2

TWENTY YEARS LATER
MONDAY, JUNE 4, 2018
FALCON HEIGHTS
SUBURBAN ST. PAUL

Ian Wells’s eyes opened wide. The sheets wound a tight grip around his legs. The pillow was lost somewhere in the darkness.

He’d had the nightmare again. It had been a couple of years since the last time. The dream always seemed to surface around this time of year—his birthday dream, he called it—though he could seldom recall the details once awake. A funeral. Rain. Palm trees. A large man calling him “little Master.” Vivid images that quickly slid out of memory, although not all were leaving so quickly this morning. The outline of a casket with men at its side lingered in his mind like shadows against closed eyelids.

Rolling to his stomach, he waited for the last vestiges of distress the dream always brought to disappear.

Slowly it slipped away.

He turned to the bedside clock—and groaned. Nine-fifteen. He was due at the bank in half an hour, which meant no time for a shower or shave. Which also meant he’d be working at the law office less than his best, then showing up at Mom’s house for his early birthday dinner the same way.

He sat up, suddenly angry. Adrianne should be here for the coming bank meeting to face the music with him. Mom’s money woes weren’t only his responsibility. Maybe his younger sister had moved to Seattle before Mom got sick, but after graduation she could have come back to help, couldn’t she?

Ian looked around his shadowed apartment bedroom, decorated with only a single bookshelf and his bike propped against the wall. His gaze shifted to the shuttered window. Half a mile away was the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, still a ghost town for a few more months. If he wasn’t dealing with this problem, he could blow out his frustration with a run past the empty vendor sheds and pavilions and silent arcades. Or take the bike west to the Mississippi and down the bluffs near the Stone Arch Bridge. An hour or two just for himself. Was that too much to ask?

None of that was happening today.

Another surge of self-pity arrived as he pushed to his feet. This one he held off. “Wallowing is for pigs,” his best friend, Brook, used to say when Ian would show up for class in law school complaining about the workload. Today was coming at him whether he liked it or not, whether his sister was here or not, and whether he got any exercise or not.

He rose from bed, straightened his shoulders, and in defiance of his mood started whistling the first tune that came to mind as he grabbed his clothes and trundled toward the bathroom.

PINNACLE BANK
SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS

“What I’m telling you, Mr. Wells, is that there’s not enough equity left in your mother’s house to support an extension of the loan. I’m very sorry.”

Ian nodded, even though the twentysomething banker didn’t sound particularly sorry. He thought of asking whether that sorrow extended to reaching into his own wallet for a personal loan, but the sarcasm would have been lost on a guy who was only delivering his underwriter’s verdict anyway.

“What about my application for an unsecured loan?” Ian asked. “My law-practice income has gone up every year of the past five since I took on my dad’s practice. Could be faster, I admit, but like I explained on the forms, I’ve been transitioning out of his trusts-and-estates work into criminal defense.”

Ian would have gone on but stopped as he gauged the banker’s expression. He’d argued before enough judges to know when not a word he could utter would affect a decision already reached.

“Again, I’m very sorry, Mr. Wells,” the banker said, his pained smile unwavering, like it had been stapled there. “But Pinnacle Bank doesn’t make personal loans based on service businesses without a longer track record. I’m afraid things have changed since the Great Recession.”

Which you experienced while in elementary school, Ian wanted to say. Except that remark would have sounded hollow to a banker only five or six years younger than Ian himself.

“Thanks,” Ian muttered, standing to leave. Third strike. Three banks in a row. He shook the banker’s outstretched hand.

In the parking lot, his mood hadn’t lightened. Once he started the engine, the speakers kicked in with a loud ring via the car’s Bluetooth. Ian turned down the volume, then tapped a button on the steering wheel to answer the call. “Yeah,” he said.

“Getting a late start, hon?” It was Katie from the office, her church-choir voice resonating with annoying morning energy.

“Had a personal appointment,” Ian grumbled at the sarcasm. “If this is a wake-up call, I’d prefer a text. I’m sure you’ve heard of that technology.”

“Heard of it,” his legal assistant said, still relentlessly cheerful. “Rejected it. I know how to use an alarm clock, though. Be happy to train you in that technology sometime.”

He was too low to win the exchange. “What’s the crisis?”

“Well, first, don’t forget you’ve got Willy Dryer scheduled for later this morning.”

“I know,” he replied, seeing his unshaven face in the rearview mirror again. “I’m on my way in now.”

“Great. Next, I sent you an email on Sunday about a new client who left a voicemail Saturday night. Needs to see you right away—as in today.”

Ian recalled the email and perked up. “I saw that. That’s good news. What’s the name again?”

“Callahan. Sean Callahan.”

It sounded familiar. “What’s he been charged with?”

“It’s not a criminal case. He’s got a crisis with some kind of family trust.”

Ian rubbed his eyes, trying to recall where he’d heard the name. It’d been over a year since the last estate work he’d done cleaning up his dad’s practice. “You sure this guy asked for me and not Dennis?”

“Yep. Could be he doesn’t know you’re a criminal defense lawyer now, or maybe he’s mixing you up with your dad. My theory is he heard you may be representing Willy Dryer again and thought you could use a client who actually pays his bills.”

Ian shook his head. When she got on a roll, Katie was unstoppable. “Nice. Hope you’ve set up Willy’s new file. Same billable rate as last time.”

“Got it. Zero.”

He ignored her this round. “Did this Callahan actually say it was a crisis?”

“His word was ‘critical,’” Katie responded. “I caught it exactly, because in all the years working with your dad, I never heard anybody use that word in the same sentence as ‘family trust.’ So, you want Dennis to call him back?”

The banker’s meeting he’d just left came to mind. “No. I need the cash flow, and you know Dennis is hardly coming in now—especially on Mondays. If I see it’s too complicated, I’ll get his advice. When did Callahan say he wanted to talk to me?”

“I haven’t called him back yet.”

“Alright. Set him up for a phone meeting later this morning. After I meet with Willy.”