Maureen began shifting from foot to foot. It seemed talking about Liam made her nervous. “More family rumors, Ian Wells,” she whispered.
“Alright. Keep that one to yourself. It doesn’t matter really. But here’s the deal: an exchange of the painting for the cash. We meet in a public place where you transfer the money electronically to an account in a way I can confirm on the spot. Then I hand you the painting, and we both walk away.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, then finally, “Where?”
“Guthrie Theater. Out on the patio overlooking the river and the Stone Arch Bridge, nine-forty-five tomorrow night. That’s after intermission when the theatergoers are back inside watching the play. I’ll give you the account number once you’re there.”
“That location’s kind of dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Mostly, it’s very public.”
Maureen nodded. “Actions and consequences and some credit for good intentions. That’s your deal, isn’t it?”
“That’s my deal.”
She paused, then gave him a smile. “I seem to have lost your card. Give me your number and I’ll let you know.”
Ian left her on the sidewalk leading to her front door, walking back to the Camry and feeling satisfaction roll through him like thunder. He had more questions, of course. Accusatory questions about the attacks in Northeast Minneapolis and in Florida. For now, they could wait. He didn’t want to risk scaring her off just yet.
But he’d gotten the confirmation he was looking for. About Maureen’s involvement, and probably Liam’s too.
The moment’s satisfaction began bleeding away. Of course, the exchange was a bluff. He didn’t have the painting. That would be obvious within minutes of their meeting. How likely was it he could accomplish what he needed to without it?
He was pressing the button to unlock the Camry door when he felt the buzz of his phone. He pulled it from his pants pocket and read the text from Brook.
1776, the text read. I got it.
44
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13
1:44 A.M.
SOUTHERN SUBURBS OF MINNEAPOLIS
Nearing the Twin Cities on 35W, Ian heard Callahan answer his phone, his voice deep and throaty coming through the Camry’s speakers.
“Yeah,” Callahan said.
“I can retrieve the money tomorrow. I need you there.”
A pause. “Why do you need me there?”
“Because as soon as I retrieve the money, I want to distribute it to the trust’s beneficiaries. Immediately. I want this to be over with—and you can keep my fee.”
Ian could almost hear the Irishman thinking. At last he said, “Where?”
Ian described the time and the setting.
“You’re kidding. No way. That’s way too public.”
“It’s there or nothing. The people with the money insisted. And I’ve got no way to reach them again before the meeting. Don’t think there’ll be another chance either.”
His lie was followed by more silence.
“Anything else?” Callahan asked.
“I need your help to locate Rory. They want him there too.”
“He’s not entitled to any of the money,” Sean growled.
“It doesn’t matter. They want him there and I don’t have time to locate him.”
Callahan snorted. “That part won’t be a problem. Rory’s been stayin’ with me the last few days till we saw if you had any luck retrievin’ the cash before the deadline.”
“Did he tell you anything?” Ian asked, worried.
“No. I’ve a feelin’ he knows who took the money, but if he does he’s kept it to himself so far. On that topic, since it obviously wasn’t Rory, who did take the money?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow. That was another condition of the exchange.”
The pause that followed was pregnant with distrust. “Alright, boyo,” Callahan said, his suspicion belied by the grin in his voice. “We’ll do it their way.”
The line went dead.
45
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13
2:14 P.M.
U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE, FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Harry Christensen was in top Talk Show form, seated across from Eldon Carroll and two other prosecutors—including the smallish woman at the end of the table they’d introduced as Chloe. Despite being outnumbered, Harry was nudging the bobber of their negotiations as if he were sensing a fat walleye.
Ian sat silent, something he was unaccustomed to in conferences like this. Being a client was a first for him, and he didn’t like it. He’d quickly come to realize that trying to keep a calm demeanor was a lot harder when all the talk was about him.
“So, do we have a deal?” Harry repeated.
Eldon Carroll wanted this deal. He wanted it with every fiber of his ambitious being. The chance to crack the biggest art theft in Minnesota history? After decades as a cold case? The burning desire was apparent in the U.S. Attorney’s straight-backed posture as he sat there gripping his pen too tightly in one hand, his eyes wide and brimming with energy.
“No,” Eldon said. “We’ll accept the rest of it. But your client has to lose his bar license at least.”
“For being a good Samaritan?” Harry laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“For handling nine million dollars in stolen funds and not coming to us or the FBI. He’s a lawyer. He has a higher standard to live up to.”
“He held the cash for one week while he figured out where it came from and how to protect his family.”
“Then we get his mother. You can’t have both.”
Harry smiled. “We can’t, huh? That comes as a disappointment since I was counting on that. Oh well. So sorry we couldn’t do business today.” He began stacking and putting his papers away.
“Hold on,” Eldon said. “Just hold on.” He thought it over for a moment—as though any hesitation could hide his hunger for the deal. “Okay,” the U.S. Attorney finally said, relenting. “We’ll arrange for an exam. If the mother really does have Alzheimer’s, we won’t prosecute her either.”
A smile wreathed Harry’s face. “That’s wonderful. So glad we could make this happen. Write it up.”
“So when do we move?” Eldon demanded, all restraint gone.
