. That, combined with the absence of any meaningful evidence at the scene, had made the criminal pursuit a dead end.

  Rory Doyle and Jimmy Doyle, Ed McMartin and Sean Callahan. None were ever serious suspects because none had any experience or history of robbery, let alone stealing art. But Jimmy Doyle had been a soldier in Kid Cann’s liquor racket for over thirty years. Given the thin leads in the case, he and the people around him got spotlighted along with every other person in Twin Cities organized crime in 1983. The only reason they stayed under surveillance longer than most was a stray report that Rory Doyle was spending money out of line with his known income. Even so, the focus on those four by FBI’s special art theft unit had waned long before Jimmy Doyle’s death in 2008.

  Until now, Brook thought.

  She opened her eyes.

  What was her next step? How did she warn Ian that he might be helping distribute the proceeds from a thirty-five-year-old robbery that ended in murder?

  Because he couldn’t already know. Not Ian.

  Brook was just picking up the deposit list again when she sensed someone at her open door.

  It was Chloe once more. “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you,” she said with her maddening pixie smile.

  “What’s that?”

  “I gave Eldon a memorandum earlier this afternoon explaining all that stuff we talked about on the elevator.”

  Brook blinked. “You put all that in a memo to Eldon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including about the FBI report? About the possible connection with Connor Wells?”

  “Uh-huh. Since you and I hadn’t had a chance to talk, I thought I’d get him what I knew right away—especially since he’s so anxious to solve the case. I drafted a written memo and dropped it by his office. I haven’t heard back, but thought I’d let you know.”

  And you didn’t email it to Eldon. That way it wouldn’t be as obvious that you’d failed to cc me with a copy, Brook thought.

  She pretended to smile back. “Well, that’s fine. Great initiative. He’d have wanted to know.”

  Chloe returned the smile as she backed out of Brook’s office and left.

  As soon as Chloe’s footsteps faded up the hall, Brook hurried in the direction of Eldon Carroll’s corner space on the far side of the floor.

  That ambitious little troll. Going around Brook to make sure she got credit for linking the missing money to Jimmy Doyle and the Wells & Hoy Law Office.

  Eldon usually took his meetings in the afternoons, so he may not have seen Chloe’s memo yet. If she could just retrieve it from his office, maybe she could delay things for another half day or more. Enough time to find and talk to Ian privately. After all, memos got misplaced all the time in these offices. Especially ones hand-delivered instead of emailed.

  She turned a corner and ran hard into the chest of a man six inches taller than herself. Stumbling back, she looked up into Eldon’s red face.

  “Brook, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” she replied, out of breath.

  In his hand was a stapled report. He held it out before him. “Have you seen this from Chloe?”

  Brook nodded thoughtfully. “We were just talking about it.”

  “Well, it’s a stretch, but interesting and worth following up, especially without any other leads. I checked, and Special Agent Soukup can’t get to it right away. I’d like you to go and interview this Ian Wells. Chloe’s memo says he’s Connor Wells’s son and runs the office now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brook said dutifully, thinking how she’d been trying to do that for hours.

  “Good,” Eldon said, and then he grew more stern. “Actually, you know what? Send out a Marshal to get him and bring him here. I want to be with you for the interview.”

  25

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  Sean Callahan. Rory Doyle. The angry man from the pool. The old man with the hat. They were all there in the room with Ian.

  And his mother too. Hidden in the darkness of the corner by the shuttered window.

  No one was speaking—then they all were speaking, words and thoughts ricocheting through the room.

  “You can’t take my money.” That was Rory, Ian thought.

  The old man set his hat on the floor, shaking his head.

  “How about what you did on the job?” Sean Callahan’s growl.

  “You never should have involved them.” Rory again, waving his index finger at the old man.

  The old man pointed to Ian. “Get him out of here.”

  A hand grabbed him roughly. Callahan looked down at him with eyes as cold as dead flesh.

  “GENTLY.” His mother’s voice at last. Callahan’s hand loosened instantly.

  Then he was staring at a door, shut tight before him, and hearing the click of a lock.

  Ian moaned. The moan rose until it was a cry. He banged on the door, though he knew he couldn
’t batter through.

  She was all alone, with them in there.

  He had to get through.

  ———

  “Ian, wake up, dear. Wake up.”

