43

TUESDAY, JUNE 12
11:46 P.M.
MANKATO, MINNESOTA

Ian parked the Camry around the block from Lisa Ramsdale’s house. The living room was lit behind drawn shades as he walked up the sidewalk bisecting the neat yard.

A woman in her fifties opened the door a crack at Ian’s knock. “What do you want this time of night?” she demanded nervously.

“I need to see your daughter. Maureen.”

“Go away.” The woman’s voice turned harsh. “Or I’ll call the police.”

“Ask your daughter if she wants you to call the police,” Ian said more loudly.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Maureen appeared at her shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

Maureen brushed back hair from her face as she stepped out onto the stoop. Ian saw that the mother had left the door slightly ajar. “Walk with me,” he said.

A few minutes later, the two reached a corner where Ian stopped.

“What’s my philosopher lawyer want now?” Maureen asked.

“You were brilliant,” he replied. “And so patient.”

Maureen’s expression darkened. “I don’t understand.”

“It was you. You took the trust money,” he said, watching her reaction.

“Crazy talk, philosopher lawyer. You should stop while you’re ahead.”

“You were there that day at the funeral,” Ian continued, speaking deliberately and with conviction. “You were at the gravesite the day they buried Christina Doyle. Afterward, you were there at Ed McMartin’s house, where you led me to the spy hole in the study.”

Maureen shook her head. “What funeral?”

Ian ignored her reply. “You must have been to ‘Uncle Ed’s’ place on other occasions. That’s how you learned about that spy hole in the closet wall. What were you doing that day? Playing hide-and-seek, I suppose. You were looking through the hole and saw me in the room with all those men—and then you watched Callahan lead me out. That’s when you came to get me.”

The girl with the red hair studied him. “Sounds like family rumors. I told you, I don’t do family rumors.”

“You might as well admit it,” Ian said. “And I know your brother Liam was there that day too. He was hiding under the bed when all of them were talking about the trust. He was still there later when Jimmy Doyle told my mother about the last painting. I saw his hand.”

Maureen fell silent.

“Did you know then that I was your cousin?” he asked.

Silence. Ian looked up at the stars.

“C’mon, Maureen. I know you took the money. Liam told you what he learned in the bedroom that day of the funeral—whatever you hadn’t already heard yourself. Then you two planned and waited all these years for the day when the trust money was to be transferred into an account at my firm. You got the exact day by paying the owner at Larry’s Bar to tell you what he heard from Rory on the phone, or from my meeting at the bar. Or maybe it was even easier than that; maybe your dad told you himself. Just like he gave you his cash from the heist—out of guilt. When the time neared, you spread the hot cash around, linking it to me, then hacked in and stole the trust money from my account. You tried to take the painting too. At my mother’s place.”

Maureen took a nervous step back toward the house. “It’s getting cold.” She turned to go.

“Leaving now would be a mistake. Because I’ve got the painting.”

The redhead stopped, though she didn’t turn around. Ian watched her in the moonlight, heard her soft breathing.

“It’s worth much more than the cash you got, Maureen. But you know that. I did some research on Norman Rockwell’s Spirit of 1776 and found it could be worth twice the cash you’re holding. And I’ll bet you already figured out exactly where and how to sell it, planning for the day you took it from my parents. It wouldn’t be through Anthony Ahmetti. He’s no art guy and too close to the family. But you’ve had years to figure that part out. Yep, that Rockwell is worth so much more to you than the cash. I know you’d planned on having both the money and the painting, but given a choice, you’d take the painting, wouldn’t you? Plus there’s an added benefit if you give the cash back. You don’t have to worry about Sean Callahan chasing you the rest of your days. Well, I’m ready to make a trade.”

Maureen rotated slowly back to face Ian. “Why would I ever trust a word you say?”

“Check me if you want. I’m not wearing a wire. And why would I turn you in? If I did, I’d send my own mother to jail for holding the painting all these years. No, I have no interest in the money or the painting. I’m only interested in getting the cash back to Sean Callahan before he kills me and my mother for losing it in the first place.”

She stared at him through the darkness, a smile slowly forming. “I asked my mother at the gravesite who you were,” Maureen said playfully. “You must have been ten or eleven, standing over there behind Sean Callahan and Grandpa. I thought it so strange, you standing next to the two men who terrified me more than anyone else in the world.”

“Who did your mother say I was?”

“She whispered to me. She said, ‘It’s a family secret. You mustn’t tell anybody else. But he’s your cousin.’ I didn’t even know I had any cousins. We were big on family secrets in those days. It was only later that I got the full story about your mother being the child of Grandpa’s mistress. Like everyone else, I kept the secret.”

“What about your brother?”

Maureen nodded. “Liam knew the secret too. Did you know I was trying to help you that day—later, at the house? That’s why I came to get you. You looked so terrified after they threw you out of the room and separated you from your mom. I was amazed you didn’t cry.”

“I knew you were trying to help me.”

Her smile faded. “So tell me what you want to do.”

“First I want to know whether Liam told you what he learned about the money and the painting that day in the bedroom, and if after that you acted alone. Or whether I’m right in betting that Liam told you about the money and painting and then you worked together all these years.”

Maureen began shifting from foot to foot. It seemed talking about Liam made her nervous. “More family rumors, Ian Wells,” she whispered.

“Alright. Keep that one to yourself. It doesn’t matter really. But here’s the deal: an exchange of the painting for the cash. We meet in a public place where you transfer the money electronically to an account in a way I can confirm on the spot. Then I hand you the painting, and we both walk away.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then finally, “Where?”

“Guthrie Theater. Out on the patio overlooking the river and the Stone Arch Bridge, nine-forty-five tomorrow night. That’s after intermission when the theatergoers are back inside watching the play. I’ll give you the account number once you’re there.”

“That location’s kind of dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Mostly, it’s very public.”

Maureen nodded. “Actions and consequences and some credit for good intentions. That’s your deal, isn’t it?”

“That’s my deal.”

She paused, then gave him a smile. “I seem to have lost your card. Give me your number and I’ll let you know.”

Ian left her on the sidewalk leading to her front door, walking back to the Camry and feeling satisfaction roll through him like thunder. He had more questions, of course. Accusatory questions about the attacks in Northeast Minneapolis and in Florida. For now, they could wait. He didn’t want to risk scaring her off just yet.

But he’d gotten the confirmation he was looking for. About Maureen’s involvement, and probably Liam’s too.

The moment’s satisfaction began bleeding away. Of course, the exchange was a bluff. He didn’t have the painting. That would be obvious within minutes of their meeting. How likely was it he could accomplish what he needed to without it?

He was pressing the button to unlock the Camry door when he felt the buzz of his phone. He pulled it from his pants pocket and read the text from Brook.

1776, the text read. I got it.