Harry looked at Ian. “Your show.”
“Tonight,” Ian replied. “Have the FBI ready to move from here no later than nine. I’ll send a text saying when it’s time, and telling them where to go.”
“Wait a second,” Eldon sputtered. “You’re not going to tell us which building you’ll be in? That’s too vague. We need to be at the site and set up ahead of time.”
Ian shook his head. “I’ll have them all there, but the people with control over the cash spent years planning how to get the money. They are meticulous. They’ll have eyes on the site all day. You make a single move in that direction and they’ll be gone, and the rest with them. And once they’re all gone, that money and any possibility of prosecution are gone forever. This is the only way it could work.”
“Without setup, it’s impossible,” Eldon pleaded. “We’ve got to have some kind of eyes and ears on this thing.”
“Alright,” Ian said, “but I won’t wear a wire. It’s too likely they’ll check me. Set up your people on the Stone Arch Bridge, near the middle. Erect a utility tent or something to hide yourselves. The team will be within scope and binoculars sight of the meeting. As soon as I text you and they know where to look, they’ll be able to see what’s going on.”
Eldon looked shaken with frustration at the meager information he was getting. “What if it all goes south? How will we know if people are in danger?”
Ian thought for a moment. “Have somebody from your office with the team on the bridge, somebody who can call it if they see my signal. I’ll wipe my forehead with my hand if I need you to step in early. Have your person ready to confirm the signal and give the word to send in the FBI.”
Brook, he thought—an instant before he said aloud, “I want the prosecutor who interviewed me. Brook something. I want her to be your person on the bridge.”
Eldon cocked his head in a way that reminded him of the prosecutor’s disbelief at Ian’s flat-tire story the past week. “She’s on mandatory leave,” he said cautiously. “She missed a critical deadline in a big case.”
That was news Brook hadn’t shared. “Take her off leave,” Ian said firmly. “She’s who I want.”
Eldon’s grip on his pen tightened again. “You’re setting us up for failure. The only thing worse than a failed investigation is a failed operation.”
“It’s all I’ll agree to,” Ian said.
Eldon turned to Harry, then back to Ian. “Alright. You’re calling the shots. But listen—and hear me clearly. If we aren’t successful tonight, the deal’s off. At that point, all I’ll have is you and your mother, and believe me when I say I’ll prosecute the both of you.”
46
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13
7:45 P.M.
EAST ST. PAUL
The highway noise was fading with rush hour passing. Seated on the patio, Martha pulled her sweater closer as she looked out into the clear evening air.
“That’s all your research found about him?” she heard Ian saying from inside the apartment.
“Yes. Just a few addresses on Liam Doyle in Los Angeles over the years. Big gaps in time. The jobs I could locate, I’ve listed. There’s nothing more I could find in this short of time. Maureen’s stayed in the Midwest, with odd jobs and work in the Twin Cities—before she started the nursing program two years ago.”
“Okay.” Ian’s voice again. “Thanks for checking. We need to go now.”
“You should take your dad’s gun,” Brook said worriedly.
“I can’t. Callahan or his Marine will check for weapons on the patio.”
The concern Martha heard in each of their voices was wrenching. It reminded her of Connor and herself when they were young. When talks like this one were commonplace, and guilt always near at hand.
“You’re going to be careful,” Brook said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course. Now, we should get going. I want you to drop me a few blocks from the Guthrie.”
Ian emerged onto the patio and knelt at Martha’s side. “It’s all going to be fine, Mom. After tonight it’ll all be behind you—behind us. Maybe not the way you and Dad planned, but done all the same.”
He waited expectantly. Martha didn’t look in his direction. She felt a longing to speak, but couldn’t. Not now. Not knowing what she had to do.
“You’ll be alone for a little while now, Mom. But Katie will be back from her house very shortly to stay with you. And I’ll come get you tomorrow. We’ll all be safe then.”
He kissed her forehead and returned inside. There was a jangling of keys in the kitchen and the closing of a cupboard door. Then the apartment door opened and shut and all grew silent.
Martha waited, listening to the evening birds chirping in the dusk. Waited ten minutes, or as near to it as she could guess.
She rose and went inside.
Standing in the kitchen, Martha inventoried the upper cabinets with her eyes. She pulled a chair close, using it as a stool to reach them, opening each in turn.
She found the hiding spot in the third one she checked. The keys she slid into her pocket. The gun she weighed in her hand after stepping carefully back to the floor. With a single motion, she ejected and checked the magazine. Two bullets were missing. She pushed the magazine hard back into place, the effort hurting her hand, unaccustomed to the force.
Then she dropped the weapon into her purse and headed out the door.
47
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13
9:47 P.M.
GUTHRIE THEATER
MINNEAPOLIS
Ian’s hand, slick with sweat, pressed the steel bar to enter through the tall glass doors of the Guthrie Theater. With great effort he slid the insulated metal tube under his arm and casually approached the box office will-call desk.
“Ian Wells,” he said with a smile. “For Richard III.”
The attendant returned the smile as she slipped the ticket to him across the counter. “Sorry, it’s already past intermission. There’s only an hour left.”
