Marc stopped walking, held the phone to his ear and said, “I don’t want any money from him. I have trial expenses to pay and I’ll pay those out of my own pocket. Tell her I got enough.”
“Marc, I have a couple more time sheets I printed off for you on this case. He owes you…”
“I don’t care, Carolyn. I want nothing else from him,” he sharply said.
“All right, sorry. I’ll call her back and tell her,” Carolyn replied, slightly taken aback by Marc’s tone and attitude.
“I’ll call or maybe come by later, we’ll see,” Marc said as he continued toward his car. “Hey wait,” he said and stopped again. “Did Albright say what time he was going to be there?”
“Ten this morning,” Carolyn replied.
“Thanks,” Marc said and abruptly ended the call.
He took a moment to call Carvelli to tell him where Howie could be found at 10:00 A.M. If the cops could set up surveillance, they might find him there.
SIXTY-TWO
“How did you find this out?” Tony asked Marc.
Carvelli was in his black, sleek Camaro already on his way downtown to the Old City Hall Building and police headquarters. He was on Lake Street heading east to Hennepin Avenue when Marc called with the news that Howie would be at Albright’s office at 10:00. In answer to Tony’s question, Marc told him about the call from Carolyn.
“I don’t know if the cops can get a surveillance team set up by then. I may have to do it myself. I’ll get back to you,” Tony said.
Carvelli ended the call tossed his phone on the passenger seat and punched the gas. The big eight cylinder engine kicked in and the car jumped forward. He blew through a light as it turned red on Hennepin and took a left to go downtown. Halfway there he retrieved his phone, found the number he wanted and hit the auto dial.
“Jefferson,” he heard Owen Jefferson say when he answered.
“Hey, it’s Carvelli, you busy?”
“Licking my wounds. Why?”
“Meet me out on Fourth Street in about five minutes. I’ll pick you up.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I’m driving too fast to talk right now. Just meet me and I’ll explain when I get there.”
At 9:52 Carvelli found a parking spot on Seventh Street with a clear view of the Raines Building. Owen Jefferson was in the seat next to him.
“He may be in there already,” Jefferson said.
“Yeah, he could be,” Carvelli agreed.
“So, I don’t get to know the name of the source of your information. I just have to take your word for it, even though I could probably guess who it is,” Jefferson said.
“Yes,” Tony answered.
“If I need to get a warrant for something, this could be a problem.”
“We’ll think of something. And there he is,” Tony said pointing a finger across the street as Howie Traynor reached the building’s front door. “No car.”
“It’s probably still in impound. Hasn’t had time to get it out,” Jefferson commented as the two men watched Howie go into the office building.
While they waited Jefferson made a call to Rod Schiller, the head of the MPD surveillance unit. Jefferson explained what they were up to and asked the lieutenant about setting up a surveillance team.
“I’m not sure I can justify that, Owen,” Schiller replied. “Is this a new case? What’s going on?”
Jefferson covered the phone with his hand and said to Carvelli, “He needs to know why. How much can I tell him?”
Tony thought about it for a moment before saying, “Don’t tell him about Kadella, that’s between you and me. Yeah, yeah, you knew where it came from,” Carvelli said when Jefferson raised his eyebrows at the mention of Marc’s name. “Give him the usual ‘reliable source’ bullshit for now.”
Jefferson went back on the phone and said, “Rod, we have a very solid reason to believe Traynor is guilty and not done. I believe it and…”
“That’s good enough for me,” Schiller said. “I’ll get right on it and get back to you.”
“Thanks,” Jefferson said and ended the call.
“You have to keep that to yourself about Kadella. He’s got his neck sticking out and is doing the stand-up thing on this,” Tony said.
“A lawyer doing the right thing. I should mark my calendar,” Jefferson answered him.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Carvelli growled. “Most lawyers are good guys. They have a job to do just like we do.”
