Neither one answered. Ian took a cautious step toward the door. The freezer hugging his kneecap looked up and let out a final roar of pain but didn’t try to stand.
That was lucky, Ian thought blearily. Barely able to balance, he stumbled through the front door into the fresh evening air.
12:05 A.M.
UPTOWN DISTRICT, MINNEAPOLIS
Brook sat coiled on her couch, staring at the mounted television her parents had gifted her a month earlier. It was tuned to a show she didn’t care about. There weren’t many shows she’d recognize given her work hours, which was why she’d never needed a TV that took up half the wall.
Her cellphone called out a tune. She lunged for it on the table.
It was a friend from work. Disappointed, she declined the call.
When was Ian going to show up or call her? He had to know she couldn’t call him. He’d become a key witness in an investigation, maybe a key suspect. Ian knew she couldn’t create a record by telephoning him.
So where was he?
She picked up from the coffee table the rap sheets she’d printed out earlier, covering James Doyle, Sean Callahan, Rory Doyle, and Ed McMartin. Only two had arrest records. James aka “Jimmy” Doyle had an adult conviction from back in the 1950s. Sean Callahan had two assault charges from the ’70s, but they were youth charges. There was nothing at all on Ed McMartin or Rory Doyle.
What was Ian doing? How did he know these guys? Was it his own connection or was he linked through his father?
In law school, Ian had been shy, occasionally brooding. Always overprotective of those he cared about. Smarter and kinder than any man she’d ever met, and the first one to get her humor every time.
That Ian Wells couldn’t be connected to the Doyle bunch. He couldn’t even have known his dad was connected to them—and to the biggest art theft in Minnesota history, one involving murder. If she needed more proof, it was that he’d asked her help getting the ICR reports. If he was hiding that connection, why would he ask her to gather evidence that linked the Doyles with Connor Wells?
She walked to the window. Lake Calhoun was just a few blocks up the street. She considered taking a walk there. It was warm enough, and there’d be plenty of people on the walking paths, even this late. It would be nice to have other people around just now.
Except then she’d miss Ian if he came by.
What should she make of the FBI report on Martha at the funeral of Christina Doyle? And how it fit Ian’s dream? The strange dream he’d told her about while in a funky mood one morning the spring of their 1L year?
Nothing. Even if Ian really was at the funeral as a young boy, it didn’t prove he knew about his parents’ connection to Doyle and the others. And she’d seen Ian’s look when he read his mother’s name on the funeral attendee list. Nobody could have faked the surprise she saw in his expression.
Brook looked around her two-bedroom Uptown apartment. Ian knew where she lived, but he’d never been inside her place before. She’d been too embarrassed to invite him in. With her father a partner at Abrams & Milliken, her mother at Stunsel & Grey, she’d worried how Ian would react if he came inside and surveyed the many trappings of their success on display. Like the Italian leather couch and love seat. Or the new high-end television hanging on her wall. He’d always seemed disdainful about such things. Not above it—just not driven by it.
The massive TV suddenly blared a commercial. Brook grabbed the remote and turned it off.
Then she’d gone and ambushed Ian at Kieran’s Pub about how he’d mishandled their relationship since law school. She wasn’t wrong. But it was her, not him, who’d run so fast when Ian told her he was taking over his dad’s practice. She’d taken off like Usain Bolt, picturing him morphing into the image of the father and his stolid practice Ian always described. Like if she stuck around, sooner or later she’d be dragged into the quicksand of his limited ambitions.
She couldn’t conjure the power of those fears anymore. Five years had passed and Ian was still Ian. Still protective. Still following some agenda known only to him. Still getting her jokes.
And though they’d still gotten together for meals and the occasional walk through these years, she missed him. Missed really being with him.
Brook set down the remote, picked up her cellphone, and headed toward the bathroom to prepare for bed. “If you’re not coming, then call,” she said aloud.
She was brushing her teeth when the image in the mirror looked back at her with questioning eyes. Would she ever tell Ian more about her final breakup with Zach? Would she ever mention how it happened the third time she’d turned down Zach’s ring?
Probably not. And it was even more unlikely she’d ever have reason to tell him that the last time, as the question was posed, her mind had flashed to Ian.
Just like it had the two times before.
12:45 A.M.
NORTHEAST MINNEAPOLIS
Ian rounded the corner and trudged up the side street the half a block toward his car. His sight was blurred at the edges; his head and neck pulsed pain. Maybe a concussion, he thought vaguely. It seemed the least of his worries at the moment.
His Camry was just ahead. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he stepped around the back bumper to the driver’s door.
The car was listing—too much to be the flaws in his vision. Ian leaned carefully forward and squinted at the nearest tire. The hubcap rested nearly on the pavement, the rubber crushed to a few inches deep.
Ian let out a loud curse, looking angrily back in the direction of the bar. The guys who’d attacked him. They must have done it before they came into the bar.
He’d never be able to get the tire changed the way he was feeling now. How likely was it he’d find a tow this late? He reached into his jacket pocket for his phone.
It was gone.
He searched every pocket. Nothing. Ian looked again toward Larry’s Bar.
