First Deadly Conspiracy Box Set

by Roger Stelljes

  “Part of that will depend on what he, meaning Hisle, knows about the case.”

  “Meaning, how much the good senator has told him about it,” replied Mac, following Sally’s train of thought.

  “Exactly. I bet I’ve spoken to a hundred defense attorneys who have told me their client didn’t tell them everything. I’m not sure why the senator would be different.” Sally took a last drink from her beer.

  “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  Mac got up to get her a beer but didn’t stop talking, speaking from the kitchen. He merely spoke a little louder to cross the distance. “So, if I’m hearing you right, what we get tomorrow will depend upon what Hisle knows about the case, and that’s probably based on what Johnson has told him?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “‘Not necessarily’? What do you mean?” Mac asked as he came back in and handed her the beer.

  “Well, Hisle might get some of his own information. I bet he or one of his lackey’s been working the department for information.”

  “That would be Lyman,” Mac replied, nodding. “He has friends in our department who could feel like they might owe him.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Sally, not understanding his point.

  “Lyman’s big time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s also represented a number of cops over the years. He may be a defense attorney, and cops hate most of them, but not Lyman. He’s helped out a lot of police, and he hasn’t always charged his full fee.”

  “So … do you think any cops will talk?”

  “If any of them knew anything they might. But to the best of my knowledge Lich, Clark, and Green haven’t needed to use Lyman for anything.”

  “What about the chief?”

  “Well, Flanagan knows Hisle pretty well. They’re friends. But I don’t think he’d give Lyman dick.”

  Sally smiled. “Well I’d hope not. But what about information?”

  Mac snorted. “Touché, Counselor.” Mac took a hit from his beer. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Hisle knows everything we know, or even what we suspect. Everything. The semen, time of death, no forced entry—the whole nine yards. “

  “All right.”

  “Assuming all that,” Mac continued, “will Hisle let his client talk?”

  Sally thought for a minute. “Some.”

  Mac smirked. “Typical lawyer, won’t answer the damned question. I know you think ‘some,’ but how much? What’s he going to tell his client to do?”

  “He’ll probably allow the senator to answer questions about how he met Daniels and the nature of their relationship. He’ll probably allow him to admit they had sex because he’ll know we’ll probably match semen through DNA. He can’t be certain who she might have told about the relationship, so he’ll probably answer those questions.”

  “How about, ‘Have you told your wife about your affair with Daniels?’”

  “You should ask that question, but Hisle will tell him not to answer. That goes right to guilt and motive. Remember our theory the other day?”

  “That Daniels pressured him about his marriage, about a possible divorce, and maybe she didn’t like the answer.”

  “Exactly,” replied Sally. “That would be motive right there. I’d be stunned if Hisle allowed Johnson to answer anything near that. He’ll say it’s irrelevant and all that shit, even though it is.” She picked up her beer. “The only way I could see Hisle allowing him to answer that question is if the senator told his wife he was having an affair and she didn’t care or something like that. I can’t imagine Gwen Johnson going for that.”

  “No,” Mac replied nodding. “From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t seem like the type to put up with that. Plus, she wouldn’t have to testify on that point anyway, would she?” Mac asked.

  “That’s right. Marital privilege.”

  “Anything else Hisle won’t let him answer?”

  “You guys might go down the path of encouraging the senator to come clean, basically cop a plea. It wasn’t intentional. It was a heat of passion type situation—the manslaughter path.” She took another drag of her beer, “However, if you get to that point, Hisle won’t allow him to answer. He’ll shut him down. We’ll have to charge him before he entertains that. Again, that’s if the interview goes that way.”

  Mac sat thinking for a minute, running this all through his head. “Okay. I’ve got a good feel for what happens if Hisle has all the info he needs. But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s flying blind?”

  “Hisle wouldn’t fly blind. If he were that blind, he wouldn’t have called the chief.”