“True enough,” Jefferson agreed. “There he is,” he continued when Traynor came through the door and onto the sidewalk.
Howie turned to the right to walk away from where they were parked. When he did this, Jefferson opened his door to get out.
“I’ll follow him on this side of the street,” Jefferson said referring to the opposite side of where Howie was walking. “Wait for me to call.”
Carvelli impatiently waited while Jefferson casually tailed Howie west on Seventh Avenue. Fifteen minutes after Jefferson left the car, Carvelli’s phone rang.
“Pick me up. I’m still on the south side of Seventh about a hundred yards from Hennepin. I can see Traynor. He’s at a bus stop on Hennepin probably waiting for a bus to go home.”
“I’ll be right there,” Carvelli said.
Two minutes after the call, Jefferson was getting back into the Camaro when a bus pulled up in front of Howie.
For the next half hour, the two men followed the city bus through traffic across the river into Northeast Minneapolis. At Central Avenue Howie disembarked and ran to catch a bus headed up Central toward his home.
“Where’s he going?” Tony rhetorically asked when the bus went past Howie’s street corner. They continued to follow him then at Eighteenth Street, Howie got off and Carvelli pulled to the curb.
“Why are you parking?” Jefferson asked.
“I know where he’s going,” Carvelli said. “That’s his bank,” he continued referring to the bank on Eighteenth and Central. “We followed him there a couple of times.”
“And he just got a check from his lawyer and he’s going to deposit it,” Jefferson said. “I wonder how much he got.”
“From the hanky-wringers that run Minneapolis? A lot, I’m sure,” Carvelli answered.
Less than ten minutes after he went in, Howie exited the bank. He turned down Eighteenth and began walking east.
“He’s heading home,” Carvelli said. “It’s only a few blocks,” he continued as he pulled away from the curb. Barely a minute later they were strategically parked close enough to Howie’s building to watch him go in when he arrived.
When he got inside his apartment Howie went to the front windows in the small living room, the windows overlooking the street in front. Howie used two fingers to carefully, slowly separate the vertical blinds just enough to peak out. He saw the black Camaro and the corners of his mouth turned up in a tight smile.
“Forget it, assholes,” he quietly said out loud. “I won’t make it that easy for you.”
For the next twenty-four hours, the MPD surveillance team stood watch at Howie’s apartment. Not once did any of the watchers see him at all. Not even a movement by a window. The church was also being watched with the same result.
“Owen, we haven’t seen anything of him since we started. Nothing. He hasn’t moved and last night no lights, no TV, nothing. I don’t think he’s in there,” Schiller said when he called Jefferson to let him know.
“What do you think Rod? Do we send somebody up there?” Jefferson asked.
“Yeah, I think we should. Let me call our team onsite. I’ll send them up. They can ask him if he’s going to pick up his car. That will give them an excuse to go in,” Schiller said.
“He hasn’t picked up his car yet?” Jefferson asked. “Oh shit,” he quickly added. “I just realized, he must have another car stashed somewhere. That’s how he got around when he slipped the surveillance before. Get your people up there. Call me back, I’m on my way.”
Jefferson stood up, grabbed his overcoat and told Marcie Sterling to come with him. Marcie knew Howie was being watched again and why. While they hurried down the hall toward their car, Jefferson told her about the call he had received from Schiller.
Halfway to Howie’s apartment, Schiller called him back.
“He’s gone,” Schiller told him.
“Kick the goddamn door in,” Jefferson yelled.
“We did. The refrigerator is empty, his clothes are mostly there but it looks like he packed up some and left. He’s gone, Owen,” Schiller repeated. “Now what?”
“Sonofabitch,” Jefferson muttered. “I don’t know. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
For the next few days, there was a quiet manhunt taking place throughout the Twin Cities metro area. It was kept quiet because no one wanted it leaked to the press that a psycho was on the loose because the cops and county attorney made a total mess of their case. The search for Howie rapidly spread to the entire state, the Upper Midwest and eventually went national. By that point the media knew what was up and were making uncomfortable inquiries. Howie Traynor had vanished like a puff of smoke.
