29

SATURDAY, JUNE 9
12:18 A.M.
LARRY’S BAR
NORTHEAST MINNEAPOLIS

Ian checked his watch again as two men came into Larry’s. One was filled out, the other slender. Both were far younger than the rest of the patrons hanging around the bar. One of them gave Ian a long stare while the other picked up beers and cues. Soon they were circling the pool table, racking the balls.

Ian looked away. He’d been waiting at this table for thirty minutes and still no Rory. He didn’t have the energy to stay much longer. What could Rory know—or want?

The money. Rory was about the money. He’d want assurance he’d get his share and want to know how soon. Of course, two days ago, this had been about the money for Ian too. And it wasn’t like his money problems had gone away. They’d just gotten smothered under things even worse.

But it didn’t matter. He didn’t come to answer Rory’s questions. He came to ask his own.

The bartender doubling as a waiter came by again. “Another beer?”

“No. Diet Coke, please.”

The bartender looked at him like the order wasn’t worth the walk, but he went away, returning a minute later with a glass half filled with something dark and carbonated.

He had to know where the trust money came from and Connor’s connection to it. Not only to know how best to extricate himself and his family from Brook’s investigation but also, in light of his mother’s words tonight, to figure out how his parents’ and Ahmetti’s worlds had somehow overlapped. What could Martha Wells possibly have shared with the fence that had any value to him? What could Ahmetti have told her that put her in his debt in the first place? And what did it all have to do with the trust?

His phone began to vibrate with a text. He pulled it out and stared at an unfamiliar number on the screen.

Are you coming tonight to talk about the case? the text read. Below the text was the name Willy Dryer.

Through his haze of fatigue, Ian tried to recall where he’d left things with Willy. He’d told Katie on the phone that maybe he could meet with him soon. But he’d never confirmed for tonight, had he?

I didn’t think we firmed it up, he texted back.

I thought we were on came the reply. I’m rehearsing for my gig. After tonight, it will be hard to get together for a long time.

He was so tired. Another night, he texted.

Please, man. Worried about this one.

A quick meeting would salvage something from this day. And he was close. I’m in northeast already. Send address again. I’ve only got a few minutes.

The address popped onto his screen. Only eight or nine blocks away.

Soon, Ian texted, ending the exchange.

He was putting away his phone when he heard ringing near the bar. A moment later the bartender sauntered back. “You Ian Wells?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah.”

“I just got a call from Rory Doyle. He says he can’t meet you after all. Says he’ll call tomorrow to reschedule.”

Great. Ian looked at his watch. Nearly twelve-thirty. “Thanks,” he muttered. Ian dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar and started toward the door.

As he neared the pool table, the bigger of the two latecomers set down his cue. Ian was coming abreast when the man stepped directly in his path.

Thick as a freezer, a wiry mustache on his upper lip, the man looked down at Ian with surly eyes. Before Ian could speak, he bumped Ian hard with his chest, sending him stumbling backward.

Arms came around him from behind.

Ian’s weariness was lost in a sudden rage. He twisted out of the encircling arms and launched himself at the big one, who took a surprised step back.

A blow hit the top of Ian’s head. The room flashed bright then dark then light again. He tumbled down.

On his hands and knees, Ian’s vision cleared slightly. He looked up.

Kneecaps were six inches from his face.

Ian launched himself with his legs, driving a shoulder into the nearest knee with all his weight. It inverted with a cracking sound.

A howl like a wounded bear filled the bar. The big man above him tottered backward, dropping into a chair and gripping his kneecap in both hands.

Ian looked over his shoulder at the second man still behind him. To his surprise, that one was standing back. He pushed off the floor to his feet unsteadily. “You guys friends of Rory’s?” he demanded angrily.

Neither one answered. Ian took a cautious step toward the door. The freezer hugging his kneecap looked up and let out a final roar of pain but didn’t try to stand.

That was lucky, Ian thought blearily. Barely able to balance, he stumbled through the front door into the fresh evening air.

12:05 A.M.
UPTOWN DISTRICT, MINNEAPOLIS

Brook sat coiled on her couch, staring at the mounted television her parents had gifted her a month earlier. It was tuned to a show she didn’t care about. There weren’t many shows she’d recognize given her work hours, which was why she’d never needed a TV that took up half the wall.

Her cellphone called out a tune. She lunged for it on the table.

It was a friend from work. Disappointed, she declined the call.

When was Ian going to show up or call her? He had to know she couldn’t call him. He’d become a key witness in an investigation, maybe a key suspect. Ian knew she couldn’t create a record by telephoning him.

So where was he?

