Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (20 page)

Turners Bend

Late January

T
HE
MEETING WITH FRANCO
, Fredrickson and Masterson went on for
hours as the three explained the plan and tried to enlist Chip’s cooperation.
It was no easy task.

“The
best possible outcome is we catch both Hal Swanson and Finnegan’s killer,” said
Detective Franco. “If that doesn’t happen, at least we honor Finnegan and raise
a lot of money for his kids’ education fund.”

“Think
about it, Chip,” said Chief Fredrickson. “You’ll rest a lot easier when this
manhunt for Hal is over, and we have him in custody. Don’t you and Jane want
your normal life and privacy back?”

“We’ll
suit you up in our best quality Kevlar vest and give you a wire so we can be in
constant communication. Plus FBI field agents from our Omaha, Minneapolis and
Chicago offices will be swarming all over the place,” explained Agent
Masterson.

“The
Saint Paul Hotel is accustomed to having visiting dignitaries, politicians,
rock stars and Hollywood actors, people who require a high level of security.
And, the St. Paul PD will provide additional security, not only in the hotel,
but for the whole Rice Park area surrounding the hotel,” added Franco.

Chip
began to see the benefits of the plan, but new concerns arose. “I want
fool-proof protection for Jane and the kids. Rather than come after me, what if
Hal decides to seek them out while I’m in St. Paul? Have you thought about that
possibility?”

Agent
Masterson nodded her head. “As we have explained, we have considered all the
possible scenarios. We have a secluded safe house on the island of Captiva, off
the Florida coast. It’s staffed by a Secret Service detail. Jane and the kids
will be flown by Air Force transport to Captiva before the benefit dinner. Not
only is it a beautiful place, but the security is top-notch.”

“Sounds
good,” said Chip. “Can I join them for a few days after the benefit?”

Masterson
chuckled. “You drive a hard bargain, Collingsworth. I’ll see if I can arrange a
little R&R for you.”

“Besides
putting my life on the line, what else do I have to do?”

“We
will ask you to get your literary agent to implement the media blitz and for
you to following through with interviews,” said Masterson “She, of course,
cannot know the true intent of your appearance. That’s it.”

“What
about Jane? Can she know?”

“Jane’s
cooperation will be necessary. I’ll tell her as much as she needs to know to be
convinced this is a safe operation. The same goes for Maureen Finnegan. Any
other questions or requests?”

Chip
closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No, I guess that’s it for now. My
father and brother have nerves of steel. They bravely drill holes in people’s
heads and cut tumors out of their brains with no fear or trepidation. Me, I
didn’t inherit those genes. If I can make it through the benefit dinner without
passing out or having a panic attack, you guys will be lucky.”

Despite
all his ranting and raving, all his misgivings, all his fears, three-hours into
the meeting Chip had agreed to the plan. The triumvirate of Masterson,
Fredrickson and Franco had prevailed.

***

“OMG
Chip, this is marvelous PR for you,” gushed Lucinda, when Chip told her about
the benefit dinner for Finnegan and the offer from his wife to finish the
deceased writer’s novel. “The media loves this kind of thing. Remember when it
was announced that Kyle Mills would be finishing Vince Flynn’s last novel? It
made national headlines.”

“I
know you’ve got other things on your mind right now, but do you think you could
send out a few press releases and snag me a couple radio or TV interviews?”
asked Chip.

“Are
you kidding? Of course. This is huge.”

Lucinda
threw all her energy into the project. Chip had appearances on
Good Morning America
and
The View
. He did radio interviews in a
dozen major markets, including New York and Los Angeles. When he wasn’t being
interviewed, he was blogging and tweeting. His last gig would be an interview
on WCCO-TV, the CBS affiliate in Minneapolis. At all times he had FBI Agent Sam
Harden with him.

***

Getting
Lucinda to do her part was easy; getting Jane on board was not.

Jane
sat on their bed, fiercely brushing her hair, static causing the red strands to
fan up after each stroke. “You can’t tell me the kids and I need a safe house
in Captiva and you’ll be fine at a very public gathering. I don’t buy this,
Chip, and I don’t like it.”

