26
FRIDAY, JUNE 8
5:17 P.M.
WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
The office was empty and quiet as Ian picked up the note on his desk. It was Katie’s handwriting, but uncharacteristically scribbled and rushed: The new matter is in your safe.
Ian read it several times. What new matter? And how could Katie put anything in the safe?
He knelt before the black metal box and spun the dial. In his hurry, it took two tries before the lock clicked free. Inside, another note lay on top of the trust and the folder of ICRs.
Brook was here and said we may be mixed up with stolen money. I think she must mean the trust retainer. She didn’t give any details. She was very upset. I told her nothing. But we’ve got to talk. What is this new account we’ve got with all the money in it?
Please, please, please call me. Right away.
Katie
Stolen money. Sean Callahan’s cash retainer.
And now the trust money in his control. Ian pictured the banker’s pudgy fingers running along the keyboard in the borrowed office, transferring all those funds into an account in his law firm’s name.
Ian reached for his office phone. Stopped.
Who should he call? Brook? Katie?
Callahan?
Callahan. Except he wasn’t going to call. He was going to confront him in person.
Ian put the trust back into the safe, then thought better of it. He slid it into his briefcase.
He reached the office suite door and pulled it open—and straightened in surprise. A suited man with ramrod posture stood just on the other side.
“Mr. Wells?” the man boomed.
“Yes.”
“I’m with the U.S. Marshal Office. I’ve been asked to invite you over to the federal courthouse for a talk.”
Ian’s hand tightened on the briefcase. “Who’s inviting?”
The officer pulled a smartphone from his belt and tapped the screen a few times. “It’s Assistant U.S. Attorney Brook Daniels. And she requests your presence right now.”
6:47 P.M.
FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
Ian fumed behind a mask of casual indifference. He prayed the mask would hold. Because across the table, Brook and the boss she’d introduced as Eldon Carroll were locked in a whispered discussion. He had no idea what Brook and her boss knew, or what they thought they knew.
From Katie’s note, Ian had arrived prepared for a grilling about the trust money and some link to stolen cash. So far, in an hour of questioning, Brook hadn’t come close to those topics. But what else could it be?
“Mr. Wells, you’re not a suspect,” Brook had said in a strangely formal voice when he asked why he’d been summoned. But that was no consolation. Because if the trust money was stolen, his status would change in a heartbeat when they traced it to his firm’s bank account. Worse, if his dad was linked to stolen money from the trust—even innocently—his estate could be subject to federal forfeiture. Possibly including Mom’s house.
Ian took a deep breath to slow his heart. Like so many clients he’d coached, his first instinct was to open his mouth and tell everything to broadcast his innocence, especially with Brook across the table. The details of how and why he was hired by Callahan. The limited role he’d been asked to play. What he’d learned. How stupid he’d been to take on the case in the first place.
Except it wasn’t Brook, his friend. It was Brook, Assistant U.S. Attorney, sitting next to Eldon something, U.S. Attorney. And Ian knew how statements offered to prove innocence had a strange way of doing the opposite. Prosecutors didn’t get paid to find people innocent. “Don’t lie,” he’d tell his client. “Don’t say a word. Not until you know what’s going on, and the proof the prosecutor thinks she or he has.”
It was all tearing him apart. But he wouldn’t dig the hole any deeper. He wouldn’t step forward until he could talk with Harry Christensen.
Brook and Eldon were still quietly going back and forth. Maybe he could’ve figured out where this was going if Brook hadn’t spent the last perplexing hour asking him things she already knew. Like the nature of his father’s legal practice, Ian’s background up through law school, and where his parents grew up. Typical stuff for an interrogation yet odd when she already knew every answer he’d give.
Wait. That had to mean her boss must not know they were friends. Which could also mean this formal interrogation wasn’t Brook’s idea—especially the way she’d stopped by the office and confronted Katie earlier in the day. Brook might still be in his corner.
The brew of anger and worry cooled slightly in his chest. Still, friend or foe, real questions had to be coming. Brook couldn’t interrogate him in front of her boss forever and keep avoiding anything relevant.
Brook finished her conference and turned back to Ian. Her forehead was flushed now. She gripped her pen more tightly as she leaned into the table. Ian felt the stronger attention of Brook’s boss like the tug of a magnet.
“Did your father have any association with the Kid Cann crime syndicate?” she asked.
Here they came.
Ian wouldn’t lie. If he could help it, he wouldn’t even appear uncooperative. But if he was going to avoid a fall, he’d have to do some serious ledge-walking now.
He crinkled his forehead, answering Brook’s question immediately and with an uptick of wonder. “Seriously? No. Not that he ever told me.”
Brook circled that question with related ones, all of which Ian could truthfully deny.