Owen Jefferson tried to trace the money Howie deposited from his lawsuit. Without a warrant the bank, although wanting to cooperate, was prevented from doing so. Without a case or, at least, some probable cause, no judge would issue a warrant. The bank manager, off the record, did inform Jefferson that the money was gone but did not know and could not say where it ultimately ended up.
The Christmas Holidays passed; December turned into January and gradually life went back to normal. There was only so much the police could do and the feds were not very cooperative. No charges were pending against Howie Traynor and after a while the search for him took on a low priority for everyone.
A week after New Year’s Craig Slocum resigned. He had deluded himself into believing he could ride out the storm and keep his job. A visit to the Governor’s Mansion in St. Paul and a stern warning from Governor Dahlstrom dispelled that idea. Even though Dahlstrom was a Republican, he let Slocum, a nominal Democrat, know the Democrats wanted him gone ASAP. The next day, Slocum emptied his office. Besides, he was looking at spending the next year trying to keep his attorney license. A fight he would eventually lose.
The governor appointed an interim county attorney, a woman from the state attorney general’s office. An election was scheduled for early May to fill the office for the remainder of Slocum’s term. Steve Gondeck considered running then decided he wasn’t a politician and declined. The woman appointed as interim county attorney would win the job which almost caused a mutiny among the staff and lawyers. She was turning out to be at least as bad as Craig Slocum.
By mid-January Marc Kadella stopped carrying a gun, at least not every day. His son, daughter and ex-wife were home and back to normal. Margaret Tennant was no longer being guarded by sheriff’s deputies and the world was still turning. Gradually, even in Minnesota, winter turned to spring and Howie Traynor would fade from memory and people believing he was gone was no longer a source of significant concern.
SIXTY-THREE
June
Madeline Rivers and her date were finishing their meal. Gabriella Shriqui had convinced Maddy to try her luck on a couple of dating sites. Gabriella had met someone whom she claimed was a really good guy and between them, things were going quite well. Maddy had no way of knowing that Gabriella, at this very moment, was entertaining second thoughts about online dating and the “really good guy” was now history because he had been seeing at least three other women.
This was Maddy’s fourth first date with men she had met online. So far the results were not encouraging. Gary Something, she couldn’t remember his last name, was this evening’s first and last date. It seemed to be going well until a moment ago when he slipped up and mentioned a wife.
“You’re married? Your profile said you were single,” Maddy said leaning forward and staring straight at him.
“Well, ah, yeah. Sort of technically married,” he stammered. “We’re, ah, separated. Probably getting divorced.”
His use of the word “probably” caused an alarm to go off in her head. A thought occurred to Maddy and she asked, “Where are you living?”
“Um, ah, just temporarily, with my parents,” he admitted.
“Why are you separated?” her curiosity getting the better of her, Maddy had to ask.
“Because my wife’s an unreasonable bitch!”
“In other words, she caught you cheating and threw you out.”
“I, ah, wouldn’t put it that way,” he said avoiding Maddy’s piercing eyes.
“No, but I’ll bet she would. So, you cheated on your wife and now you’re living with your mom,” Maddy said still glaring at the man. “You do realize you a have a giant ‘L’ for loser stamped on your forehead, don’t you?”
“Hey, you don’t talk to me like that bitch,” he snarled as he reached across the table with his right hand. It was a big mistake.
Maddy calmly grabbed his hand with her left, bent it back and twisted his arm in a direction it was not meant to go. She then applied just enough downward pressure to cause his elbow to almost snap eliciting a sharp yelp from him.
“Don’t try to touch me again,” she said with a soft voice and nasty look. “Oh, and you get the check.”
“Hey, goddamnit,” Gary whined. “That hurt. And ah, look um, I was hoping you would, you know, help out with the bill, first date and all.”