  His eyes opened to see his mother’s face. He looked around, startled.

  He was in his old room, on his old bed. A wave of relief shot through him at seeing her there. It was only a dream, he repeated to himself. Another dream.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You must’ve been having a nightmare,” she said. “You used to get them as a little boy, do you remember? I thought you’d outgrown them. I hope that being back in your room didn’t bring them up.”

  Ian shook his head as he sat up. “No. It’s probably just stress from work. What time is it?”

  “After four in the afternoon. I slept in myself. I didn’t even know you were here until I heard you call out. Your car isn’t in the driveway.”

  “I’ve been parking it in the garage.” His mind was clearing. He had to call Callahan about dropping the case. He’d do it from the office. “I’ve really got to get going.”

  “Of course. Oh, but dear, I almost forgot. Happy birthday.”

  4:19 P.M.

  WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  Katie stared at the screen, feeling her stomach rumble like it always did when she got upset. It’d been rumbling all afternoon, though it just got worse.

  It was no mistake. She’d checked it three times. Gotten onto the website. Input the password. Gotten out again only to do it all over.

  Somehow the firm had a new bank account. And there was over nine million dollars in it.

  What in the name of everything holy was going on?

  She’d gotten waylaid by Dennis for a project right after Brook left. Agitated as he already was about the malpractice lawsuit, thank goodness Dennis hadn’t come out of his office while the prosecutor was still there. But as soon as Katie could manage it after Brook’s visit, she’d sat down to her computer to check the Wells Fargo account.

  And found this unbelievable sum of money deposited into a new account.

  She picked up her cell again. Punched in Ian’s number again. Nothing, again.

  She’d tried calling Martha’s house once, but no one answered. She was probably out in the garden. But she had to reach Ian to warn him about Brook. And now to find out what this bank account and cash meant.

  Wait. What if her cellphone was tapped by Brook’s office? Could they even do that? Or what if the office phone was tapped? She knew they could do that.

  She set down her phone.

  Even if she couldn’t call him, she still had to find Ian. If he wasn’t home, maybe he was with that new client.

  She grabbed her keys and headed for the door.

  5:07 P.M.

  SUMMIT AVENUE, ST. PAUL

  Katie drove slowly by the large house on Summit Avenue with the big picture window. She’d half expected Ian’s Camry to be parked out front. Even if he wasn’t here, on the drive over she convinced herself she’d knock on the door and find out about this new bank account from the client. After all, the money had to be related to the trust. And once she was looking him in the eye, she’d also tell this Callahan he had no business giving stolen money to Ian, no business messin’ with her boss. If she had to, she’d drag him around the block until he confessed.

  She was still imagining what she’d do as the house retreated in her rearview mirror for the fourth time.

  Sean Callahan’s home wasn’t how she’d pictured it, she brooded. More shoddy. Less sinister. The place looked unworthy of Connor. She felt betrayed to even imagine Connor sneaking to the place to create the James Doyle Trust without telling her.

  Except Connor was better than that. He had some reason for what he’d done. She just hadn’t figured it out yet.

  She’d left a note for Ian at the office, but that was almost an hour ago. Her inability to reach him was beginning to leave her unsteady with helplessness. It was a sensation that had been a second skin growing up, starting the day her mama had told her that Daddy was gone. Until she woke up on the first-year anniversary of her job at Wells & Hoy really believing something good was going to stick.

  She was rounding the block again. This time she was going up to the door. Katie accelerated hard toward the middle of the block to park.

  A black flash startled her. She slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel to the curb as a car veered past and pulled to a stop in front of Callahan’s house. Before she could touch the gas again, a gangly man got out and marched up the steps she’d planned to take.

  The man knocked on the door. A moment later, it swung open and he disappeared inside.

  Katie let out a sigh of frustration and relief. Whatever she was hoping to accomplish, it wouldn’t work now. Gripping the wheel angrily at her own weakness, she turned the car around.

  Fine. Then she’d drive to Martha’s house.

  She had to do something.

  “Sean, that car went by again,” Aaron said, picking at the Marine Corps tattoo on his neck as he looked through a gap in the front window shades.

  Sean Callahan nodded without looking up from the book in his lap. “See who it is?”

  “No. A woman driving. Maybe she’s lost.”

