35

SUNDAY, JUNE 10
12:49 A.M.
ST. PAUL

Ian looked out the window of the pickup as they passed through Minneapolis neighborhoods that melded seamlessly into St. Paul. Thick, puffy clouds were closing in, obscuring the stars. Maybe rain, he thought.

The truck took the Snelling ramp off Highway 94, pulling to the top of the exit and stopping in the far right lane.

“This work for you?” the driver said in a slow drawl. Ian hadn’t noticed the license plate, but took a guess at Kentucky.

“It does,” Ian replied. “I really appreciate it.” He pulled out his wallet and extended a twenty.

The driver held up his hands. “That’s not how it works in this rig. Don’t you worry about it.”

Ian thanked him, opened the door, and started to step down to the pavement.

“Hey, son?”

He looked back up at the driver. “Yeah?”

“Next time you hitch a ride somewhere, figure out a better place to stash those hog’s legs instead of under your shirt in your back belt. Those two pieces must’ve hurt like a son of a gun the whole ride. Besides, you’re liable to shoot the truck or yourself.”

“That obvious, huh?” Ian said, embarrassed. “Why’d you pick me up then?”

“Boy, something’s clearly on your mind that’s got you carryin’ those pieces—my four-year-old daughter could’ve told you that. But I’ve never seen a gangster in a suit needs cleaning, hitchhiking in the middle of the night.”

As the truck rolled off, Ian looked around and got his bearings, then started walking.

Reaching Callahan’s house twenty minutes later, Ian stood on the sidewalk and stared at the front door bracketed by tall windows. Shaking his head, he walked around the back. There were no windows for anyone to see who was knocking. He pulled one of the handguns from his belt and banged repeatedly on the back door.

Footsteps finally approached, and the door pulled open a crack. Ian thrust the barrel of the gun through.

Dressed in a robe and slippers, Sean Callahan stepped back and made room for Ian to enter. “Living room,” Ian said, kicking the door shut behind him. He followed Callahan down a shadowy corridor to the familiar room.

“Didn’t expect all this after you missed our appointment yesterday,” Callahan said, taking a seat in his usual spot. Ian took the orange chair. “Though I was wonderin’ why Aaron hadn’t arrived or called back again.”

“I’m sure he would have,” Ian said, “if I hadn’t taken his phone before he went into the lake.”

Callahan’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask for more explanation. “So why’d you come back to me?” he said, resting his hands on his thighs.

“Aaron must’ve relayed my story when he called. I came to tell you it was all true. I don’t know anything about the money being gone. I was planning to transfer it back to you this morning. I want to be done with the trust.”

“Um-hm.” Callahan’s accent fully returned when he opened his mouth again. “That story you’re talkin’ about—ya mean about Rory trying to have ya beat up or killed? And ya goin’ out to Medicine Lake to ‘think it through’? I definitely want all the details. In fact, I’m plannin’ to write it down to share with some of my friends at the pub.”

“What do I have to do to prove I’m not lying?”

“Returnin’ my money would make for a fresh start.”

“First,” Ian said, “I thought it was the trust’s money. Second, I’m telling you that’s what I want to do. I just don’t have a clue who took it or where it’s gone. Not yet.”

Callahan raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. Wells, do ya know why I’ve got that single, dreadful-lookin’ orange chair you’re sittin’ in, and why I seated you in it the very first time you were here?”

“No.”

“’Cause that chair, done up in Ulster orange amidst all this lovely Irish green, helps me remember who in the room I can trust.”

“I didn’t steal your money.”

“Then who did?”

“If it wasn’t you, I’m thinking it was Rory. Or the banker.”

Callahan shook his head. “The banker gets shaky at his own shadow. He’d not touch a penny of the trust. And Rory? He’s not as stupid as he looks, but I doubt he’s got a way with computers and hackin’ electronic bank transfers—which is the only way he’d have gotten the cash out of your account without your say-so, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ian waved the gun in the air. “Then I don’t know. But I’ve got to have time to find it. For all I know, you took it.”

“Aye. That’s why I sent Aaron chasin’ after ya. That makes a lot of sense.”

Ian was growing concerned staying so long in Callahan’s house. He’d planned to confront the man and get out.

“I’ve had some time to think about Aaron showing up on my way here,” Ian said. “You could have taken the money, but wanted it to look like I took it before you put me into the hands of the police. Or you could have taken the money and then planned to make me disappear so the police would go chasing the wrong way.”

