Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  Brook nodded. “And I assume part of the banker’s job was to keep the transfer from being traceable back to the Caribbean banks holding the money—and ultimately to the Doyles or Callahan or that McMartin. That’s probably why he did the transfer in the middle of the night the way he did.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “There’s one glitch with our reasoning, though,” Brook went on. “Regardless of who the trust thief was, they had to know there was some risk you’d go to the police. It wasn’t a sure thing you’d stay quiet to protect Martha. How did they plan for that possibility?”

  “That’s easy,” Ian said grimly. “If it came to that, kill me and make my body disappear.”

  The words sounded alien coming out of his lips. It grew more real when he saw the horrified expression on Brook’s face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, if the thief gets the spotlight trained on me, and I disappear at the same time the money disappears, the FBI would think I ran with the cash. With me dead and hidden, they’d keep chasing that dead man while the real thief slipped away.”

  “No. I get that. I mean why are you so convinced they’d go that far and actually kill you?”

  “Apart from the fact that they already murdered somebody in the art theft?”

  “Nothing else?” she pushed sternly. “Like we haven’t gotten to the shooting you told me about last night.”

  Ian grew defensive. “Yeah. I was getting to that.”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, the guy Willy Dryer shot was one of the same ones who attacked me in the bar. They’d followed me out onto the street. One of them had a gun, the other a knife. I think they were planning on silencing me. Especially given that we now know the trust thief took the money out of my account around the same time those guys were closing in on me.”

  Brook swung a fist hard into his chest. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “Whoa, cage fighter,” he said. When that failed to lighten her up, he grew serious. “That’s all. Really. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” she said. “Ian, we’re done. We’re going to my office now.”

  “NO,” Ian said. The sound of his voice echoed in the stairwell. Brook stared at him, silent but undeterred.

  “No,” he said again more softly. “Not now. With the evidence as it is, I could be taken into custody—and I can’t protect my mom while in jail. Callahan thinks I took the money, so he will punish my mother if he can’t reach me. I know he would, and you’d believe it too if you met him. I’ve got to trace down this money and get it back to Callahan. After that, we can figure out what we’re going to do, and how.”

  They grew silent together once more. “Okay,” Brook finally said. “So both Callahan and Rory had motive. Then who took the money?”

  “It had to be Rory,” Ian said flatly. “It’s either him or somebody we don’t know. Callahan or Rory could have set me up to go to Larry’s Bar on Friday, I suppose, and used that opportunity to break into Mom’s house. But if the bigger point of that exercise was to make me disappear, his Marine could have shot me out at Medicine Lake or where I sat in his living room. And Callahan’s performance at his house was too real last night. He genuinely thought I took the money. So it’s got to be Rory. Or somebody we still don’t know. McMartin maybe.”

  “Alright. So what do we do?”

  “Well, I’ve got to find Rory. Face him and see if I can confirm he’s the one who took the cash, then figure out how to get it back. And if he’s not the one, we’re back to the starting line on who else might have taken it.”

  Brook grew silent. Ian looked at her, and the notion of kissing her returned. Instead he reached out and pulled her close for a long hug.

  “You’re going way out there for a guy you recently told to shove off at Kieran’s Pub,” he said. “I haven’t had much time to think about what you said, or how to answer your questions about us, but—”

  “Stop right there. I’m sorry I got so worked up. It was nothing but misplaced anger. Forget it.”

  “Don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Yeah, well we can work on it later. Bond with a game of truth or dare.”

  Truth or dare. It reminded Ian of his mother’s words from the hallway the night before that he hadn’t shared with Brook—about her telling Ahmetti something as payback for information the Albanian had shared before.

  If his mom knew where the Rockwell painting was, could that be what she told Ahmetti to ‘get even’? What else would have interested a man who prided himself on knowing everything fenced in the Twin Cities?

  The door to the stairwell opened. A stooped man with a tattered sleeping bag, straw hat, and several shopping bags stuffed with clothes stepped in.

  “You’re in my house!” he shouted. “Get outta my house.”

  Ian and Brook stood and brushed quickly by him, back into the building’s foyer.

  Alone again, Ian said, “I’ve got an idea. There’s a guy who I think could fill in some big gaps for us. Maybe help me find Rory too. I want to go see him now while the idea’s fresh. If that doesn’t pan out, I may have to go to Florida.”

  “Who’s in Florida?”

  “Ed McMartin. The only beneficiary I haven’t tracked down.”

  She nodded supportively. “Okay. I’ll see if maybe I can slow things down a bit at the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Don’t take any more chances with your career.”

  “My career, my choice,” she said. “But don’t you take any more chances yourself. No more walks at night. And I recommend against more conferences in Callahan’s living room too.”

  Ian nodded. “Time’s running short. Even if Callahan keeps his word, my mom’s a target for him in three days.”

  They parted on Hennepin Avenue, Brook heading back to the courthouse, and Ian walking just up the street toward Doggy’s Bar. The last time he saw her, Brook had stopped on the other side of the avenue. She was looking his way too.

  37

  SUNDAY, JUNE 10

  4:30 P.M.