Chip
changed into a pair of sweat pants and an old Colts jersey and tossed his suit
on the chair by the bed. He had just returned from an interview in Chicago, and
he was weary from his travels and equally weary of this ongoing argument with
Jane.

“And
hang up your suit. I’m tired of picking up after you.” She threw her brush
across the room.

This
was so unlike Jane. Chip could see the stress coming out of her in unexpected
ways, stripping away the logical, sensible Jane and laying open a woman with
fears and anxieties, some rational and some irrational.

He
hung up his suit and sat next to her on the bed, putting his arm around her
shoulders. She leaned against him and put her head on his chest. “Oh Chip. I’m
afraid for all of us, including Hal. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I have a sick
feeling in my stomach night and day.”

Chip
was puzzled. “You’re afraid for Hal?”

 
“Yes, don’t you realize he could be killed,
shot down like a common criminal? I don’t want that to happen to him.”

During
this whole ordeal, that thought hadn’t occurred to Chip. Yet, Hal really was a
common criminal.

As
if reading his mind, Jane said, “He is not a common criminal, he is a very
sick, mentally ill man. He needs help. I just want this to be over.”

“Me
too, Janey. Me too.”

Head Shot

St. Paul, MN

Early
November

S
PECIAL AGENT JO SCHWANN PARKED
at the curb beside Nina’s Café in the Cathedral Hill area of St.
Paul. As Detective Mike Frisco pulled into the spot behind her, Jo stepped out
of her SUV, her eyes taking in the neighborhood F. Scott Fitzgerald once called
home. Several of the buildings that had gone into decline in the nineties had
reclaimed their Victorian charm in recent years. The area now bustled with
restaurants and shops, with St. Paul’s curling club just a few blocks down the
street.

The day had grown chilly and Jo pulled her collar closer around
her neck. The days were noticeably shorter and the street lights lit the way to
the doorway of the café.

Once inside, some of the customers looked up at the new arrivals,
but most kept their noses buried in books or laptops plugged in along the front
window facing Selby Avenue. A few chatted on couches placed around the room,
hands wrapped around mugs of coffee.

Jo could smell the slightly burnt odor of roasted coffee beans and
her stomach protested for a moment. She swallowed hard a few times and breathed
through her mouth until the queasiness passed. She and Frisco walked past the
counter and followed the staircase down to the lower level. They entered the
store, stepping through the arched doorway.

Both Nina’s café and Subtext were located in the Blair Arcade
building, a Victorian gem. The lower level of the building was charming, with
white stone-arched doorways. Rather than feeling like a gloomy basement, the
store was cozy and inviting, with comfy arm chairs scattered throughout. The
floor was covered in black and white checkerboard tiles, and bookshelves filled
the store to overflowing, reaching toward the soffits covered in literary
quotes and references.

When they stepped up to the check-out counter, Jo introduced
herself to the man behind the counter. His nametag identified him as Paul, and
Jo placed him in his late sixties, with a full head of gray hair and a beard to
match. Jo found herself smiling at his dapper clothing choice; he wore a
buttoned up baby-blue dress shirt with a green-and-pink polka dot bow tie.
Frisco handed him the photo of Billy MacGregor. “Do you know this man?”

“Yeah. That’s Billy. He works here part time.” He frowned. “He’s
missed his shifts the last couple of days. Not like him at all, especially
since he didn’t call in. Is he okay?”

Frisco glanced quickly at Jo. “I’m afraid Billy MacGregor died
this past week.”

Paul’s face paled. “Died? How…I mean, geez, he was such a nice
polite kid. What happened?”

Jo said, “We’re hoping you might be able to help us figure that
out. Did he meet with anyone here?”

The store clerk shook his head. “No. He pretty much kept to
himself and the bookcases.”

Jo couldn’t help but be disappointed. She tried again. “Did he
bring personal items with him into the store, like a laptop or notebook?” She
knew it was a long shot, but she held her breath, waiting for the clerk’s
answer.

