OMERNIC went to talk some more to the building manager who said there was no suitcase in the apartment when he went in to start cleaning up. No, not just none in the living room, there wasn’t a suitcase in the apartment. Yes, he opened the two closets. No passport lying out in the open, either. Of course it could have been put into a drawer; he didn’t open any drawers.
“Anything gone missing?” asked Omernic.
“I didn’t notice anything—but I wouldn’t, would I? Except if he took the couch or the bed or the stove, and he didn’t.”
“I was thinking like toothbrush, underwear, aftershave,” said Omernic. “And maybe there’s a notepad by the phone with an address on it, telling us where he’s gone.”
The man rubbed his jaw while he thought. Then he shook his head. “Nope, I didn’t notice anything missing in particular, or a note with an address on it. But I wasn’t looking, either. Want to go in yourself?”
“Not right now,” said Omernic, thinking of the rules about admissible evidence. “But could you lock the door and keep it locked? I may be back later with a search warrant.”
“So the fella was a crook, was he? I kinda wondered.”
“You did? Why was that?”
Here the manager became a little vague, perhaps because Omernic’s tone was sharp.
Omernic asked, “Have you changed the locks?”
“I’m about to do that right now.”
“Good. If Mr. Milan comes to you asking to get back inside his apartment, let him, and call me right away.” He gave the man a card with his office and cell phone numbers on it.
Omernic came back a few hours later with a search warrant and a small crew. The warrant described Tony Milan, aka Stoney Durand, as a murder suspect and possible fugitive, and stated that the police were looking for evidence of flight and evidence relating to the murder of one Robert Germaine. The search took longer than Omernic thought necessary—but searches generally did—and afterward Omernic asked the manager some more questions.
Though it was past quitting time when all was done at the apartment building, Omernic went back to his office and sat down at his computer terminal to write up his notes.
Milan was last seen outside his apartment that night with only his crutch. He’d been fully dressed, so he also had, probably, his wallet and keys. No, obviously he had his wallet and keys, since he’d gotten clean away—meaning a cab or other transport he’d paid for—and since he’d gotten back in without breaking down the door. (The manager had repaired the damage done by the neighbor in breaking in.)
But now a suitcase, a passport, and the two prescriptions Schulz had picked up for him were missing. An airline ticket, unused and still in its little folder, was found in a wastebasket. It was issued to a passenger named Ronnie Moreland and was budget class to Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, via Paris. So he’d been thinking of skipping the country—evidence of guilty knowledge. Also of some preplanning, since the flight was to have left the day after Bob Germaine was murdered.
So why hadn’t he gone? Omernic wondered. He was out at the airport, that’s where he stashed Germaine’s body. Why hadn’t he just gone to the main terminal and spent the day there, safely away from his apartment, to take the evening flight out of the country?
He’d come all the way back into the city—how? By light rail, possibly. Why? To collect his car—where had he left it? And been driving—where? Home, probably, to pick up his suitcase and ticket—why hadn’t he put them in the car?—when a drunk ran a light and rammed him.
He saved the file and shut off his computer, wondering if that woman with the keen brain and broken leg out in Excelsior had any ideas.
Before he could leave, Lieutenant O’Bryan, Omernic’s boss, came in. “I’ve got some more information for you on that Tony Milan case you’re working,” he said.
“Yessir?” said Omernic, sitting back down and pulling out his notebook.
“I had a meeting today with the FBI, a Heart Coalition executive named Erskine Morrison, and a couple of bank representatives from First Express and Wells Fargo,” he said.
“Why the fed?” asked Omernic.
“Bank fraud,” explained O’Bryan.
Omernic took notes as O’Bryan told the sad story of how the Heart Coalition was defrauded of contributions by means of a phony bank account set up by Tony Milan at First Express, and how it came to light when a contributor complained her check went astray. Bank fraud is a federal crime, so now the FBI was also after Mr. Milan.
“How much did he steal?” asked Omernic.
“Fifteen thousand two hundred and sixty-three dollars, over a period lasting just over a year. Not enough to jiggle any alarms at the Heart Coalition, he was pretty clever about that. He drew on the account, so there’s only a little over four thousand left. He made an attempt to close it the day he was fired, but questions were raised—he didn’t have his Heart Coalition ID anymore, and he was acting pretty hinky. He said he’d come back, but of course he didn’t. I take it you busted him while I was at the meeting.”
“No, sir,” said Omernic, and explained about the fire, and how it was a pity that this minute he wasn’t sitting in an interrogation room across from Tony “Stoney Durand” Milan. Godwin DuLac and his backer, Ms. Devonshire, were pretty damn clever figuring it out.
“Oh, this won’t do, Sergeant,” said O’Bryan. “I want this man found. I want him found right away.” When O’Bryan was upset, a faint Irish accent showed in his voice. It was currently present.
“Yessir,” said Omernic.
So without a break for supper, Omernic went to a leather bar called the Eagle near downtown Minneapolis. He didn’t envy O’Bryan, doubtless having a conversation with the chief about this.
The Eagle smelled of hard liquor, oiled leather, and cigarette smoke (Minneapolis was “smoke free” but no one wanted to be the one to tell the Eagle’s customers not to light up). The bartender had a shaved head and an eye that didn’t track.
Omernic could feel waves of hostility coming off him and the customers, most of whom seemed addicted to both weight lifting and tattoos. But he maintained his cool, which warmed the chill enough to get an answer or two. Some acknowledged they knew Stoney. But no one had seen or heard from him since he was hurt in a car accident.
Omernic next tried the Gay Nineties on Hennepin, where dropping Godwin’s name elicited several confessions from people who had heard from Stoney. He had wanted a place to stay after being burned out. But no one had granted his request, and none knew where he was staying.
Omernic then went to Vera’s, a coffee bar over on Lyndale. Here the atmosphere was much more pleasant. Mostly young people sat at tables in a comfortable room overseen by a large color portrait of a woman with the dress and hairstyle of the 1930s. They looked ordinary enough, drinking coffee or eating sandwiches or salads, some poking at laptops. But men sat strictly with men, and women with women. There was a nice deck outside, festooned with strings of lights, but they were waving hard in a driving wind that was whipping the boards with sleet, so it was unoccupied.
Omernic asked the young man behind the counter if he knew Stoney Durand. The response was somewhat elliptical—but when he dropped Godwin’s name, the young man unbent. And the purchase of a big, gooey cinnamon roll and a large café latte made him almost friendly. Yes, he knew Stoney. No, he hadn’t seen him in a while, maybe two or three weeks. Well, yes, he’d heard from him, got a phone call from him. Stoney said he’d been burned out of his apartment and was looking for a place to stay. No, he hadn’t invited Stoney over, Stoney was inclined to invite third parties over without permission, to borrow money without paying it back, to poke through drawers and pockets when no one was looking and take things that weren’t his. And while he could dish the dirt and was a great cook, sometimes that just wasn’t enough.
Two other men in the room also knew Stoney, and one had also received a request for a place to crash for a couple of days, a request turned down for pretty much the same reasons. “What goes around comes around, you know,” said the man with an air of being original. None of them knew where he was right now. None of the women had ever heard of Stoney Durand.
Omernic went back to his office downtown to turn his notes into a report. And leave an e-mail message for O’Bryan that he hadn’t located Tony Milan.