Ian grimaced and shook his head. “I know. My business meeting went long. No worries—I read the CliffsNotes.”
A long escalator carried him to the upper level, where Richard III was in progress. He walked past the hall that led to the theater, toward a ramp that sloped upward to an outside patio overlooking the river.
Aaron, the Marine, was standing before a bar that fronted the patio. Twin entrances on either side led outdoors. His hands were in his pockets. No bartender was in sight—either paid off or gone for the evening with intermission finished. On both patio doors were signs with the word Closed printed in large letters.
“Dried out yet?” Ian asked.
Aaron’s face grew hot. “Hold your arms up,” he growled. Reaching behind the bar, he grabbed a wand, similar to the one Prima had used at Doggy’s. He ran it over Ian’s torso, arms, and legs.
“You got a phone in there?” Aaron asked, pointing to a pocket.
“Yeah.” Ian pulled it out for Aaron to see. “Satisfied?”
Aaron pointed to the metal tube. “What’s that?”
Ian unscrewed the tube’s end and allowed the Marine to peek inside. “It’s for the meeting.”
He grunted at what was obviously no weapon. He looked away as Ian went on through one of the doors. As it swung shut, Ian heard the Marine stiffly announce to someone else approaching, “Sorry, ma’am. Got a wedding shoot on the patio tonight.”
The open-air patio thrust out from the Guthrie’s main building like an outdoor stage, towering over the lawn several stories below. From the door Ian had passed through, steps descended along a series of concrete terraces running the patio’s width. The small space was illuminated only at foot level, though at the patio’s lowest point signs pointed to emergency walkways left and right.
Ian saw all of this, yet his eyes were mostly drawn straight ahead, beyond the prow of the patio toward the dark ribbon of the Mississippi and the Stone Arch Bridge, its curving structure lit with a string of bulbs from end to end.
Sean Callahan was standing at the lowest point of the patio next to a waist-high balustrade. His back was to the river, his hands behind him. He said nothing as he looked up and eyed the cylinder in Ian’s hands. Rory was seated just a few feet from Callahan on a concrete terrace, facing away from Ian’s approach. Maureen Doyle stood beside her father.
“Seems to be a family reunion,” Sean said to Ian in his Irish brogue. “Everyone ya expected here?”
Ian was momentarily shaken at the realization that Callahan’s sarcasm was more than just that. Rory Doyle really was his uncle. Maureen really was a cousin. “I don’t know,” Ian said uncomfortably. He looked at Maureen. “Anyone else attending?”
Footsteps approached from behind. Ian turned—and took an unsettled step backward.
Wet Willy was striding down the steps. His hair was uncharacteristically combed and pulled back into a bun. He wore pressed slacks and a collared shirt, also strange for the man. Under his arm was a laptop computer.
Ian had difficulty speaking. “What are you doing here?” he finally got out.
Willy just smiled, halting two levels up from the others.
Ian glanced down at Maureen, then back to Willy. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Willy took a seat on the concrete level where he’d stopped. Ian saw that Maureen’s gaunt father was staring at Willy as though he were seeing a ghost.
“Hello, son,” Rory said quietly and with unmistakable disappointment. “It’s been a very long time.”
“Hello, Dad,” Willy replied calmly. “Yes, it surely has.”
Rory’s expression was one of tenderness and pain. Maureen watched them both wi
thout reaction.
The earth opened up and swallowed Ian. “You can’t be Liam Doyle,” he muttered, disembodied. “You’re William Dryer. You’ve been my client for five years. I’ve defended you in two trials.”
“Three trials, counting the one we’ll have to miss,” Willy said as he began typing on the computer. “You’re a fine lawyer, Ian, getting me off each time. But then Willy always came to you with an alibi, didn’t he?”
In the near darkness, Ian couldn’t see Rory’s eyes clearly, but he felt the wave of intense grief when the man spoke next.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” Rory said, stricken. He looked back and forth from Liam to Maureen. “This is a terrible mistake. Sweetheart, Maureen, you told me you and Liam didn’t want the money. At Victor’s you told me to drop my claim to the trust. I was so glad you did. Now what are you doing? Tell your brother all this is a mistake. Just leave now and be done with it.”
“You were going to lose it all,” Liam answered as he worked the keyboard. “You let Jimmy Doyle hold back your money for thirty-five years, and then you still figured out a way to lose it. You were a waste of a dad and you were going to waste Grandpa’s trust money too.”
Ian looked to Maureen, still reeling. “You’re smart,” he said, adding his voice to Rory’s. “How’d you get talked into all this?”
She shrugged. “Like we discussed at Mom’s place—money’s not bad, just depends what you do with it.”
“Ready for the account number, Counselor,” Liam declared.
Ian struggled to formulate his thoughts. “How long have you two been planning for today’s meeting?” he asked Maureen.
“How old were we at the funeral?” Maureen turned the question to Liam.
“Twelve.”
“Since we were twelve,” Maureen said to Ian. “Sometimes in California where Liam lived. Sometimes here.”
“Can I have the account number, Ian?” Liam repeated impatiently. “Please?”
Through his daze, Ian pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Liam.
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