6

MONDAY, JUNE 4
9:13 P.M.
SUMMIT AVENUE, ST. PAUL

Ian strode up the sidewalk to Sean Callahan’s address, a three-story house with rounded windows and gables overhanging a front porch, with a wide lawn stretching down to the boulevard. He thought it probably had been majestic once, but now, in the moonlight, the lawn was sparse and spotted with weeds, the paint peeling from window frames and walls that looked decades past a serious encounter with a brush. Unusual for the upscale neighborhood where F. Scott Fitzgerald was raised. Ian wondered why someone hadn’t maintained such a house, and whether what he was about to discuss had any bearing on it. He also hoped it wasn’t a sign Callahan was puffing about the promised ten thousand dollars. He was in no mood for more disappointment today.

The door swung open just as he was reaching for the bell. A bulky man in a tight T-shirt, more muscle than fat, filled the doorframe. He looked to be in his thirties.

“Mr. Callahan?” Ian asked, surprised. Given the voice over the phone, the young man before him wasn’t what he’d expected.

“No,” he answered stiffly. “You the lawyer?”

Ian nodded.

“Follow me.” The man turned, the entryway light revealing a six-inch Marine Corps tattoo in deep-blue ink high on his neck.

They walked down a hallway of shaded light and thick carpet into an equally dim living room with drawn shades and a tall fireplace at one end. The room was filled with thickly stuffed furniture upholstered in rich green, suggesting a faded country estate more than an urban home. The sole exception to the monotony of color was a high-backed plush chair near the fireplace done in bright orange.

An older man was standing behind one of the stuffed green chairs directly opposite the orange one, wearing tan slacks and a navy-blue polo shirt. Gray hair topped a face creased and tan. Though probably twenty years older than the Marine, he was nearly as muscular. He stood immobile as the Marine left, before gesturing Ian to the orange chair. Then he crossed the room to hand Ian a glass from a side table.

“Orange juice,” he announced in a light Irish accent. “Care to ‘sweeten’ it?” He pointed to a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the mantel.

Ian considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, taking his appointed chair. “You’re Mr. Callahan?”

“Sean is fine.” Callahan poured some of the whiskey into his own glass. “Cheers,” he said, raising it.

Ian raised his glass. “Cheers.” He sipped it carefully. Straight orange juice. He set it on a side table, atop a manila envelope.

As Callahan returned to his chair, Ian glanced around the room, feeling uncomfortable in the scarce light. “Relative?” he asked, gesturing toward the door where the Marine had retreated.

Callahan shook his head. “No. Aaron works in my business. And he’s a sparring partner.”

Ian raised his eyebrows at the boxing reference. Silence returned. “The green furniture,” Ian said in an attempt to pick up the conversation. “Irish colors?”

“Aye. True Irish.”

Green. True Irish. Ian looked down at the arm of his chair—bright orange. “Then you’re from Ireland, Sean?”

“It would appear so,” Callahan replied—only now his words were fully saturated with the accent he’d only hinted at before. “The man whose business we’ll be discussin’ brought me over from Belfast when I was twelve. Got me out of the troubles when my da died. He put me through school and gave me a job. I’ve made it a point to go back for a few months most every year since comin’ to America.” Callahan paused as he appraised Ian. “And what about you, Ian? English roots?”

Ian smiled. “My first name was a compromise. I’m told my mother is Irish from way back. My father had some English blood.”

“A mixed marriage,” Callahan responded, not bothering to match Ian’s friendly demeanor. “A surefire source of trouble. ‘Ian’ sounds like it was the Irish did the compromisin’. If my da hadda felt like compromisin’ with the English, he never would’ve starved to death in prison.”

The words and tone jolted Ian. The “troubles” must refer to Northern Ireland back in the sixties and seventies. And starve in prison? Callahan’s father had to have been a hunger striker with the IRA.

There was no safe ground in this minefield. He decided to switch topics. “What do you do for a living, Sean?”

He stared at Ian for another long moment before speaking, as though defiant about leaving talk of the so-called troubles. “I’m in construction,” he finally replied.

Ian nodded, not caring what Callahan did but pleased to segue to safer ground. Mostly he wanted to get down to business, retreat from this stuffy room, and put the day to rest. “Tell me about this trust issue,” he said.

Callahan set his drink aside, and with it the deeper Irish accent. “It’s a simple thing, really. James Doyle set up a trust for his fortune right after his wife, Christina, passed away in ’98. Some years later, Mr. Doyle followed her to his grave. The estate’s funds are scattered about a few banks in the Caribbean and Belize, but Doyle’s trust covers every dime of them. Our representative at Wells Fargo is the only one at present with access to the funds. And the James Doyle Trust includes his wishes about distribution.”

“When did Mr. Doyle die?”

“2008.”

“Alright,” Ian said. “How big an estate are we talking about?”

