“You’re perceptive, son. They’re some city-hall types who wouldn’t mind seeing me discredited. They don’t like the idea of my involvement in legitimate business, the real estate market, and the area around the ballpark. My money apparently has a different tint of green.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t sufficiently laundered,” Mac said acerbically.
Ten minutes later, they were driving back to the SuperAmerica gas station. “You guys knew this was a waste of time, didn’t you?” Mac asked Gerdtz and Subject.
“We both suspected that to be the case, although we heard the rumors, too,” Subject answered.
“So this golden-rule shit is the real deal?”
“Pretty much,” Gerdtz said. “While he’s never been afraid to drop a body, to the best of our knowledge, he’s telling the truth about that golden-rule business. He doesn’t involve citizens.”
“He sure talked out of school in front of you boys,” Lich said. “I mean, he didn’t exactly hide from his past.”
“No, he didn’t,” Gerdtz replied. “We’ve taken our run at him over the years, but now we’ll never get him. The county attorney’s office doesn’t want anything to do with him. They’ve been embarrassed too many times.”
“So what,” Mac asked quizzically, “there’s like a truce or something with him?”
“Kinda,” Gerdtz said. “You said it yourself, he’s the bank. There are just too many layers between him and the street. Hell, he’s making so much legitimate money now that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got out of the drug trade in two or three years. He’s gonna be what Michael Corleone always wanted to be.”
Subject echoed the thought.
“He’s even been helpful on occasion when other people operating in that part of town have violated Fat Charlie’s rule. People don’t know it, he asked us to keep it quiet, but you guys remember that stray bullet that killed the little girl four years ago?” Everyone nodded. “Fat Charlie clued us in on who to look at. Hell, Boone called me, me, the guy who’s been in his shit for years, to tell me.”
“What did he ask for in return?” Mac asked.
“Not one damn thing,” Subject replied. “He’s never even mentioned it since.”
Mac snorted. Fat Charlie Boone, one contradiction after another, a saint and a hood all at the same time. He exhaled.
“Well he did say he’d call us if he heard of anything.”
10
Smith and Monica left the safe house in a minivan. Ten blocks away, they pulled into an empty school parking lot and affixed an Airport Ride sign to the side window. Five minutes later they were at the Airport Park amp; Ride lot. Smith was now wearing stylish rimless glasses, dressed business casual in a navy blue sport coat, a blue-and-white striped, button-down collar shirt, tan cuffed slacks, and sharp, burgundy-tasseled loafers. He dropped out of the van, then reached back to hoist a travel bag over his left shoulder and a nylon laptop case over his right. He pulled out the keys, popped the trunk, and put both items inside, looking like one of the mass of business travelers doing the same thing. He gave the van, and Monica, a quick wave and then ducked into the Impala.
The kidnapper exited the lot and quickly mixed in with the Monday rush-hour traffic, driving east out of St. Paul along Interstate 94, listening to the 5:00 PM top-of-the-hour local newscast on the FM talk radio station. A reporter named Tanya Morgan was currently making a live report from the St. Paul Police Department.
“Although the FBI and St. Paul police won’t go on the record, confidential sources have indicated that the two kidnappings appear to be connected. The abductions were conducted in similar matters, and the descriptions of the perpetrators are also similar.”
The program next cut to a statement from the Local FBI Agent-in-Charge Ed Duffy.
“We are working closely with the St. Paul Police and other jurisdictions to bring these girls home and the kidnappers to justice.
Smith particularly liked the next question from a reporter.
“We’re hearing reports of family members of the police and the county attorney’s office being assigned police escorts. Is this true?”
It was a no-win for Duffy, and his answer spoke volumes.
“I have no comment at this time.”
Smith liked the response. The police were most assuredly escorting people around town for safety, which meant fewer people looking for him. A pleasant development indeed. But if Smith liked that question, he loved the last one.
“Are the kidnappings over, or do you expect there may be another attempt?”
It was a tough question to answer, but to Duffy’s credit, he didn’t duck it.
“We can’t be certain. Everyone needs to be careful until we apprehend the kidnappers. People, particularly women, need to walk in groups. We need citizens to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity. One thing we do know is that the kidnappers tend to lay in wait at places where they know their targets will be. So people should vary their routines. And, if anyone notices any suspicious activity, they should immediately call…”
The FBI man gave the phone numbers, and then the show cut back to the two hosts, who began discussing the kidnappings as if they were experts. While they did, Smith motored south on State Highway 61 and into Hastings, a sleepy town on the far southeastern edge of the Twin Cities metro area. It is nestled into a curve of the Mississippi River as it ran east to join the St. Croix on the border with Wisconsin.
In Hastings, he stopped for a quick drive-through bite to eat, a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake. He enjoyed the warm humid evening. A light southerly breeze moved the tops of the tall oak and maple trees as he drove south into a green sea of southern Minnesota farm country. The cornfields would definitely be knee-high by the Fourth of July. The radio predicted a continuing heat wave, with highs in the nineties and matching humidity. A heavy thunderstorm was forecast for later in the evening, which would be fine with him as long as they got their work done in time.
As he devoured the burger and fries, Smith drove further south on 61 to the tiny town of Miesville. The town was only four or five blocks long and appeared to be deserted. In reality, all of the town’s citizens appeared to be at or heading to the baseball field to see the Miesville Mudhens, the town’s legendary Minnesota townball team. Smith passed the park on his left, a throwback to a bygone era, with a large wooden grandstand and an outfield fence made of signs for every business and in every color of the rainbow. At the last block, he turned right and then left behind two enormous silver silos and stopped. He jumped out and put on magnetized temporary license plates. Back in the car, he turned around, pulled back onto 61 and continued south. Just outside of town, the highway expanded to two lanes in each direction, running parallel to the Mississippi River. He reached the quiet town of Red Wing just after 6:30 PM, and he fell in with the local traffic.
Smith drove through the town and past Red Wing’s historic St. James Hotel. Past the hotel, he took a left, crossing the bridge over the Mississippi River and into the Wisconsin countryside. In another forty-five minutes he meandered into the small town of Ellsworth, where he arrived at 7:30.
In Ellsworth, he drove down the main drag, getting a feel for the rhythm and pulse of the slow and easy small town. The storefronts were mostly closed, except for a few a small restaurants and retail shops, with the odd pedestrian strolling along. Further down, he motored past a set of playfields where kids played baseball and adults relived their youth on the softball fields. He chuckled as he saw a forty-something adult slide into second base, get called out, and jump up and start berating an umpire as if he were playing in the seventh game of the World Series.
Four blocks past the athletic fields, he turned left on a quiet country road heading north out of town. He went three more blocks and found the pay phone in front of the abandoned gas station, across the street from a small, sparsely populated and neglected city park. Smith had found the spot a few weeks earlier on a scouting trip. He pulled up to the phone, which was set at the height of his car window. He then scanned the park across the street, saw what he wanted and smiled. Taking his time, the kidnapper casually pulled on rubber gloves, fitting them tightly. The car idled as he dug into the duffel bag, pulling out the portable voice changer, the Dictaphone and a roll of quarters, which he spent a minute opening. Checking his watch, he noted the time was 7:42 PM.