She packed up her papers as the courtroom emptied, her mind already reverting to Ian. He hadn’t called since arriving in Florida. She was supposed to pick him up in an hour at the airport, and she didn’t have a clue whether the trip had yielded any information that could help recover the money.
“Brook?”
She turned. Chloe was standing behind the bar, uncharacteristically subdued.
“Yeah, Chloe.”
“I . . . your secretary said you had this motion. I wanted you to know right away that the search warrant on the Wells & Hoy bank accounts turned up some serious things.”
“Like what?” she asked over her plummeting stomach—though she knew what she was about to hear.
“Nine million dollars-plus went through the Wells & Hoy firm’s client account in a matter of days. In and out. Eldon thinks it could be proceeds from the art theft, especially since Ian Wells seems to have disappeared. The guy’s partner, Dennis Hoy, says he hasn’t seen him for days. Eldon’s going to broaden the search to include the law office and Ian Wells’s home. They’re drawing up warrants now.”
It was expected but still filled her with dismay. Even that Chloe was cooperating didn’t assuage it.
“Thanks, Chloe. Thanks for the update.”
Chloe smiled wanly and walked away.
Brook stepped to a corner of the now-vacant courtroom and took out her cell. Once more she punched in the number for Ian’s temporary phone and waited.
He still wasn’t answering.
Even if Ian was successful, he was running out of time. If they completed those searches of his home and office yet today or tonight, an arrest warrant would be issued before midnight. How could she possibly help?
Minutes later, Brook was stepping off the elevator and making her way down the hallway toward her office. The deposit list was still on her desk when she arrived. It was a sign how quickly the investigation was focusing on Ian that nobody had asked her how the search for depositors of the stolen money was coming. For all they knew, she’d completed it already.
Brook stopped . . . thought for a moment. She spun on her heel and hurried toward Eldon’s office.
Her boss was standing behind his desk when she came to the door.
“Eldon,” she said.
He looked up. “Yeah, Brook?”
“I’m pretty much done with the deposit review you gave me last week. Chloe mentioned you were going to be preparing new warrants to search the home and office of Ian Wells. I thought I’d volunteer to handle that.”
Eldon nodded. “Didn’t think you were available. I just assigned Sophie. She was pretty swamped, but I told her it’s a priority.”
Brook smiled. “Okay. Just thought I’d check.”
She headed down the hall to Sophie’s office. She found her friend at her desk, facing her computer screen with a pile of file folders at her side.
“Hello, Sophie,” Brook said. “I’m glad I caught you. Hey, I just spoke with Eldon. He mentioned you’re swamped. So I volunteered to handle the search warrants for Ian Wells’s office and home.”
Sophie’s face relaxed with relief. “Really? Because that would be great. I’ve got three omnibus hearings to prepare for. That would be so great.”
Brook was still smiling when she left Sophie’s office with the paperwork and information she needed for the warrants.
4:05 P.M.
MINNEAPOLIS-ST. PAUL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
“Tell me what happened,” Brook demanded worriedly as they picked up speed on the drive away from the airport terminal. “You didn’t answer my calls. Plus you look terrible.”
Ian sat in the passenger seat, staring out at a rain that had only intensified since the previous Sunday. “I know who stole the money,” he said remotely. “Or at least I think I do.”
“Who?”
Ian’s mind felt broken into pieces too small to reassemble. “Do you know your father?” he asked. “Really know him? What he does when you’re not around. How he’s done it. What he’s capable of . . .”
“I think so,” Brook answered, her eyes showing fear at Ian’s vacant tone.
“What if you don’t? And what about his father, and his father before him? What about the genes they passed on to you?”
“I’ve got a mother who contributed a few genes too,” Brook said, glancing in his direction. “And we’re not preprogrammed machines. We make choices.” Her voice grew kinder. “Come on, Ian. What really happened down there in Florida?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes to focus his thinking. “I need you to do something for me, if you’re willing.”
“Have I ever denied you? What is it you need?”
Ian reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Could you research these names? Find out everything you can about them. Where they’ve lived. What jobs they held. Whatever your resources can dredge up in the next twenty-four hours.”
She took the paper. “Sure. Now, tell me who stole the money.”
He pointed to the piece of paper. “Them,” he said. “One or both.”
She read the names. “Oh, wow. Really?”
“Really.”
“And you think they spread the hot money from the art thefts?”
“They probably had access to some of it. After I realized Callahan was obviously right when he said he had no incentive to spread hot bills from the robbery through his retainer, I remembered we got another retainer the same day as Callahan’s. It was a referral through Harry Christensen. One of my suspects could have gone to Harry, given him cash, then told him they needed representation on days they’d figured out he wasn’t available. It wouldn’t have been tough to do—Harry talks about his vacations on his radio show. Then Harry referred them on to me, as they also knew he would from the show, and I end up being the one depositing the cash retainer with the hot money.”
“Okay. Assume you’re right. Assume it’s them. What can you do about it? Can you make them give the money back?”