  DOGGY’S BAR

  HENNEPIN AVENUE, MINNEAPOLIS

  The white-haired man appeared at the door of Doggy’s right on time, just as the bartender promised. Right behind him came the mountain.

  Ian was sitting at Ahmetti’s table. He saw Ahmetti motion for Prima to stay at the door before he shuffled slowly toward the back to join him.

  “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Ahmetti greeted him.

  “Me neither,” Ian said as the man sat down.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already gotten my grandnephew off.”

  “No. But I’ll get there. I need some more information now.”

  Ahmetti waved at the bartender, who waved back. “I’m not Wikipedia, you know.”

  “I need information to protect my family.”

  The bartender brought a glass of something clear on ice. “I’m not a sentimentalist either,” Ahmetti said. “Knowledge is money.”

  “I know. Tell me, did you say that same thing to my mother when the two of you met for the first time?”

  Ahmetti looked at Ian out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t know what we’re talking about.”

  “Martha Wells came to you years ago. You told her something she wanted to know. Maybe she was Martha Brennan back then. Since she wasn’t exactly somebody you’d run across here at Doggy’s, she must have sought you out that first time you met.”

  “Still don’t get it.”

  “Then the last time you spoke with her she came to tell you something you would want to know as payback. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  The Albanian took a sip of his drink.

  “Tell me what my mom told you,” Ian said.

  Ahmetti looked straight ahead.

  “Alright. Let’s try this. She told you she had a painting taken in the 1983 art heist on Excelsior Boulevard in St. Louis Park. The Spiri
t of 1776 by Norman Rockwell.”

  The Albanian shook his head. “Not true, Counselor.”

  Ian was surprised to sense truth in Ahmetti’s denial. “Then if that’s so,” he picked up, “there’s only one other bit of knowledge I can think of that would have had value to you. Martha told you who the crew was on the art job. It was something you wanted to know because you’d made it your business to find out since they didn’t come to you to fence the paintings. That didn’t sit right with the guy who knew every stone, stereo, and sports car that got sold in your town. And who got a cut for every one of them.”

  The Albanian took another sip. Ian leaned closer.

  “And when she told you who did that job, you learned that Jimmy Doyle led the crew. Which was news to you because he wasn’t an art thief. Or even a thief at all—not in the usual sense of the word. Doyle had done it because, like you told me the other night, he was out of money with Cann’s rackets closing down.”

  “Sheldon,” Ahmetti called out to the bartender, “there’s too much ice in this. Bring me another.” The bartender nodded.

  “That crew,” Ian said, “was made up of Jimmy Doyle, Sean Callahan, Rory Doyle, and Ed McMartin.”

  The bartender arrived. Ahmetti took a sip, then thanked him. “That’s better.”

  “And,” Ian added after the bartender went away, “my father, Connor Wells. He was the fifth member of that crew, wasn’t he?”

  The Albanian looked over Ian’s shoulder toward the front door and raised his chin. Prima appeared at the table.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Tell our friend here—Mr. Wells—the year Connor Wells first got involved with Jimmy Doyle’s family. You know what I mean. Really connected with them.”

  Prima looked at the ceiling. “Sure, boss. It was . . . 1987. Yeah, 1987. That year Jeff Fenech was Super bantamweight champion of the world. You want me to tell you about the bout where he won it?”

  “Not now,” Ahmetti said. “Leave us alone.”

  When the big man had retreated, the Albanian looked at Ian again. “I didn’t lie to you last time on that score. You asked if I knew of Connor Wells being mixed up in the Cann rackets. That was all you asked.”

  Ian didn’t care. 1987. Four years after the St. Louis Park art heist. He’d grown so sure his father was there at the art heist. Ahmetti’s news tore him between relief and utter confusion.

  Then how did his father earn his share?

  Ian turned back to Ahmetti. “So now tell me what it was you told my mother that put her in your debt in the first place.”

  Still looking another direction, Ahmetti shook his head. “Some information’s exclusive.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just what I said. Some information is for resale, some’s not. So are we done? You just come here today to talk to yourself?”

  “No. Then if my mom didn’t tell you she had the Rockwell painting, I need to know if Jimmy Doyle ever sold it.”

  “Which painting?”

  “The Spirit of 1776.”

  “How would I know if that was sold?”

  “I didn’t say you know. I’m saying you could find out.”

  “You know you’re already running up quite a tab today. My grandnephew doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  With a knot in his stomach, Ian nodded his agreement. “Find out about the painting and let me know. Add it to my tab. Plus I need to know where I can find Rory Doyle.”

  “What do you plan to do if I tell you?”

  “I just need to talk to him. But I need to talk to him now.”

  Ahmetti took a napkin and pulled a pen from his pocket. “You’re a lucky man,” he said as he wrote on the napkin. “Rory Doyle and I aren’t particularly close, and he doesn’t run his schedule by me. But I had a similar inquiry in the last twenty-four hours and can help you on that last business right away. So here. You’ll find him at this location around seven-thirty tonight.”

  “Who else is looking for him?” Ian asked. “Is it Sean Callahan?”