Paul scratched his head and took a moment to respond. “Now that
you mention it, he often carried a rather worn-out looking notebook. One of
those old-fashioned, black-and-white composition notebooks. Is that what you
mean?”

Her heart sped up, but before she could reply, Frisco jumped in.
“Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing we’re looking for. Any chance he kept
it here?”

“Well, all employees have a little locker space in the back, to
store our personal belongings while we work. I have no idea what he kept in
there, but I guess it would be okay if you want to take a look, if you think it
would help.”

Paul summoned another clerk over to the counter to take his place
and led them to the back room. They wound their way through stacks of boxes and
books until they came to a small clearing. A battered table and chairs sat in
the middle and a row of olive green lockers lined one wall.

He pointed to the locker on the far left. “That’s Billy’s locker.
It’s locked, though.”

Frisco ran out to his car and returned with a massive bolt cutter.
After he cut through the lock, Jo removed it and yanked the handle up. The door
opened with a creak. She reached in and pulled out a notebook and a tattered
book. Jo carried both items to the table.

The clerk stood next to her.
“That's it!
That's the notebook he carried with him.”

She picked up the book. In the light she could see its faded
title. It was a poetry book by Robert Burns. Jo thought about John’s discovery
earlier in the evening that Billy’s tattoo was a quote from the famous Scottish
poet.

She opened it to the front page. “It’s inscribed to William
MacGregor, from his grandfather. It says:
Never
forget where you came from.
”

Jo could feel Frisco looking over her shoulder. “Why would
MacGregor keep his own book here?”

She murmured, “Good question.” Jo thumbed through a few pages and
gasped. There was a crudely hollowed out hole in the body of the book, and
inside she discovered a thumb drive.

Frisco said,
“Holy shit.”

Before he could say anything more, Jo closed up the
book and looked at Paul. “We will need to take these with us, for evidence.
Since these items clearly don't belong to the store, I am sure you won't have a
problem with that.”

“No, no, of course not.” Paul looked flustered.

She continued, “We appreciate your cooperation. I hope
you can understand how important it is you don’t mention this to anyone else.”

Paul’s bow-tie bobbed with his Adam’s apple as he
swallowed and then nodded vigorously. “Won’t tell a soul. I promise.”

Jo tucked the notebook, thumb drive and poetry book in
her bag. They walked back upstairs, Jo feeling a bit dazed. When they reached
their cars, Jo said, “We need to look at this tonight. Do you want to head back
to my house?”

Frisco said, “Why don’t we head over to mine? I’m only
a few miles from here.” He hesitated and tilted his head, as if studying her.
“But, Jo. You’re pregnant and it’s late. You should rest. Why don’t I take a
look at this and we can re-group in the morning.”

Jo looked him in the eye. “Frisco, I appreciate your
concern.” She lightly punched his arm. “But if you ever suggest to me again I
should pull back on our investigation because I’m going to have a baby, I’ll
look for a new partner in the St. Paul PD.”

Frisco chuckled. “Fair enough. Follow me to the house.
I’ll fire up a pot of coffee for me and pour a glass of milk for you.”

St. Paul, Minnesota

February

C
HIP
STOOD IN THE ULTRA-LUXURIOUS
Ordway Suite at the Saint Paul
Hotel as FBI Agent Sam Harden adjusted a Kevlar vest around his upper body.
“Not too comfy, but I don’t care as long as it does the job,” said Chip.

“Oh,
it’ll do the job. This is a ProMax Premium concealable full-vest, covers the
front, back and sides. It has both stab and ballistic protection. No one will
know you have it on underneath the custom-made tux you’ll be wearing.”

Chip’s
cell phone rang out. “It’s Jane, am I allowed to answer it?”

“Sure,
go ahead. I have to test your wire before we put it on you.”

Chip
pressed talk. “Jane, how is Captiva?”

“You
won’t believe this place, Chip. It’s like paradise inside of Fort Knox. There’s
a private beach and a pool. The kids went shelling this afternoon and brought
back the most amazing collection. I can’t wait for this to be over and for you
to join us. How are you holding up?”