Maddy was on her feet preparing to leave when he said this. She bent over the table and said, “Wash dishes, asshole. Be thankful I don’t find a good lawyer for your wife. I know a great one.”
By this time the customers of several tables in the area were watching this little drama. Maddy turned to leave and saw them looking at her. “Just a little disagreement about the bill, folks. It’s all settled now,” she said smiling and walked away.
Maddy was at a restaurant called Trapper Jack’s on the 494 strip in Bloomington, a decent place for a first date. Not too expensive and the food was good. It also had a patio area and on a pleasant early summer Saturday night like this one, every table on it was full.
Maddy walked through the dining area, virtually everyone there watching her. When she was twenty feet from the front door, she turned toward the bar area. Every man there was looking at the tall, slender beauty that she is including a man with whom she made brief eye contact. Angry and in a hurry to leave, the man’s face did not register right away. Maddy took two or three more steps and then realized who it was she believed she had just seen.
She stopped dead in her tracks, turned back toward the bar in time to see the man reach the patio door. He hesitated before going out, looked back at her for an instant then casually went outside.
Maddy immediately hurried after him and as she did, she reached in the purse she had draped over her shoulder. She wrapped her hand around the reassuring butt of the Ladysmith 9 mm handgun in her purse as she went through the same door to the patio searching for the man.
She stood in the doorway and looked over the crowd. Not finding him, she asked a table filled with people next to the door if they had seen him. None of them had noticed anyone and after a couple more minutes, she gave up looking over the crowd. Maddy went back inside and despite the noise, took out her phone and made a call.
“What’s up, kid? Saturday night shouldn’t you be on a date somewhere?” she heard Tony Carvelli say.
“I was. Listen, I’m not sure but I think I just saw Howie Traynor.” Maddy went on to tell him what she had seen and done and where she was.
“Stay inside. Do not, repeat, do not go out there after him. You know what he’s like. He could be waiting for you. Wait right there. I’ll have the Bloomington cops there in five minutes and I’ll be there in ten myself.”
“Okay,” Maddy said.
“Do not go after him, Madeline,” he repeated. “I know what you’re like. Don’t do it.”
“I won’t, I promise,” an obviously annoyed Maddy said. “I’ll be at the bar with one hand on my gun.”
“Good,” Tony replied. “Wait right there.”
Carvelli was a little optimistic about the timing. It took ten minutes for the Bloomington cops to get there. When they did, six squad cars came roaring into the restaurant’s parking lot, all with lights flashing. The restaurant patrons all believed they were caught up in some type of raid.
Maddy went out to greet them and before she could, Carvelli pulled into the parking lot and drove up to the front door where she was standing. While the patrol officers spread out through the parking lot, a BPD lieutenant joined Carvelli and Maddy at Tony’s car.
“Hey, Mike,” Carvelli said to the lieutenant. “This is Madeline Rivers. She’s a P.I. friend of mine. She’s the one who called.”
“So, you think you might’ve seen this Traynor guy?” the lieutenant asked. Every cop in the Metro area still remembered who Howie Traynor was.
“Maybe,” Maddy said. “It was just a glimpse of him then he was gone. Sorry, but I can’t be more positive than that.”
“It’s okay,” Tony said. “Better safe than sorry.”
Another car with emergency lights flashing pulled into the parking lot. It was an unmarked sedan with Owen Jefferson at the wheel. He spotted the trio waiting by Carvelli’s Camaro and drove over to them.
Madeline repeated her story for Jefferson including her most recent date from Hell. The Bloomington cops spent a half hour searching the parking lot, using flashlights to look into and even under every car. All the while the restaurant patrons watched wondering what was going on.
Satisfied, the cops gradually began to go back to their normal patrol duties. Finally, Maddy, Tony and Owen Jefferson were the only ones left.
“I wish I could’ve seen him better. It might not have even been him,” Maddy said.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 179