  “You may find out,” Ahmetti said. “You may cross paths. But you’ll not learn it from me. Now, I don’t want to hear about something nasty happening tonight. I couldn’t care less about the Doyles or Callahan. But I won’t let it get out that information I distributed led to something bloody. Very poor for business. Especially when I’m on parole.”

  Ian shook his head, processing the new information. “Don’t worry,” he said distractedly, already thinking ahead to the night. “I’m a lawyer. If it comes to that, I’ll talk Rory to death.”

  5:14 P.M.

  U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  Seated in her office, Brook stared at the closed door. How was she going to accomplish this? How in the world was she going to slow the investigation down without giving herself away?

  She’d returned from meeting Ian only to find the gunners and people facing high-priority deadlines still at the office on a nice Sunday afternoon. Eldon and Chloe were among them. She’d barely acknowledged the clerk as they passed each other in the hall. For a moment, she thought she caught a smirk on Chloe’s lips. Hope you had a disappointing lunch, Brook thought.

  An email popped onto her computer screen, her personal account. It was from Sophie, another prosecutor from her law school class working with Eldon. The subject line read, Burn after reading.

  Brook opened it.

  Chloe’s been asking questions about you and Ian Wells. I’ve blown her off. I remember you and Ian were friends in law school, especially third year, but I figure it’s none of my business and I’m not saying a word to her. You may want to watch out for that mountain lion.

  You probably know they’re talking about expanding Ian’s status from witness to target. Getting out a warrant for his firm’s bank accounts too. Crazy stuff. Hard to believe he might be mixed up in this. I didn’t know him well at law school, but he seemed like a good guy. Kind of quiet. Isn’t that what they always say about serial killers on the news? Anyway, hope you’re having a good weekend and I’ll see you Monday.

  Sophie

  Brook’s heart sank as she deleted Sophie’s email. Things were moving even faster than she’d thought. And Chloe was probably fanning the flames, capitalizing on her big chance to shine on Eldon’s career-making case.

  Another email caught her attention in a string of junk. It was addressed from Zach at his Paisley, Bowman, Battle & Rhodes work address.

  She opened it cautiously.

  Brook, I miss you so much. Can’t we talk this through? I know we’ve been drifting further apart the last year. But you know I’ve been getting close to partnership and that means longer hours, especially at this place. I thought we always accepted this part of the profession. We can figure it out. Maybe you could get a job here. They’ve got no rules about that kind of thing at Paisley. We must get a dozen “confidential” résumés every year from your prosecutor’s office alone. If you were here, we could coordinate things better. Make a plan that would be easier . . .

  Near the end of the message, Ian’s name surfaced.

  I’ve always thought you still had feelings for Ian Wells. I know you’ve denied it. I hope I’m wrong, because he can’t be what you’re looking for, Brook. Please. You can’t be settling for that guy.

  Brook looked away. Settling for that guy? Zach had no idea. A suicide pact might be a better description. He’d probably be reading about both of them in the paper before long.

  She sighed and shook her head. If Zach wanted an explanation, it would be that in law school, Ian always made her feel like the person she wanted to be. Zach always made her feel like somebody else. Successful. Destined for a house on Lake of the Isles and a condo at Lutsen. But always somebody else.

  Her thoughts returned to Sophie’s message and how she could possibly slow things down.

  Zach’s email came back to her. The mention of résumés from the prosecutor’s office. Confidential rés
umés. She rose and headed down the hall to Chloe’s office.

  The diminutive clerk looked up and brushed a length of hair from one eye as Brook appeared. “Brook!” she said. “Putting in a long day, huh?”

  Like Chloe had invented long hours. “Yep. We need to talk.”

  “Sure,” she said, pointing to her client chair. “What about?”

  Brook didn’t sit. “I heard Eldon might be authorizing a warrant to search the bank records of Wells & Hoy Law Office.”

  “Yes, I heard that too.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me? What happened to ‘you’ll know whatever I know’?”

  “Oh, wow, I’m really sorry. I’ve been so busy. Eldon’s got me scrambling the last few days.”

  Brook nodded. “Uh-huh. Well, I also heard you’ve been asking people how well I knew Ian Wells in law school. So now that we’re face-to-face, you want to ask me?”

  Chloe took in Brook’s stare for a moment. The smile faded. The bubbly quality in her voice disappeared.

  “Okay, Brook. Tell me, why haven’t you mentioned to Eldon that you were good friends with Ian Wells in law school? Very good friends, I’ve heard. That maybe you’re still good friends. In fact, I’m wondering if those ICRs you got weren’t a favor for him. Where’d you go to lunch today, and with who?”

  Brook stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. She smiled indulgently. “Chloe, you think you’ve got this place figured out. Who to please, who to take down, who to step over. Well, add this to your database. I’ve been here five years to your four months. You’re standing in a minefield with blinders on—you just don’t know it. You have no idea how many favors I’ve done for some of the people you’ve been asking about me, or how many count me as a friend. You don’t know how many projects I’ve handled shoulder to shoulder with those lawyers. You don’t really know, truth be told, even how Eldon thinks. And you know nothing about my personal life.”