  “Maybe he’s not completely blind, then. The senator’ll have given him some information. But you said it yourself—Hisle’s probably calling around the department, but he can’t get any information.”

  “You’re assuming he hasn’t gotten any,” she replied.

  “True.” Mac leaned forward in his chair. “But let’s assume he doesn’t.”

  “Then, he won’t let his client answer any questions until you tell him what you have.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that. I’d be happy to tell them,” Mac quickly replied. “What will Hisle do then?”

  “At that point, he’ll decide whether his client has anything to say.” Sally looked away for a moment, and then continued. “He’ll ask for some time to confer with his client.”

  “And then they’ll decide if he’ll answer any questions.”

  “Right.”

  “And if he doesn’t say anything?”

  “Then we’ll decide what to do. Charge him, continue to investigate, whatever. You can give them the standard line that this is his chance to get in front of this, but Hisle will tell him not to answer. If so, we’ll just have to see …”

  “But … we’ll know a lot more after tomorrow,” said Mac, finishing the thought.

  “Yes.”

  • • • • •

  Lyman and the senator enjoyed a fine meal of steak, potatoes, Caesar salad, and red wine at Lyman’s house on the St. Croix. Following dinner they retired to the library to have a brandy, a cigar, and talk about the case.

  “So, how do we handle this tomorrow?” the senator asked.

  “We’ll have to find out where they’re coming from, Mason.”

  “What if they won’t tell us?”

  “Don’t worry about that. They will. They want you to talk. Like I said, when I called Flanagan, he was getting ready to call you.”

  A frown came down the senator’s face, “If I read between the lines here, they have me in their crosshairs.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Lyman. “But they haven’t charged you. They haven’t put your name out there. Heck, my contacts in the department don’t even know who they have for a suspect.”

  The senator was skeptical. “These contacts, would they even tell you if they knew?”

  “The people I’ve called, yes. They owe me for previous services rendered.”

  The senator took a sip of his brandy. “So, if we find out what they have, what do I say?”

  “We’ll see. I may not have you answer questions at all.”

  “Lyman,” he growled, “I can’t do that. I do that and I’m done. I’m Gary Condit. The media’ll have a field day.”

  Lyman knew his friend. He was concerned about his career. He didn’t necessarily see beyond that, and that had to change if Lyman was going to help him. “Mason, I’ll do what I can to protect your career. But we have to see what they have.”

  The senator had a panicked look. “What? What the fuck are you saying, Lyman? What, you … you think I did this?”

  “NO!” snapped Lyman. The next part would be difficult, he knew, so he took a long drink, a slow drag on his cigar, and walked towards his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. He exhaled slowly and spoke. “Mason, I’m with you, but we have to see what the police have. You didn’t do it. I believe you,” Lyman said, looking him
right in the eye. “But look at the evidence they likely have. You were there that night. We have to assume they have the guy who saw you. Otherwise, how do they link you?”

  “Yes, I was there. What does that prove, Lyman?” the senator growled, taking a chair.

  Lyman sat down next to his friend and continued. “In and of itself, nothing, but they’ll have your semen. It wouldn’t even be worth a fight on the DNA. They’ll get it.” Lyman took a drink. “Now, like I said—in and of itself that means nothing, but …”

  “But what would mean something?”

  “Time of death, forced entry, and if there was a robbery. If there’s a robbery or forced entry, and time of death is 4:00 a.m., you’re in the clear. You merely help them with their timeline. If this is the case, then the police say thanks, and nobody ever knows you were involved.”

  Mason Johnson looked hopeful for the first time. Lyman reassured him, “Your name came up. They have to talk to you. Simple as that. But if the evidence doesn’t point to you, you’ll be fine.”

  The senator sighed and nodded. “Look. I didn’t do it. I need to say that.”

  “And I may let you. But first, we need to see what they have.”

  • • • • •

  Mac and Sally finished up with how to deal with Hisle and the senator around ten. Mac offered one more beer, and Sally accepted. She was easy to talk to. They talked about sports, politics, and lawyers. They had similar interests. They were both career focused. She wasn’t stopping at assistant district attorney. She had higher aspirations.