Chip
looked at himself in the ornately-framed bedroom mirror and grimaced. “Fine.
The FBI has all the luxury suites in the hotel booked. I’m in one and Maureen
Finnegan is in another. There are cops at every elevator and stairway. I’m
feeling pretty safe at this point.”

Chip
wondered if Jane could hear this falsehood through his voice. He was having
trouble breathing normally and felt claustrophobic. Wearing the heavy,
confining vest was like being tightly wrapped with duct tape. There was no
flexibility in it. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.

“Guess
what? Lots of celebrities are expected to show up tonight, including the
comedian Bill Murray. Seems Finnegan was a huge fan of the St. Paul Saints, and
Murray’s part-owner of the baseball team. He has the title of Team
Psychologist. Isn’t that a hoot?”

“Cool.
What happens next, dear?” asked Jane.

Chip
consulted the detailed timetable he had been given. “A cocktail reception,
followed by a sit-down dinner. Under any other circumstances, this would be
quite the affair.”

“Stay
calm Chip. Think about drinking Pina Coladas with me by the infinity pool
tomorrow evening. Good luck. Love you more than you can ever know,” she said
with a catch in her voice.

Feeling
choked up with tears gathering at the back of his throat, Chip responded with
his love and said good bye.

***

Chip
could feel Maureen’s tension as she gripped his arm. She was dressed in a long,
black silk dress. Despite her make-up, she looked weary. The dark circles under
her eyes betrayed the ordeal she had been going through since Patrick’s death.

“How
can I every repay you, thank you enough,” she whispered as they prepared to
enter the cocktail reception. “You’re my hero tonight.”

She
opened her evening bag and removed a rosary and slipped it into the pocket of
Chip’s tuxedo jacket. “If you don’t mind, just for tonight. It was my
grandmother’s rosary. When she was worried, she always made me take it along
with me.”

The
room was elegant. Tall pub tables, beautifully draped with white linens, were
scattered around the room. The crystal chandeliers reflected off the mirrored
walls and soft music was playing behind the chatter of formally-dressed guests.

Maureen
and Chip merged into the crowd, stopping to greet guests, offer introductions
and accept tall flutes of bubby wine and canapés from roving waiters dressed in
white jackets.

“Chip,
this is St. Paul Mayor Chris Coleman,” Maureen said as she introduced a
good-looking, ruddy-faced man. ”And this is Dr. Julie Sullivan, the president
of Patrick’s alma mater, the University of St. Thomas.”

Chip
was enjoying himself. “I see the Irish are out in full force tonight. It’s an
honor to meet both of you. Thanks so much for coming.”

All
of a sudden he was aware of Franco’s voice in his ear. “Waiter with a towel
over his arm approaching Chip from the back. Nab him.” He felt a sharp, intense
pain in the middle of his back, like being hit with a baseball bat. The force
propelled him forward into the mayor, landing them both on the floor.

Two
FBI agents swooped in and grabbed the waiter. Bending his arms behind him, they
wrestled him down onto the floor. A gun flew out of the waiter’s hand and
skittered across the floor. The man struggled to break free, but was no match
for the two agents, who dragged him into the hallway leading to the kitchen,
his trailing feet kicking. It happened so fast that many guests were unaware of
the fuss.

Franco
appeared beside Chip and helped him stand. “You okay?”

“I
think so. What happened?” He felt dazed and confused. His back was throbbing.

Franco
located the gun and directed a police officer to retrieve and bag it. In a loud
voice he said, “Just a little mishap here folks, we have everything under
control. Please step back and clear this room as quickly as possible. Proceed
into the ballroom for your dinner.”

Officers
began to secure the area, as Franco propelled Chip through the gathering crowd
and into the same hallway where the cuffed shooter was being read his rights.

Franco
briefly consulted with Sam Harden and then escorted Chip down another hallway
to an employee bathroom. They could hear the cuffed man yelling and swearing,
his voice echoing down the hallway as he was hauled away.

