Blood Silence - Thriller (McRyan Mystery Series)

by Roger Stelljes

  “We did,” Royce answered.

  “But we didn’t the other nine times,” Clint answered tartly, his back up a little. Wheeler and Royce both waved for him to be cool.

  “I will tell you one thing,” a new voice added. “McRyan won’t quit. He’s going to keep coming—looking, pressing, digging—you name it, he’ll do it. There’s no backing down in that boy. Not a lick. Do you have a plan for that?”

  “And you are?” Speedy asked, wondering who the new voice was.

  “He’s with me, boys,” O’Herlihy replied easily.

  “Listen,” Royce replied. “We know the score here, boss. We know what the stakes are. You’ve made that clear with the actions you’ve had us take.”

  “And the money we’ve paid,” the new voice tweaked, “to all of you.”

  “And we’ve earned it,” Clint snapped again, but this time Speedy and Royce didn’t respond. They didn’t like the tone from the phone either. Who was this guy?

  “Look, Mr. O’Herlihy, I don’t know who the other man on the line is, but we’ve been handling the problem,” Royce stated. “My issue with McRyan is if we do him, with his profile …”

  “The result will be that even more will come, because that will send up red flags telling people there is something to hide up here,” Wheeler added, finishing the line of logic. “He has friends in places you have no control over. You’ll have the FBI up here digging around, and unlike McRyan, they’ll have government power behind them you can’t control.”

  “I disagree,” the voice countered. “We can fend off the EPA. We can control the North Dakota Industrial Commission. That just takes money, and once these wells get humming along, even at the lower barrel price, we’ll have plenty to spread around if we need to.”

  “And,” O’Herlihy added, “if McRyan stays alive, he might bring those federal resources to bear with a couple of phone calls to his friends in Washington. From what I’ve learned of the man, he’s far more capable than the people from the FBI satellite office in Minot.”

  “Either way, you’re going to have to deal with him,” the other voice added.

  “Do we?” Royce asked. “I’m not afraid of doing it. I question if we need to. We recovered everything. There are no other documents out there.”

  “Can you be sure of that?” the voice asked. “He has clearly found something—otherwise he wouldn’t be up there. He knows about the Bullers, or at least he has their name now. Now, you boys recovered everything that Murphy, the Bullers, Sterling, Gentry, and this Weatherly had, but those were the people we knew of. However, McRyan has clearly made some sort of link between all of these bodies. What if there is another player out there? Was Gentry the end of it? What if there are other copies floating around, hidden, just waiting to be found? If there is, I believe, in time, McRyan will find it.”

  “What are you saying?” Royce asked.

  “What I’m saying,” O’Herlihy replied, “is that if he keeps digging, if he finds anything or it looks like he finds anything, then …” His voice trailed off.

  “We understand, sir,” Wheeler answered.

  The discussion lasted another minute and then ended.

  “Who was that other guy on the call?” Clint inquired.

  “I’m not comfortable with another player in the game here,” Royce added.

  “I don’t know who he is,” Speedy answered. “But the money for our little operation here is not coming out of the company bucket. O’Herlihy is getting the money from somewhere, and not just for this—he had to get outside money to keep this ship afloat, to get these wells online in time. Otherwise, the company goes tits up. I suspect that voice was the somewhere. I mean, think about it—if you were the one supplying this kind of money, wouldn’t you want to know what was going on?” Wheeler poured himself another cup of coffee. “Rich people stay rich because they know where every last dime is.”

  “If I were him, I’m not sure I’d want to,” Royce suggested. “Because while he might look at me as a loose end at some point, I can assure you I might view him the same way.”

  Wheeler stared Royce down for a moment. They were friends going way back from the ranch lands of western Texas. They’d have each other’s backs, but talking about loose ends with two professional killers gave him pause. Friend or not, Speedy knew he could be one of those loose ends at some point. That was an issue for later. “Let’s focus on the here and now and the problem directly in front of us. We can deal with the ‘voice’ later if we need to, because I agree with you—he’s a possible loose end we don’t know like we know O’Herlihy. That man has always had our back, he’s proven himself. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Royce.