A figure rounded the far corner in the direction of the bar, big and limping heavily on the leg Ian had injured. One of his hands was thrust into a bulging pocket. As he drew closer, Ian could see a grimace of pain accompanying every step.
Ian looked up the long street going the other way. Empty as far as he could see.
He had no interest in knowing what was in the man’s pocket. With a rush of adrenaline spiking the pain in his head, Ian began a stumbling walk away from the approaching man.
30
SATURDAY, JUNE 9
12:47 A.M.
NORTHEAST MINNEAPOLIS
A slash of light from the low moon angled into the alley off the street, illuminating it like the center stage spotlight Willy Dryer imagined it to be. Deeper in, the light tapered and disappeared. But where Willy stood, only a yard from the street end, it sparkled off flecks of broken glass, painting the brick with a soft white glow.
He loved this spot, just a few blocks from his friend’s apartment where he was crashing. Quiet. No stores or clubs nearby. The hint of an echo that made it perfect as a practice stage.
“‘Stars hide your fires,’” Willy muttered, pacing the narrow width of asphalt. “‘Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eyes wink at the hand; yet let that be which the eye fears to see.’”
He stopped. “‘Yet let that be which the eye, when . . . it . . . is . . . done . . . fears to see,’” he corrected.
He shook his head, disgusted. How could he muff the lines? This was Shakespeare.
Footfalls approached along the street that crossed the alley’s open end. Willy looked up.
The overhead streetlamp was broken, leaving moon shadows of surrounding buildings stretching across the pavement like fallen pillars. Only a narrow strip of moonlight split the dark road.
The road had been empty a moment before. Now a man was moving up the far side of the street, half a block to Willy’s left. Wearing a disheveled suit, he was walking erratically. Like he was drunk, Willy thought.
Willy stepped into darker shadows out of sight. There, h
e began his lines again in a near whisper.
Heavier footfalls began on the street. Willy stepped close to the end of the alley again and peeked out.
The drunken man was nearer, but a second figure had appeared behind him. This one was big and walking with a limp, with one hand thrust into a pocket. The other arm swung like a pendulum to balance his awkward gait. He was closing in on the drunk.
A sound pulled Willy’s attention the other way.
A third man had appeared from the opposite direction, coming toward the drunk from the front. It was a skinny man holding something in his hand. Passing through a strip of moonlight, the object glinted twice, as though he was spinning it. It was a long, narrow knife.
Willy began whispering the lines again. “‘Stars hide your fires . . .’”
The drunk was almost directly across the street from the alley, his steps labored. He looked up and saw the third man nearing from the opposite direction. He slowed.
The big guy closed quickly from behind.
Twenty feet from the drunk, the big man pulled his hand out of his pocket. In a hefty fist he held a handgun.
“‘STARS HIDE YOUR FIRES!’” Willy shouted.
The big man’s head pivoted toward him.
Willy pulled from his pocket a short-barreled Smith & Wesson. The big man’s gun was angling toward Willy when it began filling the street with barrel flashes and explosions.
Willy squeezed the gun’s trigger, unleashing a deeper-toned thunder.
The big man gave out a short grunt. His bones seemed to melt, and he collapsed to the ground. Then he came to life again, pushing off the ground onto his one good leg. Thrusting his gun into a pocket, he hobbled away in the direction he’d come, a hand gripping his side.
Willy looked the other way. The man with the knife had halted, staring at the scene. As his companion limped off, he turned the other way, disappearing in a run around the corner.
Willy looked back to the drunk, who stood there frozen. The noise still ringing in his ears, Willy lowered his gun and crossed the street.
The drunk sat down on the edge of the moonlit strip that had become a harsh stage light. Willy squinted to make out the man’s face.
“He was surely going to shoot you,” Willy said. “Never fired my gun at anybody before. But I had no choice. It all happened so fast.”
The drunk looked up.
“Willy,” Ian Wells muttered, “as your lawyer, I hope you have a permit for that thing.”
The moonlight strip had slid farther up the street. Willy had returned the handgun to his pocket. The scene was so surreal, and Ian’s head so muddled, that he had to keep looking at his client to stay grounded.
“I always do my prep up here,” Willy was saying. “This alley, it’s perfect. And it’s only a block from the apartment I gave you the directions for, straight up the street. I figured I’d wait for you here.”
Ian nodded silently.
“So why were those guys coming for you?” Willy asked.
Ian shrugged. “Maybe a mugging. Maybe an angry client put them up to it. Trying to intimidate me.”
“Got somebody in mind?”
Ian nodded again.
“Hey, if this guy’s after you, you think it’s a good idea to go home?”
Ian’s thoughts were hard to assemble. What if he was being followed? He didn’t want to draw anybody to his mom’s place where he was staying. “You got somewhere I can sleep tonight?” he asked.
Willy ran a hand through his long, unruly hair. “Not where I stay, man. I sleep in a corner of a living room, but there are four of us as it is.”
Ian didn’t think he could drive just yet. “It’s okay. Maybe I’ll find a hotel downtown.”
