20
THURSDAY, JUNE 7
10:51 P.M.
WELLS FARGO BUILDING
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
A heavyset man in a suit appeared on the opposite side of the glass doors of the Wells Fargo Building, a security card in his hand. As Ian watched, he slid it through a card reader. The door unlatched with a click and Ian walked through.
Sean Callahan was standing in the empty lobby beside the vacated guard’s desk, arms folded across his chest.
“Randolph Fordham, this is Ian Wells,” he said curtly.
Ian shook Fordham’s limp hand. The squat banker said nothing but immediately began walking toward the elevators.
On the fortieth floor, the banker didn’t bother to turn on the lights as Ian and Callahan followed him down a dark hallway that felt like a long, narrow vault. Near the end of the hall, he led them into a room and flicked on the lights of a windowless office, empty but for a desk, a computer, and a few chairs.
“This is a guest office,” Fordham explained. “The bank keeps it for visiting execs.”
“Isn’t this all a little strange,” Ian said, “doing a wire transfer at night?”
Fordham took a seat in front of the computer. “My counterpart in Grand Cayman was only available at this hour,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“Mr. Fordham,” Callahan explained to Ian, “made the arrangements for this service with Mr. Doyle twenty years ago when the trust was set up. I’m sure you’ve read the trust and know that besides makin’ tonight’s transfer to a new account, after your investigation, with you and I agreeing on who’s to receive the money, you’ll be directin’ Mr. Fordham concerning the final distributions.”
“I also saw,” Ian said, looking back to the banker for confirmation, “that if we don’t agree, Mr. Fordham casts the final vote.”
Fordham eyed Ian with a blank expression. “That’s correct. Now, I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a new account at your law firm in which to hold the trust money. Do you have the acknowledgment form?”
Ian pulled the folded sheet of paper he’d prepared earlier from his coat pocket. Fordham read it quickly, then slid it back across the desk with a pen and several other documents. “Mr. Wells, please sign these forms to formalize the new account, and both of you will need to sign your agreement to move the trust proceeds into this account.”
Callahan took the pen and scribbled his name on the acknowledgment. Ian signed the account forms and, with much less certainty than his client, did the same with the acknowledgment.
“I’ve got another question,” Ian said. “Why does my firm need to hold the money at all? Why can’t it stay where it’s at till the distribution?”
“Because those were Mr. Doyle’s wishes,” Callahan growled. “I’d say it’s a compliment, Mr. Doyle thinkin’ his lawyer could do the best job of carin’ for the cash.”
“Very well,” Fordham said, focusing on the computer screen. “Over the past six months, per agreed-upon procedures, the trust funds have been accumulated in a bank associated with Wells Fargo, the First Trust Bank of Grand Cayman.” He looked up at Ian. “Your predecessor approved of these arrangements when he drafted the trust.”
“You mean Connor Wells,” Ian confirmed uneasily.
The banker nodded as he typed.
Would his father also have agreed to this arrangement? Ian wondered, glancing into the dark hallway. A wire transfer in the middle of the night?
“Twenty years is a long time,” Ian said aloud. “What if you’d been hit by a truck, Mr. Fordham, or changed jobs? Who would have done all this then?”
“Provision was made for a successor to handle the transactions,” the banker said. “Just as the trust provided that Mr. Callahan, as trustee, could select your father’s replacement.”
“Yeah,” Callahan said offhandedly. “Fortunately, Mr. Fordham and his wife are great fans of Grand Cayman, isn’t that so?”
The banker cast a nervous glance at Callahan. “Yes, that’s true.” He typed for a few more minutes. “Gentlemen, I will be transferring the entirety of the proceeds to the Wells & Hoy Law Office Trust Fund Account, routing and account number as follows.” He read off the bank account information. “At that point,” the banker continued, “the funds will be under your care, Mr. Wells. Once you’ve completed your investigation of the beneficiaries and you and Mr. Callahan concur on the results, you will each confirm distribution to the appropriate recipients. In the event you disagree, I will make the final decision. Is that understood?”
Ian cleared his throat. “Yes,” he replied.
“Good.” Fordham typed a few more lines, then pressed the Enter button. “The wire transfer is in process. The funds will be in your new account this evening.”
“How much?” Ian asked.
“Nine million, two hundred and thirty-six thousand, two hundred and seventy-two dollars and eighty-six cents,” the banker said. “That’s the contents of the trust, net of certain transfer fees.”
“Which I’ll be looking at closely,” Callahan said firmly.
“Yes,” Fordham muttered. “Of course.”
Fordham walked them back to the lobby, where he shook each of their hands with the same soft, now-sweaty handshake. He turned eagerly away and retreated back toward the elevators.
Callahan looked Ian up and down. “So that’s handled,” he said calmly. “How’s the investigation comin’?”
“It’s coming,” Ian said, nearly claustrophobic in the dark lobby.
“Tell me about it.”
Ian considered the Irishman and the man’s complete comfort with the strange process they’d just completed. He took a breath and briefly explained the results of the criminal background checks he’d ordered, his review of McMartin’s and Callahan’s information, and his meeting with Rory Doyle. He quickly went through a summary of his talk with Rory’s daughter. “I’ve also met with a source who knew the Minneapolis underworld in the ’90s,” he finished.
“Who’s that?” Callahan asked.
Ian told him.
Callahan’s eyebrows rose. “Anthony Ahmetti? I’m impressed at your initiative, Ian. And what did your source have to say?”
Ian looked Callahan in the eye. Callahan had said the Albanian’s name as though it was familiar. “He just gave me some suggestions on getting more information. About Rory in particular.”
Callahan studied him as if catching a hint of Ian’s restraint in not sharing all of Ahmetti’s news—or even the ICRs. “Well, cheers to all that,” Callahan said. “That’s progress in just three days. That last bit especially. Though I doubt the rest of your inquiries with bosses and family will get ya anywhere with Rory.”
Ian grew defensive. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I doubt Rory would’ve told his bosses he’d been sellin’ meth the night before or that he came home at night to tell his missus, ‘Had a great day. Robbed a Holiday station and stole some credit cards. Pass the peas, will ya, sweetie?’”
Defensiveness gave way to anger, amplified by Ian’s fatigue. “So where else would you suggest I look after twenty years?”
“No, no, do your lawyerin’, son,” Callahan said, shaking his head. “Really. Go ahead. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job in the end.”
Ian wanted to wipe the smugness from the Irishman’s face. “You know I’m handling each of your background investigations the same way.”
“Of course, son,” Callahan said with a smirk, his accent in full swing. “Why, if I didn’t have such a high opinion of ya, I’d think you were implyin’ I’m more interested in a larger share of the estate than the truth. The thing is, though, you’ve been thinkin’ about the trust for a few days, while I’ve been at it for twenty years. I know the players a bit better than you do. So do your job fairly. That’s what you’re bein’ paid for. But in the end, if you tell me the counterfeit son of Jimmy Doyle and his family are entitled to a third of the trust money, you’d best have gone a far sight past a criminal background check to prove it before I’ll sign off.”
Callahan grinned and slapped Ian on the back with a blow hard enough to bruise. “Have a good night, Ian. I’m truly lookin’ forward to your report. And take good care of that money now, boyo.”
Ian watched him leave the building and walk out into the night. He looked back toward the elevator, where the banker had disappeared, digesting the odd scene he’d witnessed upstairs. Then he recalled Ahmetti’s comment about Jimmy Doyle working only with family, or the nearest thing to family, in the days he’d been associated with Kid Cann and his illegal enterprises.
Though exhausted, Ian decided he couldn’t go home to bed just yet. He pushed through the doors and turned up the street in the direction of his car.