  “I would.”

  “Then you’ve got your marching orders. Eyes on McRyan, and when the chance presents itself, you do what you do best.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Bait.”

  The County Line was located on the eastern end of Williston, in a long, two-story, tube-like building. While there was a small parking lot to the east of the bar, Mac parallel parked along the south side of the street.

  Inside the bar, the lighting was dim and the mood subdued, the perhaps twenty or so patrons mostly spread out in groups of two to four occupying the booths and the small tables. Kenny Chesney’s American Kids played quietly from the jukebox while an early-season college basketball game was displayed on the four big screens hanging above the long bar that ran along most of the right side.

  He immediately knew Amber was right about the County Line. Of the twenty or so patrons inside, at least half were cops, based on the inspective looks he received. The cops sized him up as he unzipped his jacket and stuffed his leather work gloves in the pockets. The glances and glares were of assessment—professionals determining whether Mac was a friend or potential problem.

  Mac took no offense.

  It was just what cops did. It was instinctual.

  Mac was thirsty, and sitting at the far end of the bar having a beer by herself was who he’d come hoping to find—Detective Leah Brock, wearing a black leather jacket, black hoodie, and jeans. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. As Mac approached, he saw Brock was close to being finished with her bottle of Miller Lite.

  “You look like you’re nearly empty. Could I buy you another?” Mac asked.

  Brock nodded slowly, and Mac ordered her another beer and a whiskey for himself as he took a seat on the barstool next to her.

  “I looked you up,” Brock stated, looking straight ahead, not wanting to seem too friendly.

  “I thought you might.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes,” Mac replied. “Call it my insightful ex-cop instinct.”

  “Hmpf,” Brock snorted and took a pull from her beer. “You went from St. Paul homicide to Washington, DC, and the president’s investigator—or at least that’s how the Washington Post described you after that Reaper case last summer. That’s pretty heady stuff.”

  Mac nodded.

  “Why did you leave St. Paul to begin with?”

  “I followed a girl.”

  “Ahh, your fiancée. I read about her, too,” Brock replied with a little smile. “You might have outkicked your coverage there. She is really pretty. I saw her on that television over the bar not a half hour ago.”

  “Yeah, she’s doing more and more of that these days,” Mac answered. “I guess that’s what White House Deputy Directors of Communication do.”

  “I see. So while she’s in DC for the whole world to see, what are you doing up here at the end of the earth, and what is your interest in Adam Murphy? It all seems kind of random for you.”

  “I assure you, it is not random—not random at all. A point I tried to make to your chief this afternoon,” Mac answered. “He’s kind of a tool, by the way.”

  Brock slowly nodded. “He’s not the greatest cop or chief, but in his defense, he’s overwhelmed. Heck, we all are. Every cop in this bar—there’s eight of th
em and a couple of sheriff’s deputies. We literally have so many fires burning, there’s something new every day. If you’re a business owner in this town, you’re killing it because of the oil. So many people have money they’d never dreamed of, but the rest of us?” She shook her head. “Not so much.”

  “I hear you,” Mac replied.

  “Do you?” Brock asked, sensing a throwaway remark.

  “I stopped at a gas station on the south side of town as I rolled in here this afternoon. Within five minutes, I saw a drug deal go down and a prostitute jump up into the cab of a semi just before I was offered services by a not-completely-unattractive lady of the night, and I didn’t see a cop or sheriff until I got to the law enforcement center fifteen minutes later,” Mac answered seriously. “I get it—there is more than you can handle going down around here. The infrastructure hasn’t caught up with the growth.”

  “Exactly, Mr. McRyan. If we can’t close it within a day or two, it very quickly finds its way to a pile and slowly but surely finds its way to the bottom. Until you showed up today, I hadn’t thought about Adam Murphy in three days, and he’s been dead a week.” She sighed, shook her head, and took a drink of her beer. “I felt a little ashamed.”

  “First, call me Mac. Mr. McRyan just doesn’t sound right. Second, what bothered you about the Murphy case?”