“We’ll
have a doc here shortly to take a look at you. Make sure you’re not injured too
badly. The shooter is on his way out of here with the SPPD team,” said Franco

Chip
felt faint and slid down onto the cold bathroom floor “I don’t understand. How
did you know the guy was coming at me with a gun? Who is he? Is it Hal? Is it
Finnegan’s killer?”

“Whoa,
take a deep breath and calm yourself. The guy’s facial hair threw me off for a
second, but I was sure I recognized him. He wasn’t carrying a tray and the
towel over his arm looked unnatural. Something in my gut told me he was
trouble. I didn’t see the gun under the towel. It had a silencer. That’s why no
one heard the shot.”

“But
who is he?” asked Chip in a shaky voice. “I’m still confused.”

“The
guy is a local bad boy. I knew I had seen him before. We tried to pin a
homicide on him two years ago, but we couldn’t make it stick. A big-time lawyer
got him off on a technicality. Sloppy police work, I’m afraid.”

“So,
did he kill Finnegan?”

“Maybe,
maybe not. My guess is he was hired to kill you. I bet he thought he could do
the job and walk out the kitchen door in all the commotion.”

“Do
you think Hal hired him?”

“No,
not Hal, but I have a strong suspicion of who did.”

A
doctor arrived and Chip took off his jacket and shirt. Sam entered the bathroom
and removed the Kevlar vest and pulled a bullet out of the back, placing it in
an evidence bag.

 
“You’re going to have a painful bruise for a
couple of days, but it looks like that vest did its job,” said the doctor.

“I
thought this vest would protect me from injury. This hurts like hell.”

“A
bullet can’t penetrate this vest,” explained Sam. “The ceramic lining stops the
bullet, but its impact can still pack quite a wallop. Busted one of my ribs
once.”

“You
think you can go back and join Maureen at the dinner?” asked Franco. “We haven’t
spotted Hal, but he could still make a move tonight. One down, one to go.”

“What
the hell, it couldn’t be any worse than this. All I’ve had to eat today is a
lousy bacon-wrapped date and a bruschetta with lox, but I don’t think I could
eat a thing right now.”

***

Chip
was right. The bloody prime rib on his plate made him nauseous. He sat beside
Maureen at the head table scanning the diners for Hal and watching police
officers check everyone entering or leaving the ballroom.

At
the end of the evening Sam escorted him back to the suite. “No Hal,” Chip said.
“You know, I don’t know whether to be relieved or pissed that we went through
all of this and still don’t know where in the hell he is.”

***

The
next morning the whole team, including Chip and Maureen, were gathered in the
Lowry Suite for a debriefing led by Agent Masterson. A lavish continental
breakfast was laid out on the bar and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled
the room.

“First
I want to thank all of you for your hard work and cooperation. Hal Swanson was
a no-show, so unfortunately we do not know any more than we did before about
his whereabouts or intentions. But, I want to assure you all we won’t stop
searching for him.”

She
paused and took a sip of coffee. “Franco do you want to give us a run-down on
your perp.”

“His
name, at least the one he is currently using, is Dwayne Moore. He’s got a
record that is the envy of criminals state-wide, mainly because he uncannily
seems to avoid any harsh sentences. He has friends in very high, very influential
places.”

Franco
took a bite of his bagel with cream cheese and a quick sip of coffee. “He could
be involved in something Finnegan was researching or he could merely be the
hired hit-man. The latter is my best guess. He always seems to be represented
by high profile lawyers, and I heard this morning he already has one of the
best.”

“Let’s
pack up and get out of there,” said Masterson. “Chip has a charter plane to
catch at Holman Field, and Maureen wants to get back to her children.”

Maureen
stood clutching her hands. “I’m full of gratitude for all of you and all your
efforts, especially to you, Chip. You took a huge risk for me and my children.
The money raised last night was staggering. It will be more than enough to pay
for Abby and Sean’s college tuitions.”

Chip
stood and gave her a warm embrace. He placed her rosary in the palm of her hand
and closed it with a squeeze. “Back at you,

Maureen. May it
continue to protect you.”