She picked up from the coffee table the rap sheets she’d printed out earlier, covering James Doyle, Sean Callahan, Rory Doyle, and Ed McMartin. Only two had arrest records. James aka “Jimmy” Doyle had an adult conviction from back in the 1950s. Sean Callahan had two assault charges from the ’70s, but they were youth charges. There was nothing at all on Ed McMartin or Rory Doyle.

What was Ian doing? How did he know these guys? Was it his own connection or was he linked through his father?

In law school, Ian had been shy, occasionally brooding. Always overprotective of those he cared about. Smarter and kinder than any man she’d ever met, and the first one to get her humor every time.

That Ian Wells couldn’t be connected to the Doyle bunch. He couldn’t even have known his dad was connected to them—and to the biggest art theft in Minnesota history, one involving murder. If she needed more proof, it was that he’d asked her help getting the ICR reports. If he was hiding that connection, why would he ask her to gather evidence that linked the Doyles with Connor Wells?

She walked to the window. Lake Calhoun was just a few blocks up the street. She considered taking a walk there. It was warm enough, and there’d be plenty of people on the walking paths, even this late. It would be nice to have other people around just now.

Except then she’d miss Ian if he came by.

What should she make of the FBI report on Martha at the funeral of Christina Doyle? And how it fit Ian’s dream? The strange dream he’d told her about while in a funky mood one morning the spring of their 1L year?

Nothing. Even if Ian really was at the funeral as a young boy, it didn’t prove he knew about his parents’ connection to Doyle and the others. And she’d seen Ian’s look when he read his mother’s name on the funeral attendee list. Nobody could have faked the surprise she saw in his expression.

Brook looked around her two-bedroom Uptown apartment. Ian knew where she lived, but he’d never been inside her place before. She’d been too embarrassed to invite him in. With her father a partner at Abrams & Milliken, her mother at Stunsel & Grey, she’d worried how Ian would react if he came inside and surveyed the many trappings of their success on display. Like the Italian leather couch and love seat. Or the new high-end television hanging on her wall. He’d always seemed disdainful about such things. Not above it—just not driven by it.

The massive TV suddenly blared a commercial. Brook grabbed the remote and turned it off.

Then she’d gone and ambushed Ian at Kieran’s Pub about how he’d mishandled their relationship since law school. She wasn’t wrong. But it was her, not him, who’d run so fast when Ian told her he was taking over his dad’s practice. She’d taken off like Usain Bolt, picturing him morphing into the image of the father and his stolid practice Ian always described. Like if she stuck around, sooner or later she’d be dragged into the quicksand of his limited ambitions.

She couldn’t conjure the power of those fears anymore. Five years had passed and Ian was still Ian. Still protective. Still following some agenda known only to him. Still getting her jokes.

And though they’d still gotten together for meals and the occasional walk through these years, she missed him. Missed really being with him.

Brook set down the remote, picked up her cellphone, and headed toward the bathroom to prepare for bed. “If you’re not coming, then call,” she said aloud.

She was brushing her teeth when the image in the mirror looked back at her with questioning eyes. Would she ever tell Ian more about her final breakup with Zach? Would she ever mention how it happened the third time she’d turned down Zach’s ring?

Probably not. And it was even more unlikely she’d ever have reason to tell him that the last time, as the question was posed, her mind had flashed to Ian.

Just like it had the two times before.

12:45 A.M.
NORTHEAST MINNEAPOLIS

Ian rounded the corner and trudged up the side street the half a block toward his car. His sight was blurred at the edges; his head and neck pulsed pain. Maybe a concussion, he thought vaguely. It seemed the least of his worries at the moment.

His Camry was just ahead. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he stepped around the back bumper to the driver’s door.

The car was listing—too much to be the flaws in his vision. Ian leaned carefully forward and squinted at the nearest tire. The hubcap rested nearly on the pavement, the rubber crushed to a few inches deep.

Ian let out a loud curse, looking angrily back in the direction of the bar. The guys who’d attacked him. They must have done it before they came into the bar.

He’d never be able to get the tire changed the way he was feeling now. How likely was it he’d find a tow this late? He reached into his jacket pocket for his phone.

It was gone.

He searched every pocket. Nothing. Ian looked again toward Larry’s Bar.

A figure rounded the far corner in the direction of the bar, big and limping heavily on the leg Ian had injured. One of his hands was thrust into a bulging pocket. As he drew closer, Ian could see a grimace of pain accompanying every step.

Ian looked up the long street going the other way. Empty as far as he could see.

He had no interest in knowing what was in the man’s pocket. With a rush of adrenaline spiking the pain in his head, Ian began a stumbling walk away from the approaching man.