  “Who said I was bothered?”

  “You did. You said it in your chief’s office with your eyes, your body language, and the mere fact that you looked up who I was after I left. All of that says to me you think there’s something amiss. So, Detective Brock, tell me what bothered you about the Murphy case.”

  “If I’m calling you Mac, you’re calling me Leah.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. What bothered you about it, Leah?”

  For the first time since he’d sat down next to her, Brock looked Mac in the eye. “It wasn’t a break-in. It was a hit.”

  “Did they come in on the prowl?”

  “They?”

  “If I’m right about who did this, there are two of them. So … on the prowl?”

  “Yes, I think they came in on the prowl.”

  “No surveillance system in the apartment building?”

  Brock went back to watching the TV. “No. Until recently, those weren’t things that were needed around here. But even without it, to get into that building without being seen, to get into the apartment without being seen?” She shook her head and sipped her beer. “That takes skills. Skills you don’t find in the people around here. That’s something you bring into town.”

  “Tell me about what you saw, what you found, and what you think,” Mac suggested as he casually twirled his whiskey glass and then finished the last of its contents.

  “The medical examiner set his time of death as between 3:00 and 4:00 A.M.”

  “Cause?”

  “Shot between the eyes.”

  “Hmm, figures.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Where was he found?” Mac asked, dodging the question for the moment.

  “He was lying on the floor, on his back, in the hallway that ran from the bedroom out to the family room.”

  The bartender approached, and Mac ordered another round and took a quick look at the menu. “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah, but go ahead. They make a solid stuffed burger in here.”

  “Cheese-stuffed, Juicy Lucy-like?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac ordered a stuffed bacon cheeseburger basket. “So what do you think happened the night of the murder?”

  “Murphy got home around midnight.”

  “How do you know?”

  Brock took a drink of her new beer. “A neighbor came into the building same time he did.”

  “You check the neighbor out?”

  “She’s not involved, unless she and her two roommates were all in on it, and they weren’t. They were all freaked. The witness is just a young girl, maybe twenty, who was getting home from her shift working the drive-thru at Burger King.” Then she turned a little sour. “By the way, do you realize they’re paying people $18.35 an hour to work the drive-thru?”

  “I’d read that somewhere.”

  “She makes more than I do.”

  “Seriously?” It was Mac’s turn to be surprised.

  “Yeah, I’m making barely thirty-five thousand, and I have a son I’m supporting.”

  “What about Dad?”

  “Who knows?” Brock answered bitterly. “He blew town three years ago, and I have no idea where he is.”

  “Must be tough,” Mac offered. “Your job isn’t the easiest one for a single mom.”

  “You’re right about that. I can’t afford a house, and the rents are sky high around here for an apartment or townhouse, so for the last two years we’ve been living with my folks.”

  “That helps, right?”

  “Yeah,” Brock nodded. “They like watching their grandchild, but still …” She looked down at the bar and her beer. “Ten years ago, my salary would have bought me a decent house and a nice, quiet life. Now …” She exhaled. “I wonder if we can even stay, given the cost to live here and what’s happening to our town. I know it’s been great for a lot of people, but honestly, there are times I wish they’d never found a drop of oil around here.”

  “Not that I’m not interested in your living arrangements, but …”

  “Right, sorry.” Brock nodded. “Sometimes I just need to vent for a second, you know?”

  “I do,” Mac offered in a toast. “Ours is not an easy job.”

  “True that,” Brock replied with a little smile. “As for Murphy, he got home at midnight, and I think he went to bed. His alarm was on, set for 6:30 A.M., and the way the blankets were flipped up suggested to me he was sleeping, heard something, flipped off his blankets, and got out of bed. He came into the hallway in a T-shirt and boxers and started walking toward the family room and then boom—one right between the eyes.”

  “So why does the chief say it’s just a break-in?”

