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She compressed her lips. “You’re assuming he kept evidence at all.”
“Yeah, I am.”
Her brows knit in thought. Squeaky came and laid his head on her lap, eyeing the remains of her cold omelet still on her plate.
She absently fed him a piece.
“Does Calvin have family?” John asked.
“There’s Shannon, his wife, and he has three sons, all in their thirties.”
“Where are the sons?”
“The eldest is in Washington state, and the younger two somewhere on the East Coast. Do you think he’d send them the discs?”
John grimaced. “Too far away. He needs to get to the books easily. Who else is there? Does he have friends?”
Turner snorted. “He had a photo on his desk of him with the last governor of Wisconsin and a bunch of other guys. They were
standing in the snow, holding frozen fish.”
“Frozen fish?”
“You know. Ice fishing.”
“Huh.” John frowned. Ice fishing meant—
“What?”
He looked up at her. “He must have an ice fishing house.”
“I thought ice fishermen just went out on the lake and sat on a bucket, hunched over a hole in the ice.”
John grinned tightly. “Can you see Calvin hunched over a hole in the ice exposed to the cold?”
She shook her head slowly. “No.”
“Then he’s got an ice fishing shack. And I’m betting it’s a nice one.”
She stared at him, her eyes widening with hope.
T
urner glanced around as John pulled his enormous pickup truck into the drive of Calvin’s cabin. It was just after two in the
afternoon, despite the fact that he’d driven like a demon all the way up.
Part of the delay was because she’d insisted they stop by a discount store so she could run in and get a pair of shorts and
a T-shirt that fit her. Wearing the denim jumper was like walking around in a giant bag. After that, John’d had to swing by
his office, write out a warrant that included every potential possibility, and then find a judge friend in Milwaukee. He’d
roused the poor man from bed—it was his vacation—and then bullied the judge until he’d signed the warrant to search Calvin’s
cabin and grounds.
Turner just hoped that the theorized ice fishing shack was at Calvin’s cabin. John seemed pretty confident. All the way up
to Rhinelander, he’d been intent and focused, a wolf who’d caught the scent of running bunny rabbit. But she’d been stalking
Calvin for many years now, gotten her hopes up too many times before. She couldn’t help feeling like this was going to be
just another dead end.
John got out of the truck. Squeaky nearly broke a limb scrambling over the seat and bounding out after him. Turner shut the
door to her side just in time to see his irritable look at the dog.
“Howl,” she reminded him.
They’d initially thought to leave Squeaky behind in the apartment, but he’d started singing as soon as they shut the door.
It was kind of flattering, in a way. Turner thought he must not have done the howling thing with Calvin and Shannon. Calvin
would’ve just gotten rid of the dog if he’d been that much of a nuisance. But all the same, she’d have to look into doggy
therapy when this was over.
John narrowed his eyes at her comment, but he seemed resigned.
“Where would Calvin keep an ice fishing house?” Turner asked.
He shrugged. “I didn’t see an ice fishing house in the garage when I searched it before. He must have it down by the lake
somewhere.”
He whistled, and Squeaky came galloping up to accompany them down the grassy slope to the lake. It seemed as if the trees
had turned more yellow since the last time she’d seen them, although that could be her imagination. She’d been here only a
few days ago.
By the lake there was a fiberglass dock and a ramp for backing a boat into the water. A kind of shed was off to the side.
As they neared, she could see the shed was a larger building than she had thought—about fifteen feet square. Bigger than most
utility sheds, but smaller than a car garage. It was painted dark green and had a single door, no windows. They came up beside
it and stopped. Squeaky ran to the building and lifted a leg against the corner.
“Bingo.” John gestured to what looked like runners on the bottom of the shed. He caught her confused look. “He must haul it
out on the ice in winter on those.”
“Ah.” The light dawned along with excitement. “Gotcha. So this is it?” Surely it couldn’t be this easy. She’d expected armed
guards, secret codes, and locks at the very least. Instead, they’d just walked right up to the thing. It wasn’t even hidden.
At least the lock was there. “Looks like it.” John was examining the heavy padlock on the door. “I’m going back to the car
for the bolt cutter. Stay here.”
“Okay.”