Then her eyes grew edgier. “Were there any sudden changes in your family’s wealth or lifestyle as you were growing up?”
“How large was your father’s estate when he died?”
Ian related the number. A few softballs followed.
“What personal knowledge do you have about any association between Connor Wells and either a Rory Doyle, a Sean Callahan, or an Edward McMartin?”
She was drawing from the ICR reports she’d shown him. But she’d asked ‘personally,’ which meant firsthand. If she asked about what was in the ICRs, he would have to admit he’d seen them. But he had no firsthand knowledge about an association.
“I don’t have any personal knowledge of that,” Ian answered.
She let it pass. So she intended to limit the scope of her questions.
“What about a James Doyle?”
“What about him?”
“Was your father a friend or associate of James Doyle?”
“I have no personal knowledge of my father being a friend or associate of a James Doyle.” He slowed his breathing, sweating as he anticipated the question he couldn’t avoid—whether James Doyle was ever his father’s client.
The question didn’t come. Brook was giving him room to maneuver. She couldn’t get away with this much longer, not with her boss at her side.
“Did you deposit a sum of cash on Tuesday of this week into a Wells Fargo account?”
“Yes. My legal assistant did so for the law firm.”
“And where did that money come from?”
“Clients.”
“Who?”
“That’s attorney-client privilege,” he replied, a bit irate.
“No, it’s not,” she shot back. “We can get a warrant to gain access to your bank records.”
“Well, you can try. You can also just tell me what this is about and let me decide if I can cooperate.”
She’d led with the punch line on the last one. She could have crept up on the money issue, boxed him in first. Coming straight had allowed him to dodge and her to confirm he was here because of Sean Callahan’s cash retainer.
Brook leaned over and whispered to her boss again. “Mr. Wells,” she said after they separated, “money was deposited at your Wells Fargo branch on Tuesday, June fifth, which was associated with an art theft of a group of Norman Rockwell paintings in St. Louis Park in January 1983. Your firm was one of the cash depositors at that branch the same day. That’s all we’re prepared to tell you at this time.”
Ian’s mind rolled. “How much was stolen?”
“Paintings with a potential value between eight and twelve million dollars, depending on when they were sold,” she answered, watching him carefully.
He immediately started sweating again, gripping his thigh under the table. “Okay . . . thanks for sharing that. But I still won’t reveal my client at this time. I have to ask him or her before doing so.”
Brook nodded. She looked almost relieved. “Please do so,” she commanded.
Eldon Carroll whispered something in her ear and tapped hard on one of the documents at her elbow. Brook pulled it front and center and nodded.
“Mr. Wells,” she said, holding out the document, “you say you have no personal knowledge of your father having a relationship with James Doyle. I will inform you we have information that your father was, in fact, associated with James Doyle’s son, Rory Doyle, in his youth—as well as the other gentlemen mentioned earlier, Sean Callahan and Ed McMartin. I will also inform you we have a partial list of attendees at a funeral that includes Rory Doyle and those other men—”
Brook stopped, her eyes scanning the report in her hand. She looked up at him, and a spark of deepening worry had taken over her expression.
“Did you know,” she said more slowly, “this same Sean Callahan, Rory Doyle, and Edward McMartin attended the funeral of Jimmy Doyle’s wife, Rory Doyle’s mother, in 1998?”
“I don’t . . .” Ian began, trying to grasp the question.
“Do you know any other persons who attended that funeral?” she interrupted, pressing on.
This was really out of left field. Ian struggled to get his bearings. Even Eldon looked puzzled. “No,” he answered.
“The FBI took the following names from the sign-in register at the funeral home that day. Do you know a Sherman Calhoun?” she said, reading from the list.
“No.”
“A Buddy Provenzano?”
“No.”
She turned the page toward him, slowing her cadence. “Please look at this list of people and tell me if you know any of the others attending the funeral.”
Ian puzzled at her emphasis on “any” as she slid the document in front of him. How could he know any of these people at a funeral twenty years ago? What did she expect him to say?
Martha Brennan.
The name was halfway down the sheet. Surprised, he glanced at Brook. He’d told her his mother’s maiden name on Monday in his office. There it was on the funeral guest list. And Brook clearly recognized it; her eyes burned with the knowledge.
She tilted her head at a slight angle away from her boss. “The funeral took place in Port St. Lucie, Florida,” she continued as Eldon looked on. “You would have been nine or ten years old. According to the report, it was a rainy day . . . June 8, 1998. Twenty years ago today.”
The dream that visited him every year. A gravesite under palm trees. A rainy day. The funeral of Jimmy Doyle’s wife?
This wasn’t possible.
“I already told you,” Ian said slowly, sliding the report back to Brook. “I will not reveal potential clients and their actions.” His next words slipped out in a fog of apprehension. “But June eighth—today—happens to be my birthday.”