“Nine million and some change,” Callahan said with another appraising look at Ian.

Ian had personally handled estates of a million or two when cleaning up his father’s files, but this was far beyond anything he’d managed before. He wavered for a moment, then reminded himself of the retainer. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He’d get Dennis’s help if he needed it.

“What’s the problem with the trust?” Ian asked.

The Irishman squared his shoulders as if he was readying to deliver a blow. “The money’s been in the trust for nearly two decades. In fact, a week from Tuesday will be the twentieth anniversary from when the trust was set up in 1998. There are three beneficiaries. On the anniversary, the funds are to be distributed to the three. One of them has children, and the trust says his portion will be split equally between him and his children. Twins. A girl and a boy.”

It sounded straightforward. Simple even. Ian relaxed a bit. “So, what’s the problem?”

“There’s a qualification for each beneficiary in order to get their portion of the trust.”

“Which is?”

“No beneficiary receives a dime of the money if they’ve been involved in any criminal activity since Mr. Doyle formed the trust in ’98.”

“You must mean no criminal convictions,” Ian corrected. “Confirming whether a person has stayed out of all criminal activity going back so many years would be tough to do.”

“No, Mr. Wells,” Callahan said. “The trust definitely says any ‘criminal activity,’ not convictions. And as I was saying, the anniversary date is eight days from today.”

“Okay,” Ian replied. “And you want me to do what exactly?”

“You’re to determine if the three beneficiaries qualify for the trust. You are also to take the money into your control and, along with the Wells Fargo banker, handle the final distribution.”

Ian contemplated the task and the time limit. “What happens to the shares of the beneficiary with children if he doesn’t qualify?”

Sean picked up his glass and took another sip of his orange juice and whiskey. “If that beneficiary fails the test, neither he nor his family gets any of the money. That beneficiary’s share gets split between the remaining two recipients, assuming they qualify—with a bit set aside for the pope.”

“I guess we can assume from these terms,” Ian began carefully, recalling Callahan’s Irish history, “that Mr. Doyle was worried one or more of the beneficiaries might already be involved in criminal activity when he created the trust.”

Sean Callahan shrugged. “What’s it matter to you? All you’ve got to do is determine whether they lived the life of the straight-and-narrow starting the day after the trust went into effect.”

Ian shook his head. “How do you believe I could make that decision—twenty years later?”

“Any way you please,” Callahan said breezily. “So long as it’s done very privately, and I, as trustee, am content with the credibility of your conclusions. Oh, and to get you started, I’m authorized to pay you that ten-thousand-dollar retainer I mentioned on the phone. As I said, the trust provides for the remaining funds to go into a special account to be set up at your firm while you do the investigation. Once you, I, and the banker sign off on your conclusions, you distribute the funds. It’s all laid out in the trust documents.” He pointed to the manila envelope beneath Ian’s orange juice.

“Eight days isn’t much time,” Ian said, “and I’m not a professional investigator.”

Callahan rejected the objections with a wave of his hand. “You’ll not be writing a book here, Mr. Wells. You’ll be gathering limited information on three individuals covering a certain period of time. In fact, you shouldn’t trouble yourself with any history of the beneficiaries before the trust’s origin in 1998. In this day and age, eight days should be enough time for you to reach the necessary conclusions.”

Ian wasn’t so sure but simply nodded. He reached for the folder. “Who are the three beneficiaries?”

“Rory Doyle, James Doyle’s son. Edward McMartin, who was James Doyle’s brother-in-law. And myself.”

“What is your legal relationship to Mr. Doyle?”

Callahan hesitated. “None, legally. A foster son, you could say.”

“Well,” Ian said, “the work seems straightforward enough, although I repeat that—”

“Your fee,” Callahan interrupted, “for the investigation and distributions will be two hundred thousand.”

In the stillness that followed the statement, Ian stared at the dust motes drifting through the hazy light of the lamp at his side—tiny globes in a tiny solar system. After a moment, he roused himself to clear his suddenly thick throat.

“For eight days’ work? Two hundred thousand dollars?”

Callahan nodded.

Now the dimly lit room shrunk to Callahan’s form in his stuffed green chair. “That’s a steep fee,” Ian said.

Callahan nodded again. “That’s the fee Mr. Doyle agreed to pay for this service.”

“Agreed with whom?”

“With the person who created the trust for Mr. Doyle. You see, that lawyer was intended to play your role, but sadly he’s since passed away. In his absence, you’ve been chosen.”

Ian hesitated, hardly able to absorb the magnitude of the fee.

Callahan drained the last of his drink, watching Ian over the rim of his glass. “Mr. Wells, I’m sure you’ve had a sterling legal practice these past four years—”

“Five,” Ian said, embarrassed at how hollow the defense of his experience sounded.

“Aye, five.” Callahan smiled. “But I’d be willing to wager that this is the largest fee you’ve been offered for little more than a week of work, and if you should live another thousand years, perhaps ever will. So can I assume you’ll be taking the matter on?”