Turner walked out on the dock to watch the lake. A slight breeze rippled the water, and the sunshine reflected prettily off
the liquid surface. Although, judging by the yard of dried mud on the bank, rain would have been better for the area than
the sun. It was a nice lake. The trees crowded close to the shore, reflecting in the water like a tourist postcard. Sometimes
she forgot how beautiful northern Wisconsin was—you got kind of used to it. Then she’d see something like this lake and it
would just take her breath away.
She heard a rustle in the bushes behind her, then the click of dog claws on the dock. Squeaky came to stand beside her. He
bent his big head down low and sniffed at the water.
“Don’t even think about it,” she told the dog.
He looked at her innocently, pointed ears forward, and wagged his tail.
“Turner?” John was standing on the bank with a long, efficient-looking bolt cutter.
And it was efficient. Within seconds, he had the padlock off and the ice fishing shack door open. Inside was what looked like
a tiny family room in a seventies ranch house. The floor was carpeted in indoor–outdoor brown Berber. There was a beige couch
and matching armchair and even a bar with a microwave and battery-run refrigerator.
“Nice,” John commented.
Turner had to take his word for it. She’d never been in an ice fishing house before. John strode over to the bar and started
searching behind it. Turner investigated the couch area. Beside it was a square, cut-out section of the carpet with a metal
ring on one side. Presumably you could lift up the square and cut a hole in the ice underneath. Then all you had to do was
sit back and fish from the couch. Turner snorted. Only Calvin would—
“Turner.” John’s voice was low and almost expressionless.
She hurried to his side. He had a laptop up on the counter, and she felt her heartbeat accelerate. He switched the computer
on. She held her breath as the screen turned blue. Five minutes later, he’d accessed a file prosaically titled “Bank.” Rows
and rows of figures came up, with dates attached going back ten years.
“That’s it,” Turner breathed.
She leaned over John’s shoulder, checking the numbers, correlating the data she’d figured out on her own. It was far more
money than she’d estimated. A fortune. Calvin Hyman had stolen more than three million dollars in ten years from the First
Wisconsin Bank of Winosha. Where the heck was it all? He must have it stashed somewhere. His house and car weren’t worth that
much.
“Is it enough to get him?” she whispered.
“Oh, yeah,” John said with relish. “Looks like Hyman’s kindly documented all of his activities at the bank. This’ll put him
away for a very long time. Good thing I took the time to include a computer on the warrant.”
Turner closed her eyes. After four years, she knew she should feel elation—even vindication—but the only emotion she could
identify inside herself was . . . no emotion. She was numb.
John turned off the laptop and packed it up in a black case with handles. He turned to the door. “Let’s get this—”
From outside, Squeaky barked once. Then a rumbling sound started, low and menacing. Turner’s eyes widened. She had never heard
Squeaky growl. Someone was outside the ice fishing house.
John froze. “Stay here,” he mouthed.
He handed the laptop case to her and took out a big black gun from underneath his jacket.
“John,” Turner whispered urgently, clutching the laptop. Oh, Lord. Had the hit man followed them? She didn’t want him going
out there alone.
He frowned at her and gestured abruptly with one hand. The signal was clear: be quiet.
No—
He stood to the side, back to the wall, and cracked the door, peering around the edge. There was a silent hesitation, then
he spoke one word. “Torelli.”
Torelli? But wasn’t that John’s partner?
Thank goodness.
Turner heaved a sigh of relief. Not a hit man. She hugged the laptop to her chest and stepped forward so she could see through
the cracked door.
Outside, a slickly handsome man in a suit stood absolutely still, flicking his gaze between John and Squeaky. The dog was
stiff-legged, tail and head unmoving as he growled in a low, constant undertone. The hair all along the base of Squeaky’s
neck was ruffled. The man had a gun similar to John’s in his slightly raised left hand. His dark suit looked really out of
place in the north woods of Wisconsin.
“I take it this is the kidnapped dog?” Torelli drawled. Turner had to hand it to him. He was taking being menaced by a 120-pound
Great Dane with aplomb.
“What’re you doing here?” John asked. He didn’t sound that welcoming, considering the man was his partner.
“You mind calling the dog off?” Torelli’s voice was casual, but his face wasn’t. “And it would be nice if you put your gun
away.”