  Mac could feel his attraction to her growing. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and it was a nice change. He had ignored women since the divorce. It wasn’t that there couldn’t have been some. There had been plenty he could have taken home from the Pub. More than one had sauntered on up to make a pass at him, and he almost took a couple up on it. Sooner or later, he figured he’d finally break down and do it. But it never seemed right.

  Sally was interested. She was attractive as hell, with pretty dark-brown eyes and a bright smile. She was intelligent and liked to laugh, yet she had a little edge, some street to her—which he liked.

  She’d been checking out the Springsteen print all night. “So how’d you get Bruce to sign it?”

  “You like the Boss?”

  “Is there anyone better?”

  “No. I’ve never seen a better live performer.”

  She got up to look at it more closely. “So, how did you do it?”

  “A buddy of mine, Wren Frane, runs the non-hockey events at the Xcel Energy Center. He got me backstage for the second half of a concert. It was pretty unreal. I saw Bruce, Clarence, Little Steven come off the stage, and it was cool just to see them. Anyway, the arena had emptied, and Wren and I were the only ones left backstage. We’re just talking, concert’s been over for an hour, and here comes Springsteen out of the dressing room, looking to see if they can get a few more beers. Most everyone’s gone, but Wren scares up some brews, and the Boss says thanks. He sees the poster and asks if I wanted it signed.”

  “No way!” Sally replied in disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah. Pure luck, but I met the man.”

  They transitioned to Helen Anderson. “She can’t be easy to work for,” Mac said.

  “That’s somewhat true. She’s demanding of everyone’s time and efforts. But at the same time, she generally let’s you do your job.”

  “Probably because she never did it herself,” Mac intoned.

  “Well, there might be some truth to that,” Sally replied, smiling. “She’s more a politician than a lawyer.”

  Then they got to Lich. “By the way, where’s your partner?”

  Mac chuckled, “Dickey boy is on a date with Dot.”

  “Who’s Dot? Should I know her?”

  Mac shook his head. “No. I just met her this morning. She’s a rather, shall we say, buxom waitress at the Cleveland Grille.”

  “Ahhh. So, your partner’s on the dating scene, huh?”

  “That he is. I have to give him credit. His last wife absolutely cleaned him out.” Mac just shook his head.

  Sally looked around the apartment. “It would appear you didn’t get cleaned out?”

  “We parted amicably.” Mac didn’t want to talk about his divorce. He caught his ex-wife having an affair with a married partner in her law firm. Mac threatened to expose the affair unless he got the better of the marital assets, which he had. To change the topic, he got up, picked up their empties, and asked, “One more?”

  Sally looked at her watch, 11:30 p.m. “I’d like to, but it’s late.”

  Mac looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time, “Geez. You’re right.”

  They walked to the door, and Mac grabbed her coat, helping her put it on. She said, “Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  As they were walking down the stairs, Sally said, “So, you’re ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” Mac replied enthusiastically.

  Sally picked up on it. “You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

  Mac looked at her. “You’re surprised by that?”

  “It’s a murder case. Yeah, a little.”

  “Tomorrow’s why you do this job. Cases like this don’t come along too often. I probably won’t sleep much tonight. But, yeah, as morbid as it sounds, I can’t wait. I can just feel the adrenaline flowing.”

  They were at her car. Mac stayed back a few feet. She reached in her purse for her keys and opened her car door before looking back. They stood awkwardly, staring at each other for a moment.

  Mac finally spoke. “So, I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will.”

  He held back. It didn’t feel right yet. Sally smiled at him and got in the car and started the engine. Before she closed her door, she said, “Good luck tomorrow, I’ll be thinking of you.” She closed the door and backed away from him, turned, gave him a wave, and drove off.

  Chapter Ten

  “Good cop. Bad cop.”