“Maybe. If I can work a trade before I run out of time.”
“With what?”
Ian pulled out his cellphone, tapped the screen, and held it up for Brook to see.
The screen had a highlighted message containing a single word: No.
Brook scrunched her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Anthony Ahmetti answering a question I asked him on Sunday. I gave him the number so he could text me. He’s telling me Jimmy Doyle never fenced the final Norman Rockwell they stole in 1983. The Spirit of 1776. One I think Doyle told my parents he wanted them to hold. By now, if fenced right, it would be worth more than all the other paintings combined.”
“And you think your parents—your mom—still has it?”
“Yeah. I think the trust money thieves believe she does too—hence the burglary. And I have a theory about where it is.”
“How much time do you need?” Brook asked.
“Another twenty-four hours. Freedom of movement for another day.” He looked at Brook with concern. “Will I have it?”
Brook nodded. “Yes. I think I can safely say the warrants needed to search your office and make an arrest have been unavoidably delayed.”
42
TUESDAY, JUNE 12
8:13 P.M.
WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Ian entered his darkened office suite, a rolled-up poster under his arm. Without turning on the lights, he strode the familiar hallway into his own silent office.
His absence had been only a few days, but with all that had transpired he felt like a stranger in the place. He stopped and scrutinized his desk. Nothing had been moved or disturbed.
He turned to the broad wall above the safe.
The enlarged photograph of his parents’ wedding day loomed over the room with a new significance. He gauged its height and width, the depth of the wood frame. He’d never appreciated before that there wasn’t another pic
ture of its size anywhere else in the office.
Could he really find his target on his first try? It seemed so unlikely—but for the fact that the burglar at his mom’s house had already eliminated every other contender for a framed painting that he could imagine.
He lifted the frame off the wall and gently set it facedown on the desktop. Simple clips held a thin slice of wood to the back of the frame. Dislodging them, Ian lifted the wood out and set it aside.
The reverse side of the photograph was white, blank. It was obvious at a glance that there was nothing else in the frame but the photo.
Ian dropped into his chair, stinging with disappointment. No canvas. No Spirit of 1776. He’d convinced himself the location made sense, that his parents would have placed it here because it was close to his father every day and well disguised.
But logical or not, it wasn’t here. And now he had nothing to trade and no way to convince the thieves to return the trust money to Callahan.
Ian looked despondently around the office. The black mood that descended on him in Florida had lifted at the prospect that he’d find the painting. Now, with nothing to trade, he had no way forward. Tomorrow Callahan would be coming after them, with the prosecutors just behind.
Ian stood to replace the wooden backing onto the picture frame when something caught his eye: a thin strand curled upward from the frame’s edge like a stray hair. He pulled it free and held it up to get a better look.
It was thick and sturdy. Canvas.
The painting had been here once. His heart started racing. That meant his parents had moved it. Or his mom had moved it after his dad died and before her Alzheimer’s began. She might have wanted to be sure it was under her watch since Connor wasn’t in the office anymore.
The painting was likely still around.
He pulled out his phone and punched in Brook’s number. When she answered, he said, “No luck. I didn’t find the painting. But I think I found proof it used to be at the office. I just have no idea where to look for it now. I would’ve said at Mom’s house, except the burglar already ransacked the place.”
He could hear Brook’s sigh of distress. “Then what are you going to do, Ian?”
“I’m going to meet with the thief anyway. Maybe I’ll bluff. I don’t know.”
“If your mom moved it from the office,” Brook said, “she’d put it someplace she was confident would be safe and under her watch, right?”
“Right, which should be at home. But from Katie’s description, the burglar already looked everywhere I’d look.”
“Maybe. Except you know that house much better than them. Tell me,” she went on, “where around her home would your mother feel the safest or most secure?”
This seemed like a waste of the little time he had left. “Well,” he said, “pretty much anywhere in the house.”
“That doesn’t help. Think, Ian.”
“Okay. Bedroom, living room, kitchen . . .”
“Broader.”
“Garage. Local park, I suppose. Her gardens.”
Brook cleared her throat for emphasis. “So, did Katie tell you the burglar picked any flowers or vegetables while they were there?”
Ian’s pulse picked up again. “You’re right. Brook, are you at home or with Katie in St. Paul?”
“St. Paul. I’m trying to stay out of reach of the office just now.”
“Can you get over to Mom’s place? Get a spade out of the garage and start checking the garden?”
“Checking? What’s that mean?”
“Digging. The front flower garden she can see through her picture window—focus on where she has the begonias. She plants in the same order every year. If that doesn’t work, try the marigolds. And you may have to go four feet down, beneath the frost line. It would likely be in something metal, and something insulated. Three to four feet in length. Like a poster roll.”
“On my way.”
Ian rushed toward the door, not bothering to return the photo to the wall.
43
TUESDAY, JUNE 12
11:46 P.M.
MANKATO, MINNESOTA
Ian parked the Camry around the block from Lisa Ramsdale’s house. The living room was lit behind drawn shades as he walked up the sidewalk bisecting the neat yard.