John didn’t move. “Answer the question.”
Torelli’s face went blank. “I figured out who masterminded the bank robbery, Mac, so I came running to tell you. You are in
charge of this investigation, after all.”
John muttered something obscene.
“John,” Turner murmured. Why was he being so obnoxious?
Torelli caught sight of her, peering around John’s shoulder. “Is that the librarian?”
John stiffened. “You’re not going to arrest her.”
Turner saw a look of surprise cross Torelli’s face—right before someone shot him in the back.
S
tay back,” John yelled to Turner even as he tried to figure out where the gunshot had come from.
The trees around them were still. Whoever had hit Torelli was well hidden. At the sound of the shot, Squeaky had taken off
running, tail between his legs, and disappeared somewhere into the woods. The shot had knocked Torelli facedown on the ground.
But as John watched, he levered himself to his elbows and made a valiant effort to crawl to the safety of the ice fishing
house. Blood soaked the back of his jacket, a shiny wet spot on the dark blue fabric. Hard to tell how serious the wound was.
The younger man was a stubborn bastard.
A stubborn bastard who had better live.
John swung his arm out from the shelter of the door and laid down a covering fire for Torelli. When his gunfire wasn’t returned,
he said a prayer and took a chance. He ran out, expecting to be hit at any moment, and grabbed Torelli under the armpits.
Torelli swore.
John ignored him and kept dragging. Pulling on Torelli’s arms probably put stress on his back wound. Tough. He was a little
painted duck in a shooting gallery out here. John hauled him bodily into the ice fishing house, dropped him on the floor,
and kicked the door shut behind them.
Torelli was still swearing.
“You’re welcome,” John said, peering through the crack of the door. Where had the shooter gone?
“John, he’s hurt,” Turner murmured reproachfully. It figured she’d take Torelli’s side. She was trying to remove the bloody
jacket.
“Thanks,” the younger agent grunted. John noticed that he’d stopped swearing even though maneuvering his arms through the
jacket armholes had to hurt like hell. “Dante Torelli. You’re Turner Hastings.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t mastermind the bank robbery,” John said without looking away from the door.
“I know.”
That merited a glance. The back of Torelli’s shirt was soaked in blood.
“Here.” John stuck the Glock in the small of his back and took off his own T-shirt. He threw it to Turner along with his cell
phone. “Call 911. Get us some backup and an ambulance.” He looked at the younger man. “What do you mean, you know?”
Turner tucked the phone under her chin and talked quietly as she folded the T-shirt.
“I questioned SpongeBob and Yoda this morning.” Torelli grunted as Turner pressed the T-shirt into his back.
The wound looked like it was high on the younger man’s right shoulder. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to have compromised the
arm much—Torelli was at least using it. He didn’t know if Torelli would be able to help, but for the moment, he would take
what he could get.
Meanwhile, Torelli kept talking, though his tone was strained. “The guy who set up the bank robbery contacted them by phone.
He used voice-disguising software. Fish and Nald have no idea who it was.” He paused dramatically, the prick.
John glanced over. “You’re going to have to bind the T-shirt to his back. Here.” He took out a pocket knife and tossed it
to Turner. “Cut his jacket into strips.”
Torelli groaned. “That’s a Hugo Boss.”
“Serves you right for wearing it in the field,” John said. “What about SpongeBob and Yoda’s caller?”
“They couldn’t tell me much else. I don’t think they knew much else. I’ve seen dry toast with more brains than those two have
between them—”
“The caller?”
“He wanted the robbery on Saturday.” Torelli hissed as Turner wound a strip of fabric around his chest.
“Better make sure it’s tight,” John told her.
Torelli grimaced.
Turner nodded. She’d dropped the cell—open on the ground—while she worked on Torelli’s bandage. But her pale face told it
all. She looked terrified.
She glanced at John. “The ambulance may be awhile. They said there’s a big fire in Tomahawk.”
“Shit,” John said.
Torelli ignored the byplay and continued, “I thought there must be a reason for the date. I checked. There wasn’t any special
delivery of money on that Saturday or the Friday before. In fact, quite a chunk of money was transferred from the bank that
Friday. But on Monday there was an appointment to have the bank—”
“Audited,” Turner said.