“That’s silly, man,” Willy said. “Pay two hundred bucks for a few hours’ sleep? Hey, I’ve got a buddy in my acting group who’s got a place on Medicine Lake. His parents’ place, actually. They’re gone now. He told me I could crash there if I wanted to. It’d be safe. His parents are out of town and won’t be back till July.”
“Any chance you could drive me?”
“Not in my car. It broke down yesterday. Told you it wouldn’t have made it to California. I could drive yours, though.”
“Flat tire.”
“I’ll help you change it. Where is it?”
“A few blocks from here.”
Willy reached down to help Ian to his feet. Their slow walk to the car took fifteen minutes at a pace Ian could manage. When they arrived, the street around the Camry was silent. Ian popped the trunk.
In the middle of the empty trunk was the cardboard box with a red X on top. Ian looked up at Willy at his side, then took the box out and set it on the back seat while Willy began wrestling the jack from the trunk.
Nearly an hour later they pulled up a long gravel driveway leading to a two-story house surrounded by trees. The drifting moon cast sparkles over the surface of Medicine Lake, partly visible down a slope below. Willy got out and retrieved a key from under a rock near the front door.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Willy said.
Ian retrieved the box from the back seat and thanked him. “You take the car. I’ll call tomorrow about getting it back.”
Willy drove away as Ian unlocked the door and made his way upstairs, settling for the first bedroom he could find.
He didn’t bother to remove the covers or his clothes. Setting the box on a side table, he lay down, thankful that at least the spinning was gone.
He wanted to reach out to Brook. Or Katie. To confide in somebody. Get help sorting through everything.
But he shouldn’t, not yet. It could get either one of them in trouble. He should stick with the plan he’d made earlier, when he was thinking clearly. Meet with Callahan. Talk to Harry about how to drop the case. Return the money—or hang on to it and go to the prosecutors. Harry would help him figure it out.
He’d help figure it all out, including how to protect Mom.
He closed his eyes.
Dreams, schemes, money machines, in pieces on the ground. Connor . . . Dad. What in the world did you do? How could you drag the family into such a mess?
His surrender to sleep was laced with images of his dad before the fireplace, his mother confessing to her dead husband in the hallway, Brook’s disappointed eyes at Kieran’s, and a cameo of an Irish setter barking incessantly at an orange harvest moon.
31
SATURDAY, JUNE 9
2:22 A.M.
SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS
Richard groaned as Katie twisted in bed again. She lay still. His breathing smoothed over. With all the worrying about Ian, she wasn’t getting to sleep anytime soon. All she’d do is disturb Richard if she stayed in bed.
She rose, quietly put on her robe, and left her husband, heading toward the kitchen.
Since Brook’s visit to the office, she’d called Ian five times. He hadn’t answered any of them. Four texts got the same treatment.
Learning the terms of the trust and dealing with Brook and her story about stolen funds had been strange enough. The huge client deposit hitting their account even stranger. But Ian’s disappearing act was the strangest of all. It was driving her crazy. If Brook had more luck finding him, she could blindside Ian at any minute.
The light was on in the kitchen. Nicole was seated at the breakfast table with a bowl of cereal and a smartphone in one hand.
“Mom!” she said, looking up. “What are you doing up? You’re never up after ten.”
“What are you doing up?” Katie replied. “It’s way after midnight.”
Nicole set down her phone. “I’m twenty-four, Mom. If I was asleep at this hour, I’d likely be depressed, very lonely, or both. I was out with some friends. I’ve got a free morning to sleep in. But I’m heading to bed now. What’s your story?”
Katie wanted to talk with Nicole, talk with anyone about what was going on. But she wouldn’t drag her family into this mess. “Nothing, hon,” she said as she sat across the ta
ble. “Just worrying about a few things at work.”
Her daughter nodded her understanding, then came around the table to kiss Katie on the head. “Get to bed soon, young lady,” Nicole said.
Katie smiled. “Good night.”
Alone in the kitchen, Katie pulled her laptop from a bag on the floor. Opening it, she prepared to send yet another email to Ian.
A message alert from Wells Fargo popped onto the screen. Katie opened it.
You have made an electronic transfer, the transaction receipt confirmed.
No, I didn’t, Katie thought. She brought up the Wells Fargo website and typed in the ID and password. Once the account’s home page opened, Katie went to the account summaries.
The firm’s account summary for Ian’s practice looked untouched since earlier. So did the clients’ funds account. She scrolled down to check the new account with the large deposit of money.
Account balance: $00.00
Katie stared for a moment. This wasn’t possible. There was over nine million dollars in there this afternoon. Katie glanced down to the list of transactions: only one, and it was just fifteen minutes ago. Someone had gone into the new account at 2:05 a.m. and made a withdrawal.
Katie shook her head. Now what did that mean?
She still had no clue where the new account and money had come from—and wouldn’t until she reached Ian. But now she had even more news to share.
Because in a single transaction, all the funds in the new account had been completely withdrawn.
32
SATURDAY, JUNE 9
9:49 A.M.
U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Brook came down the hallway toward her office with a loggy headache. She never recovered well from restless nights, and last night had included less than three hours of actual sleep. Even a long, hot shower hadn’t revived her.
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