Ian sat motionless for a long interval. “Do the beneficiaries know I’ll be doing this?”

“Aye,” Callahan said with a nod. “Mr. McMartin lives in Florida and is a bit . . . infirm, but is aware the process is beginning. And Rory—Mr. Doyle’s son—is acutely aware.”

Ian’s throat had grown strangely parched. Why was he hesitating? He reached for his orange juice, feeling moisture that could either be his hand or the cool surface of the glass.

He set the glass back down without drinking, feeling his heart pulsing in his fingertips. He looked at the manila envelope on the table beside him.

He hated what he knew he must say.

“Mr. Callahan, that fee is impossibly high. I can’t accept it.”

Callahan shrugged. “I’m afraid the fee is set by the trust document. If you wish, give it away. But if you’re to take the case, the fee can’t change.”

Ian shook his head in disbelief. “That makes no more sense than the fee itself.”

“I didn’t draft the trust, Counselor. I didn’t have any role with the attorney who did. But I can’t see your objection. Have I told you a single task you see as unethical or illegal?”

Ian responded slowly. “Well . . . no.”

“Then you object to being paid well for your legal services, is that it?”

The banker this morning. His mother tonight. The lawsuit that loomed. His brain tallied all the needs for money as his heart kept pounding out objections.

“That’s not the point,” Ian said with waning determination.

“Mr. Wells,” the man said, his Irish tongue returning at the edges, “I can see you’re conflicted. I tell ya what. I’ll give ya until tomorrow at noon to decide.”

Ian opened his mouth to say he didn’t need the extra time. Closed it again.

Given all that was at stake, he’d take that night. He reached out and picked up the envelope. “Alright. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

Almost to Ian’s disappointment, Callahan nodded impassively—as though he’d expected Ian’s retreat from his resolve. “I’ll await your call,” the Irishman said, abruptly closing the meeting. He stood to lead them out of the shadowy living room.

At the front door, Callahan pointed to the manila envelope in Ian’s hand. “In the event you agree to handle the matter, Mr. Wells, you’ll find the trust in that folder as well as tax and employment information for both Mr. McMartin and myself to get you started on your investigation. Regarding Rory Doyle, you’ll need to collect that kind of information directly from him when you meet.”

Ian nodded.

Callahan pulled another envelope, this one business-sized, from his pocket and handed it to Ian. “Here’s your retainer. Ten thousand dollars.”

“I’ll accept that if I take the case,” Ian said.

Callahan didn’t withdraw his hand. “If you say yes, I’d rather you have the funds so you can get right to it. If you decide otherwise, return the money along with the other papers in the afternoon.”

Ian accepted the new envelope. Half expecting it was some kind of hoax, he pulled open the flap. Inside was a thick sheaf of bills.

“Because time’s short,” Callahan went on, “I arranged in advance for your first meeting with Rory Doyle Wednesday night—day after tomorrow. Rory will meet you at eight in the evening at Larry’s Bar in Minneapolis, Rory’s favorite watering hole. Then it’s up to you how you proceed—so long as you act discreetly, within the eight days, and I’m satisfied with the credibility of the result.”

Ian heard the conviction in Callahan’s voice that he would certainly accept the job in the end. Through a crowd of thoughts, a question formed. “If I agree to do the work, do you get to decide if my conclusions about your past are acceptable?”

Callahan shook his head. “You’ll see in the trust that I have no veto of any decision on your part as to whether I qualify as a beneficiary.”

The client extended a hand. Ian shifted the folder and envelope to his left hand and accepted the offer with his right.

Callahan’s fingers tightened on Ian’s in a crushing grip. He leaned close enough to engulf them both in a breath of alcohol and citrus.

“If ya take the case, I’ll be expectin’ your best work here,” Callahan said, his voice steeped now in the deepest Gaelic accent. “And your most careful handlin’ of the trust proceeds. Let me emphasize again that there’s no need to be pryin’ into any of the beneficiaries’ histories before ’98.”

Ian yanked his hand back, his vision red and his face hot. He shoved the cash and manila envelopes back at the client. “If you’re worried you can’t trust me,” he said into the Irishman’s face, “you shouldn’t have called in the first place. In fact, I haven’t a clue why you did.”

Callahan took a step back and slid his hands into his pockets. “Mr. Doyle was always a big believer that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said with a thin, unworried smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian replied, the envelopes still extended.

“Let me be more plain: Mr. Doyle admired the work of your father, and it seemed a natural thing to be hirin’ you since he’s passed on.”

Ian’s arm fell. He shook his head in disbelief. “What work did my father ever do for Mr. Doyle?”

“Why, I thought it was obvious,” Callahan said, still smiling. “’Twas your father who prepared the trust for Mr. Doyle back in the day.”