Torelli glanced up at her. “Yeah. The only reason to do the robbery on Saturday was to delay the audit on Monday.”
“And the only person who would care about the audit on Monday is someone who’d been embezzling from the bank,” John said.
“Calvin.” Turner’s lips compressed.
“Yeah,” Torelli said.
John didn’t particularly like the way he stared admiringly at Turner. “So why’re you here if you know Turner didn’t plan the
robbery?”
“Because Hyman is missing.”
“What?” John looked away from the door again. “What do you mean?”
Torelli shrugged, then grimaced. “He’s gone. As of this morning, according to his wife. And the Smith and Wesson he has registered
is gone, too.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I tried calling you, but your cell was down.” He glanced at the phone lying on the floor. “You must’ve been driving
between towers. Anyway, I contacted the office in Milwaukee, and they said you were on the way here. I figured there was a
chance Hyman would show up here, too, and thought I should give you some backup. Guess I figured right about Hyman. Sorry
the backup plan didn’t work as well.”
John shook his head, his gaze back outside. “You think it was Hyman who took a shot at you?”
“Who else could it be?”
“The same asshole that was shooting up Madison yesterday. Or maybe they’re both out there.”
“But I thought Calvin sent the hit man,” Turner said. “Why would he come himself?”
“Obviously, Hyman’s plans don’t work out too well. The fact is we have no idea who’s shooting.” Where was the guy? Maybe he’d
left the area. A small grassy clearing in front of the ice fishing house led down to the lake. Behind, the small structure
backed up to the woods. Too many places for a gunman to hide. And if they didn’t get Torelli out of here soon, he might very
well go into shock or bleed to death.
“But—” Turner started.
John came to a decision. “Wait here. I’m going to take a look around.”
Torelli forgot himself and swore again, but John was already out the door. He made a running dive for the trees, the muscles
in his back twitching with the expectation of a bullet.
Nothing happened.
He hunkered, Glock held ready, just inside the woods and listened. The tree branches rustled overhead in the breeze. Somewhere,
a ways away, a woodpecker was knocking on a tree, reminding him of the last afternoon he’d been here—when the hit man had
nearly killed Turner.
John inhaled silently and rose to a crouch. He moved through the trees flanking the ice fishing house, being very careful
where he placed his feet. The ground was littered with dry leaves and sticks, just waiting to give him away. Dappled sunlight
shone through the trees, beautiful and deadly. There was hardly any cover. He felt exposed. And then he saw it.
A flash of red fabric.
John froze, then slowly hunched at the side of a mature tree. Someone had just disappeared behind a bush up ahead. He slid
forward toward the spot, always keeping a tree between himself and where he’d seen the glimpse of red. His mouth was dry,
his pulse beating in his head. He carefully placed another foot. The quiet of the woods was broken.
RO! Rorororororo!
Shit. Squeaky must’ve found the guy. He hoped the gunman wouldn’t shoot the dog before he could get there. John started sprinting,
no longer caring about the noise he made crashing through the forest. Squeaky’s barks covered the sound, anyway.
“Shut up! Goddamn it, shut up, Duke!”
Duke? John rounded a tree in time to see Calvin Hyman aim a handgun at Squeaky.
“Drop it!”
Hyman squealed and leaped. He almost made the mistake of leveling his gun at a federal agent. John could see the thought cross
the other man’s mind.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he growled.
Squeaky was still barking, stiff-legged and intent, his upper lip pulled back to reveal nasty-looking fangs. He must really
not like his former owner. Hyman’s eyes widened, and he might’ve gulped. John couldn’t hear the sound over Squeaky, but he
saw the movement of the other man’s throat. Hyman’s fist opened and the gun fell to the ground. John had Hyman facedown in
the grass before the weapon could hit. He knelt beside him and pulled his arms back to cuff him, reciting the Miranda code,
all the while aware that there might be another gunman in the woods. Squeaky stopped barking and came over to sniff the side
of Hyman’s face.
“This is a mistake,” Hyman started babbling. “You don’t understand. This is my property. I have a perfect right to be on my
own property—”
“Shut up.”
“My gun is registered and—”
“Just shut the fuck up.”
And Hyman did. Which was good, because John’s attention was on other matters.
He smelled smoke.