The St. Paul Conspiracy (11 page)

“I do.”

“Are you all set with McRyan and Lich tonight?

“Yes.”

“What do you think of them?” asked Anderson, a touch of skepticism in her voice.

Sally gave it some thought before responding. “I don’t know yet. Lich’s been around, although it sounds as if he’ll occasionally talk out of school to the media.”

“What about McRyan?” Helen pushed.

“I haven’t seen him in action. The chief and Peters obviously think highly of him. I sense you have your doubts?”

“He strikes me as a lightweight,” Anderson replied. “I want you to call me tonight after you’re done to let me know. I can always press Charlie to make a change.”

Sally had to stifle a laugh. Helen Anderson would have absolutely no ability whatsoever to get Chief Charles Flanagan to change a detective on a case. Sally had seen first hand in the past two days—Flanagan ran his department
his
way, politics be damned. She rather liked it, too—doing the right thing as opposed to the politically expedient one. If the chief thought McRyan was right for the case, so be it. Nonetheless, she needed to keep her boss informed. “I assume I can reach you at home tonight.”

“No,” Helen answered. “Call me on my cell.”

“What, a hot date?”

“No,” Anderson replied coolly. “Fundraiser.”

* * * * *

Mac was late. He’d stopped for a workout at a buddy’s gym. He’d finished by 6:30 p.m., but then his buddy, Joe Ball, went into his stand-up routine. Joe was a classic, ten jokes at the drop of a hat. Mac couldn’t tell a joke to save his life. Joe’s stand-up routine caused Mac to lose track of time and suddenly it was 6:50. Mac rushed out of the club, got in the Explorer and raced for his place. He pulled in right at 7:00 p.m. and ran up to his third-floor apartment. He got in and threw his gym bag in the spare bedroom when the doorbell rang. Sally.

Mac hit the buzzer to let her up. He needed to take a quick shower. But first he ran into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers, Grain Belts. As he was walking back in with the beers, there was a knock on the door. He opened it up.
Whoa
.

* * * * *

Since Lich was not going to be at the meeting, Sally had decided a quick shower and change of clothes would be in order. She was attracted to McRyan and thought maybe it was time he saw her in something a little different than her business suits.

After her shower, she took a look in her closet and tried on a few different ensembles, settling on a pair of tight tan suede pants and a body-forming white-ribbed turtleneck. The outfit would allow appreciation of her figure. She let her fiery red hair down to its regular shoulder length, and put a little curl in it so it fell just over her right eye. Leaving her glasses behind, she popped in her contacts. The outfit was completed with some silver hoop earrings, soft red lipstick and makeup, a bit more than she normally put on. Her mirror confirmed it—she looked good.

McRyan apparently thought so as well.

* * * * *

Mac’s heart skipped a beat, and he did a double take. He almost didn’t recognize her. She looked fantastic. “Come in.” He said, trying to be cool.

Sally gave him a little smile and walked by him and took off her coat. Mac finally remembered to speak. “I’m sorry. I went to work out. I just got home. I need to hop in the shower quick.”

“No problem,” replied Sally.

“Before I do that, I should order. Pizza okay?”

“Yeah, great.”

Mac asked, “Pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, what do you like?”

“I love garbage pizzas.”

Mac grinned. A woman after his own heart. “I’m on it. By the way, I grabbed a couple of Grain Belts out of the fridge.”

“Great. I could use a beer.”

“I’m... ah... going to hit the shower,” he waved his arm around his apartment. “What’s mine is yours.”

* * * * *

Sally walked around while Mac showered. She was pleased her outfit seemed to have had the desired effect. Of course, this was a strictly professional meeting, and they needed to prepare for the senator. Nonetheless, she was having some fun again.

Mac had the whole third floor of the Summit Avenue mansion. It was a large space. She was a bit surprised that it was tastefully appointed with a large black leather couch with a matching love seat and two chairs. A big, weathered, antique trunk served as the coffee table. She perused a book shelf. He had a collection of mystery and military thrillers and was obviously a fan of John Sandford and Vince Flynn. Next to the bookshelf were two large, framed, autographed posters. One was of Kirby Puckett, pumping his fist, having just hit the winning homer in the eleventh inning of Game Six of the 1991 World Series. The other was Bruce Springsteen, the best ever.

At the end of the living room on the right was the kitchen. It was small, had an old gas stove, a small fridge and microwave but not much else. There was barely room for the sink and cupboards. What caught her attention, however, was the door out to a small deck.

The deck made whatever Mac was paying for the place worth it. The view was panoramic. To the right she had a view over the Mississippi River and the High Bridge. Straight ahead was downtown St. Paul, a perfect view of the skyline, as well as the Xcel Energy Center and Science Museum. To the left was the State Capitol, brightly lit. She imagined McRyan spent summer nights sitting on the deck, having a beer and surveying the city.

She could still hear the water running when she walked back in and sat down on the couch and started thumbing through a
Sports Illustrated
.

* * * * *

Mac took a quick shower, put on a pair of jeans and threw on a black mock turtleneck. Sally had stunned him. She was not unattractive at work. In talking with her at the Pub the night before, he realized that underneath the professional veneer was a very attractive woman. But it was clear how much she dressed professionally and was all business while at work.

He stopped in his office and grabbed his notepad and then walked back out into the living room to find Sally sitting on the black leather couch. Mac grabbed his beer and sat down in one of the black leather chairs. “Pizza should be here in a few. Should we get started?”

“Yeah. Other than Senator Johnson’s prints, anything new today?”

“No.”

Mac mentioned that the remaining neighbors hadn’t seen anything, and that the few people who’d threatened Daniels because of her work, didn’t look good.

“Anyone else you haven’t talked to?”

“A few people in Daniels’ neighborhood haven’t been home when we’ve knocked. They might be out of town. I’ve left my card. I’m sure we’ll hear from them eventually, although, at this point, I’d be stunned if anything came from it.”

“So, it looks like the senator’s the guy?”

“Looks that way,” replied Mac, grabbing his notepad and pen. “So, when we meet with the senator tomorrow, do you think Hisle will let him talk?”

Just as Sally opened her mouth to answer, the doorbell buzzed.

The pizza was a Classic Supreme with everything on it but anchovies and black olives from Classic Italian Pizza. Mac grabbed a cutting board from the kitchen on which to set the pizza. Plates, forks and napkins were grabbed as well, along with two more beers. The spicy aroma of hot pizza made both of them realize it was getting late and they hadn’t eaten. The pizza didn’t stand a chance. Once it had been devoured, they got back to business.

Mac started pretty much where they had left off. “So, when we meet Johnson tomorrow, do you think he’ll talk or be a mute?”

That was the $50,000 question. Would Hisle let his client talk? “Were this a run-of-the-mill murder case, probably not,” Sally said.

“But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill murder case, is it?”

Shaking her head, “No, it’s not.”

Mac took a pull from his beer, leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “So, in this case, you think he’ll talk?”

“Some.” She said this thoughtfully.

He lowered his head and looked straight at her, “How much is some?”

“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’ll 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’d 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 had 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’ll 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.”