A woman in her fifties opened the door a crack at Ian’s knock. “What do you want this time of night?” she demanded nervously.
“I need to see your daughter. Maureen.”
“Go away.” The woman’s voice turned harsh. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Ask your daughter if she wants you to call the police,” Ian said more loudly.
“It’s okay, Mom.” Maureen appeared at her shoulder. “I’ve got this.”
Maureen brushed back hair from her face as she stepped out onto the stoop. Ian saw that the mother had left the door slightly ajar. “Walk with me,” he said.
A few minutes later, the two reached a corner where Ian stopped.
“What’s my philosopher lawyer want now?” Maureen asked.
“You were brilliant,” he replied. “And so patient.”
Maureen’s expression darkened. “I don’t understand.”
“It was you. You took the trust money,” he said, watching her reaction.
“Crazy talk, philosopher lawyer. You should stop while you’re ahead.”
“You were there that day at the funeral,” Ian continued, speaking deliberately and with conviction. “You were at the gravesite the day they buried Christina Doyle. Afterward, you were there at Ed McMartin’s house, where you led me to the spy hole in the study.”
Maureen shook her head. “What funeral?”
Ian ignored her reply. “You must have been to ‘Uncle Ed’s’ place on other occasions. That’s how you learned about that spy hole in the closet wall. What were you doing that day? Playing hide-and-seek, I suppose. You were looking through the hole and saw me in the room with all those men—and then you watched Callahan lead me out. That’s when you came to get me.”
The girl with the red hair studied him. “Sounds like family rumors. I told you, I don’t do family rumors.”
“You might as well admit it,” Ian said. “And I know your brother Liam was there that day too. He was hiding under the bed when all of them were talking about the trust. He was still there later when Jimmy Doyle told my mother about the last painting. I saw his hand.”
Maureen fell silent.
“Did you know then that I was your cousin?” he asked.
Silence. Ian looked up at the stars.
“C’mon, Maureen. I know you took the money. Liam told you what he learned in the bedroom that day of the funeral—whatever you hadn’t already heard yourself. Then you two planned and waited all these years for the day when the trust money was to be transferred into an account at my firm. You got the exact day by paying the owner at Larry’s Bar to tell you what he heard from Rory on the phone, or from my meeting at the bar. Or maybe it was even easier than that; maybe your dad told you himself. Just like he gave you his cash from the heist—out of guilt. When the time neared, you spread the hot cash around, linking it to me, then hacked in and stole the trust money from my account. You tried to take the painting too. At my mother’s place.”
Maureen took a nervous step back toward the house. “It’s getting cold.” She turned to go.
“Leaving now would be a mistake. Because I’ve got the painting.”
The redhead stopped, though she didn’t turn around. Ian watched her in the moonlight, heard her soft breathing.
“It’s worth much more than the cash you got, Maureen. But you know that. I did some research on Norman Rockwell’s Spirit of 1776 and found it could be worth twice the cash you’re holding. And I’ll bet you already figured out exactly where and how to sell it, planning for the day you took it from my parents. It wouldn’t be through Anthony Ahmetti. He’s no art guy and too close to the family. But you’ve had years to figure that part out. Yep, that Rockwell is worth so much
more to you than the cash. I know you’d planned on having both the money and the painting, but given a choice, you’d take the painting, wouldn’t you? Plus there’s an added benefit if you give the cash back. You don’t have to worry about Sean Callahan chasing you the rest of your days. Well, I’m ready to make a trade.”
Maureen rotated slowly back to face Ian. “Why would I ever trust a word you say?”
“Check me if you want. I’m not wearing a wire. And why would I turn you in? If I did, I’d send my own mother to jail for holding the painting all these years. No, I have no interest in the money or the painting. I’m only interested in getting the cash back to Sean Callahan before he kills me and my mother for losing it in the first place.”
She stared at him through the darkness, a smile slowly forming. “I asked my mother at the gravesite who you were,” Maureen said playfully. “You must have been ten or eleven, standing over there behind Sean Callahan and Grandpa. I thought it so strange, you standing next to the two men who terrified me more than anyone else in the world.”
“Who did your mother say I was?”
“She whispered to me. She said, ‘It’s a family secret. You mustn’t tell anybody else. But he’s your cousin.’ I didn’t even know I had any cousins. We were big on family secrets in those days. It was only later that I got the full story about your mother being the child of Grandpa’s mistress. Like everyone else, I kept the secret.”
“What about your brother?”
Maureen nodded. “Liam knew the secret too. Did you know I was trying to help you that day—later, at the house? That’s why I came to get you. You looked so terrified after they threw you out of the room and separated you from your mom. I was amazed you didn’t cry.”
“I knew you were trying to help me.”
Her smile faded. “So tell me what you want to do.”
“First I want to know whether Liam told you what he learned about the money and the painting that day in the bedroom, and if after that you acted alone. Or whether I’m right in betting that Liam told you about the money and painting and then you worked together all these years.”
Fatal Trust Page 24