  “Because that’s what the evidence says, for the most part. Murphy’s wallet, cell phone, and computer were gone, and the place was ransacked. Apparently he liked watches and had a collection of them. They were all gone. In fact, anything relatively small and of value was gone. Given that evidence, it was easy for him to chalk it up to a break-in for anyone who asks. If it was a hit, that gets more complicated to investigate and would require resources that—”

  “You don’t have, or if you use them, it leaves you way short somewhere else. I understand. I don’t agree with the approach, but I understand how that decision gets made.” He finished the last of his whiskey and flagged down the bartender for a beer as his burger basket arrived. Mac took a couple bites of his burger. “So for all intents and purposes, it looked like a break-in.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Brock answered. “At least I didn’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “He was shot in the head, professional-like.”

  “And let me guess,” Mac asked, “nobody heard a thing.”

  “Correct. I was thinking maybe a silencer?”

  “Leah, if the guys I’m thinking of did Murphy, I’d almost guarantee it. That’s how they came at me two nights ago.”

  “They came at you?” Brock asked.

  Mac explained who Sterling and Meredith were and described the break-in at Meredith’s and the chase through the neighborhood. “Meredith is lucky to be alive. Heck, I’m lucky.”

  Brock just shook her head. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” Mac answered. “Tell me—what do you know about the Buller family?”

  Brock turned in her chair and gave Mac a good, long look. “That was the sheriff’s case, but that was just …” She heaved a big sigh. “Just awful. I mean, the children…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Why were the Bullers killed?”

  “I heard they attributed it to meth addicts, that the break-in had all the
hallmarks of it.”

  “Yeah, just like yours had all the hallmarks of a burglary.”

  “You’re saying they’re connected?”

  “I think they are.”

  “What links them together?” Brock asked.

  “I’m looking for that link.”

  “You’re not up here just looking? You have something that connects it, don’t you?”

  Mac nodded.

  “What?”

  He hesitated.

  “I’m waaaay too interested now. You can’t leave me hanging.”

  “I found the Bullers’ property records and a copy of the investigative report on their murders in a hidden safe in Sterling’s office. Now, why would he have all that?”

  Brock shrugged. “I don’t know, but I bet Sam—excuse me, Sheriff Rawlings—would be interested to hear about it. Unlike Borland, Rawlings desperately would like answers to those murders.”

  “I plan on it when he gets in tomorrow.” Mac noticed Brock catching herself when mentioning Rawlings. “You know the sheriff well?”

  “Sure,” Brock answered. “We work in the same building. We’re cops. I see him around often. He’s a good guy.”

  An hour later, another beer and just some light talk, Mac paid their tab and scanned the bar one last time. If he was looking in the right places and talking to the right people, he was going to be drawing attention that would draw interest. That interest could be waiting around a corner or following.

  As he drove back to the hotel, he took a lengthy route, doubling back twice, constantly monitoring his rearview mirror, but he didn’t sense or a see a tail. When he arrived at the hotel, he circled the parking lot, his Sig under his right thigh, but nobody was waiting. He found a parking spot in the front row underneath the windows for his room and backed in and parked, watching the entrance to the parking lot for a few minutes, but there were no new arrivals or vehicles loitering that gave him pause.

  Inside his hotel room, he checked the security tool, a small, closed-circuit system with cameras mounted in the room, one in the hallway, and another set to monitor the parking lot. He watched the live feed for the parking lot for a few minutes. Two vehicles, a white sedan and a light-colored pickup truck, arrived and parked. Two pickups left, and then a dark-colored SUV pulled into the lot. It looked a lot like an Escalade. Mac watched as the SUV did a pass through and then exited the lot, going back from the direction it came. Mac went to the window, but the Escalade kept going off into the distance. He watched for a few minutes more, but the SUV did not return. In fact, no other vehicles entered or exited the lot. With the parking lot quiet, he quickly fast-forwarded through footage for the hallway and room, and there was nothing of concern. He secured each of the doors to both of his rooms, putting three strips of duct tape over the gap between the door and the doorframes. If anyone tried to come in, he’d have the noise of the tape ripping loose to help him react. Not to mention he would be sleeping with a gun under his pillow.