  “If she goes by again, get the license.”

  Aaron grunted. “Wait. Another car’s pulling up and parking. There’s a guy getting out. It’s Rory. I didn’t even know he owned a car.”

  Callahan dropped the paper. “Rory call ahead, did he?”

  “Nope, boss. I’d have told you. You want me to get rid of him?”

  Callahan shook his head. “This was going to happen sooner or later. Bring him in when he gets here.”

  Minutes later, Rory was staring at Callahan, seated in the orange chair by the fireplace, twisting the ring on his finger.

  “You look even leaner than the last time I saw you,” Callahan said. “Pick up some bad habits?”

  “You sent him to Ahmetti, didn’t you?” Rory declared.

  Callahan shrugged. “Okay, let’s back up a bit. I sent who to Ahmetti?”

  “Stop it. You know I’m talking about the lawyer. Ian Wells.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Somebody told me Wells met with Ahmetti at Doggy’s last night. Somebody who was there.”

  Callahan looked to the cold fireplace for a moment before answering. “Then to answer your question, no. I can honestly say I didn’t send Wells to Ahmetti—though he told me after he’d gone. But what have you got to worry about? You told me you qualify for the trust money, that you’ve stayed out of crime. So why care who the lawyer talks to?”

  “Because Ahmetti’s a liar and you know it.”

  “Well, you used to work for him, so you’d know better than me.”

  Rory slid forward in his chair, gripping the arms. “I may have, but I stopped working for him after Mom died.”

  Callahan nodded. “Yeah, your da worked that first part out at the funeral, ya may recall,” he said, sliding into his Irish inflection. “It was pretty disappointing as I recall, him finding out you were payin’ for the car and the clothes by being a punky little burglar and sellin’ pills on the side. That’s why we’re dealing with this trust business in the first place. But at least that last part’s good, isn’t it? You going the life of ‘straight and narrow’ after Christina’s death? Because that’s all that Jimmy asked of you. ‘No more criminal activity,’ he said, didn’t he? ‘For the protection of us all,’ he said. Put it right there in the trust. So you should be in good shape, eh, Rory?”

  “You know I didn’t do any of that before,” Rory said. “Dad didn’t even let me into his business before the job. I’d never held a gun before that night. It was the job that changed me.”

  Callahan shook his head. “Ohhh, it changed me,” he sneered. “You weak little snot. And you call yourself Jimmy Doyle’s son.”

  Rory’s hand grabbed the lamp at
his elbow. In a single motion, he threw it into the fireplace and rose to his feet. Callahan straightened at the crash, reaching toward the edge of the seat cushion.

  Behind him, Aaron came stomping into the room from the hallway, his footsteps halting behind Callahan’s chair.

  “It’s okay, Aaron,” Callahan said, raising a hand and holding the thin form of Rory in a glare. “Our friend was makin’ a last point before takin’ his leave.”

  Rory stared. “I don’t care what you think of me. I’m having what’s mine and my family’s.”

  Aaron’s weapon was still in his pocket, Callahan saw with satisfaction. Good. The last thing they needed was something bloody at the house.

  Rory looked at each of them a final time, then rounded past both as he headed toward the hallway.

  Aaron followed him out. There was the slamming of a door. The Marine returned and pointed to the fireplace. “I’ll clean that up, boss.”

  “No hurry.”

  “It seems Rory is upset,” Aaron chuckled.

  “Aye,” Sean said. “And unfortunately that means the man may not be rational when the inevitable comes to pass.”

  26

  FRIDAY, JUNE 8

  5:17 P.M.

  WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  The office was empty and quiet as Ian picked up the note on his desk. It was Katie’s handwriting, but uncharacteristically scribbled and rushed: The new matter is in your safe.

  Ian read it several times. What new matter? And how could Katie put anything in the safe?

  He knelt before the black metal box and spun the dial. In his hurry, it took two tries before the lock clicked free. Inside, another note lay on top of the trust and the folder of ICRs.

  Brook was here and said we may be mixed up with stolen money. I think she must mean the trust retainer. She didn’t give any details. She was very upset. I told her nothing. But we’ve got to talk. What is this new account we’ve got with all the money in it?

  Please, please, please call me. Right away.

  Katie

  Stolen money. Sean Callahan’s cash retainer.