  Mac, along with Lich and Captain Peters, climbed into Mac’s Explorer, headed out of the Department of Public Safety ramp and worked their way quickly to Interstate 35E, driving north out of downtown St. Paul on their way out to Hisle’s place in Stillwater.

  The morning had been a blur, spent in a number of meetings. It started with a meeting with Captain Peters, which then moved to the chief’s office for his daily briefing. Sylvia Miller sat in on that one to discuss what to do if the media showed.

  Before they left for Stillwater, Mac finally had time to meet with Lich about last night’s meeting with Sally. They discussed her theories about how Hisle might handle their interview with the senator. Lich snorted, “In other words, she acted like a typical lawyer and didn’t really answer your question.”

  Mac had to chuckle. Given his divorce terms, Lich had caskets of animosity stored up for attorneys. “She was a little evasive. Yes, but that’s because we don’t know what Hisle’s going to do anymore than he knows what we’ll do.”

  “So,” Lich said, grinning, “how evasive was she?”

  “Evasive?”

  “Listen, son, you put the wood to her or what?”

  “Jesus,” said Mac, giving Lich a disbelieving look.

  “Sheesh, you really are out of practice.”

  “Well, how’d you do with Dot?”

  “A hell of a lot better than you did,” Lich said with a big shit-eating grin.

  Mac winced, suddenly developing a bad mental picture of bald old Lich and big-breasted Dot flopping around. “Spare me the details.”

  Mac exited 35E, onto Highway 36 for the drive east to Stillwater. The drive would have been a lot prettier three weeks earlier when the leaves were orange, red, and yellow at the peak of the fall colors. Now, the ride out towards Stillwater was strewn with leaves blowing across the highway, the trees barren, waiting for the coming cold and snow of a Minnesota winte
r.

  Stillwater, a burgeoning suburb twenty miles east of St. Paul, was located on the St. Croix River, which also served as the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. Up on top of the bluff overlooking the St. Croix was “new” Stillwater, with big-box retailers and various other suburban amenities. The amenities were surrounded by suburban homes with large yards and three-car garages. The part of Stillwater sitting two hundred feet below the bluff and right on the St. Croix was the quaint old downtown. A lumber town, Stillwater had morphed into an elegant tourist trap of old red-brick and stone buildings full of little antique stores, restaurants, and marinas for river boats.

  Lyman lived just north of Stillwater, with a place on a little cliff overlooking the river. Once off the road, Mac took a long driveway that might have been a hundred yards long that circled in front of the house. The house itself was a sprawling prairie-style rambler, the back of which overlooked the river. Lyman undoubtedly had a groundskeeper of some sort in the summer, as there were flower beds and trimmed bushes appropriately scattered over the grounds. The flowers were now in hibernation, but the bushes were all in well-trimmed condition, rounded and squared appropriately. It was impressive.

  “Representing criminals pays, don’t it, Mac?” Lich commented.

  “Yeah, but Lyman’s a good guy.”

  “Maybe I should have hired him for my divorce.”

  They dropped the Explorer just past the front door. As they approached the house, Lich asked Mac, “Just thought I’d ask, you know, so we’re prepared and all, how are you going to handle this?”

  “My guess is the senator isn’t going to be so impressed with a young buck detective running things. If so, you look at me when we start, my look will let you know. Let’s play on that and see if we can’t get him riled up.”

  “Good cop, bad cop?” Lich said.

  “Exactly.”

  Lich smiled and moved to push the doorbell. Before he could, Hisle opened the door. “Good afternoon, Detectives. Please come in.”

  They entered into a large open foyer. “I thought we’d head into the library,” Lyman said, pointing down a hallway to their right.

  The library was exactly that. There were windows that looked out over the river. The rest of the walls were built-in bookshelves, with an impressive collection of works. Mac saw an old collection of Charles Dickens tales. There were a few shelves with old legal treatises. Lyman also liked more modern fare, with many bestsellers.