Callahan smiled. “Why in the world would I want the police anywhere near the trust money?”

“I don’t know that either. But somebody does. Somebody’s been circulating bills from an art heist—and the prosecutor’s office knows it.”

It was the first time Ian had seen Callahan look genuinely surprised. Surprised and worried. “What’re ya saying?” he asked softly.

Ian leaned forward. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office dragged me in for questioning yesterday. No, actually, the day before. They said they’d recovered stolen money from an old art theft. Some of the bills surfaced the day I deposited your cash retainer. In our conversation, the attorney brought your name up. Along with Rory’s and Ed McMartin’s.”

Callahan’s face grew ashen. “While I don’t admit to knowin’ what you’re talkin’ about, ya insult me if ya think I’m stupid enough to ever give a lawyer cash that could be traced to a theft.”

Which, Ian realized, made sense. He shook his head. “I don’t know then. I don’t understand any of this. But I’ve got to have some time to figure it out.”

The Irishman wiped his palms on his pants. “How much time?”

“Two weeks.”

Callahan shook his head again. “With prosecutors involved? Sounds like time has become somethin’ of a scarcity.”

“That’s your fault. Or the fault of whoever started circulating hot money.”

“I suggest ya look around at your other clients for that kinda behavior, Counselor,” Callahan hissed. “I hear ya represent a lot of criminal types.” Before Ian could answer, Callahan said, “Let’s stop bandyin’ this about. I’ll give ya three days—countin’ this one. That’s the same time ya had to complete your investigation for the trust. After Tuesday I’ll want the money and your report. You do a good job, ya still can have the big fee I promised.”

Ian didn’t believe the last statement in the least. He wanted to argue for more time, but discomfort was beating like a hot light on his skin. “Alright,” Ian said. “I also need some information.”

“Such as?”

“I have to know my father’s and mother’s role in this art theft. Other than Dad preparing the trust.”

The Irishman leaned forward. “I’m not sayin’ I know anythin’ about any theft, Counselor, but I’ll tell ya this. So far as I knew, your da did most of the things he did because he was married to your ma. Seemed to have a protective instinct about the woman. Kinda like his son. So she can tell ya what ya need to know.”

“My mother has Alzheimer’s,” Ian shot back. “She can’t tell me what I need to know.”

“I heard somethin’ about that,” Callahan replied. “Well, that’s all I have to say about the affair.”

Ian’s chest ached, filled with tension between wanting to press for more information and wanting to get out. “Then promise me that whatever happens, my mother will be safe. You’ll leave her out of it.”

Callahan paused. “That’s not an assurance I’m willin’ to give ya.”

“Why not?”

“Mostly I’d like ya to have an incentive to return the money. But also, because your mother and da have some responsibility here.”

“She’s got Alzheimer’s,” Ian repeated. “She can’t harm you.”

When Callahan didn’t budge—didn’t even blink—Ian raised the barrel of the gun. The next words came out as firmly as a statement in court. “If you harm her, if you even try to, I’ll kill you.”

Callahan grinned. “Still protecting her, little Master?”

A picture surfaced. Of staring into the face of a powerful man leaning down at a graveside, squeezing Ian’s shoulder until it hurt—and calling him that name.

His birthday dream. And something more.

Ian’s face flushed with rage. His finger strayed from the trigger guard to the trigger.

There was a click of metal. Ian turned his head.

The Marine was standing in the hallway leading to the front door, his clothes dark with dampness. In his hand was a new gun.

Ian exhaled. He moved the finger away from the trigger and lowered his weapon.

“Ease off, Aaron,” he heard the Irishman say once Ian’s gun barrel pointed to the floor. “Our guest was just leavin’. We’ve come to an understandin’.”

Callahan followed Ian to the front door, where Ian slid the gun under his shirt and belt before stepping out onto the stoop. Once there, he stopped. An impression took shape in his memory. Another image from his dreams. He turned back to Callahan. “Tell me, are you going to keep your promise to Jimmy Doyle not to harm Rory if I prove it was him who took the money?”

Callahan’s eyes widened into a stare—looking every bit as though he were staring at Jimmy Doyle’s ghost and the specter was looking back, straight into his heart.

“You’ve quite a memory, boyo,” the Irishman murmured. “You weren’t more than nine or ten at the time. But I’d suggest ya be forgettin’ that conversation and concentratin’ your questions on findin’ that money instead. Because if ya fail at that, there’ll be nobody ya care about who’ll be safe.”