41
TUESDAY, JUNE 12
2:47 P.M.
FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS
“And so, Your Honor,” Brook listened to herself saying, “we believe the evidence is clearly admissible, given that—”
“Inadmissible,” the judge interrupted.
“Your Honor?”
“Inadmissible. You said the evidence is ‘clearly admissible,’ but you meant the opposite. You are arguing on behalf of the United States, aren’t you? As opposed to the accused?”
She looked down at her papers a thousand yards away. “Of course, Your Honor. Inadmissible.”
The remainder of the argument passed in the same blur. The absence of questions from the usually voluble Judge Fitzsimmons was the clearest sign he viewed her as impaired this afternoon and was inclined to cut her some slack.
She packed up her papers as the courtroom emptied, her mind already reverting to Ian. He hadn’t called since arriving in Florida. She was supposed to pick him up in an hour at the airport, and she didn’t have a clue whether the trip had yielded any information that could help recover the money.
“Brook?”
She turned. Chloe was standing behind the bar, uncharacteristically subdued.
“Yeah, Chloe.”
“I . . . your secretary said you had this motion. I wanted you to know right away that the search warrant on the Wells & Hoy bank accounts turned up some serious things.”
“Like what?” she asked over her plummeting stomach—though she knew what she was about to hear.
“Nine million dollars-plus went through the Wells & Hoy firm’s client account in a matter of days. In and out. Eldon thinks it could be proceeds from the art theft, especially since Ian Wells seems to have disappeared. The guy’s partner, Dennis Hoy, says he hasn’t seen him for days. Eldon’s going to broaden the search to include the law office and Ian Wells’s home. They’re drawing up warrants now.”
It was expected but still filled her with dismay. Even that Chloe was cooperating didn’t assuage it.
“Thanks, Chloe. Thanks for the update.”
Chloe smiled wanly and walked away.
Brook stepped to a corner of the now-vacant courtroom and took out her cell. Once more she punched in the number for Ian’s temporary phone and waited.
He still wasn’t answering.
Even if Ian was successful, he was running out of time. If they completed those searches of his home and office yet today or tonight, an arrest warrant would be issued before midnight. How could she possibly help?
Minutes later, Brook was stepping off the elevator and making her way down the hallway toward her office. The deposit list was still on her desk when she arrived. It was a sign how quickly the investigation was focusing on Ian that nobody had asked her how the search for depositors of the stolen money was coming. For all they knew, she’d completed it already.
Brook stopped . . . thought for a moment. She spun on her heel and hurried toward Eldon’s office.
Her boss was standing behind his desk when she came to the door.
“Eldon,” she said.
He looked up. “Yeah, Brook?”
“I’m pretty much done with the deposit review you gave me last week. Chloe mentioned you were going to be preparing new warrants to search the home and office of Ian Wells. I thought I’d volunteer to handle that.”
Eldon nodded. “Didn’t think you were available. I just assigned Sophie. She was pretty swamped, but I told her it’s a priority.”
Brook smiled. “Okay. Just thought I’d check.”
She headed down the hall to Sophie’s office. She found her friend at her desk, facing her computer screen with a pile of file folders at her side.
“Hello, Sophie,” Brook said. “I’m glad I caught you. Hey, I just spoke with Eldon. He mentioned you’re swamped. So I volunteered to handle the search warrants for Ian Wells’s office and home.”
Sophie’s face relaxed with relief. “Really? Because that would be great. I’ve got three omnibus hearings to prepare for. That would be so great.”
Brook was still smiling when she left Sophie’s office with the paperwork and information she needed for the warrants.
4:05 P.M.
MINNEAPOLIS-ST. PAUL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
“Tell me what happened,” Brook demanded worriedly as they picked up speed on the drive away from the airport terminal. “You didn’t answer my calls. Plus you look terrible.”
Ian sat in the passenger seat, staring out at a rain that had only intensified since the previous Sunday. “I know who stole the money,” he said remotely. “Or at least I think I do.”
“Who?”
Ian’s mind felt broken into pieces too small to reassemble. “Do you know your father?” he asked. “Really know him? What he does when you’re not around. How he’s done it. What he’s capable of . . .”
“I think so,” Brook answered, her eyes showing fear at Ian’s vacant tone.
“What if you don’t? And what about his father, and his father before him? What about the genes they passed on to you?”
“I’ve got a mother who contributed a few genes too,” Brook said, glancing in his direction. “And we’re not preprogrammed machines. We make choices.” Her voice grew kinder. “Come on, Ian. What really happened down there in Florida?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes to focus his thinking. “I need you to do something for me, if you’re willing.”
“Have I ever denied you? What is it you need?”
Ian reached into a pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Could you research these names? Find out everything you can about them. Where they’ve lived. What jobs they held. Whatever your resources can dredge up in the next twenty-four hours.”
She took the paper. “Sure. Now, tell me who stole the money.”
He pointed to the piece of paper. “Them,” he said. “One or both.”
She read the names. “Oh, wow. Really?”
“Really.”
“And you think they spread the hot money from the art thefts?”
“They probably had access to some of it. After I realized Callahan was obviously right when he said he had no incentive to spread hot bills from the robbery through his retainer, I remembered we got another retainer the same day as Callahan’s. It was a referral through Harry Christensen. One of my suspects could have gone to Harry, given him cash, then told him they needed representation on days they’d figured out he wasn’t available. It wouldn’t have been tough to do—Harry talks about his vacations on his radio show. Then Harry referred them on to me, as they also knew he would from the show, and I end up being the one depositing the cash retainer with the hot money.”
“Okay. Assume you’re right. Assume it’s them. What can you do about it? Can you make them give the money back?”
“Maybe. If I can work a trade before I run out of time.”
“With what?”
Ian pulled out his cellphone, tapped the screen, and held it up for Brook to see.
The screen had a highlighted message containing a single word: No.
Brook scrunched her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s Anthony Ahmetti answering a question I asked him on Sunday. I gave him the number so he could text me. He’s telling me Jimmy Doyle never fenced the final Norman Rockwell they stole in 1983. The Spirit of 1776. One I think Doyle told my parents he wanted them to hold. By now, if fenced right, it would be worth more than all the other paintings combined.”
“And you think your parents—your mom—still has it?”
“Yeah. I think the trust money thieves believe she does too—hence the burglary. And I have a theory about where it is.”
“How much time do you need?” Brook asked.
“Another twenty-four hours. Freedom of movement for another day.” He looked at Brook with concern. “Will I have it?”
Brook nodded. “Yes. I think I can safely say the warrants needed to search your office and make an arrest have been unavoidably delayed.”