Forest Lake sat on the far northeastern edge of the Twin Cities, so it was considered a suburb, but it had a country feel. The Ranger created a melting pot for the clash of those suburban and rural cultures. One look at the massive throng revealed a great mixture of the denim-and-belt-buckle, NASCAR-hat crowd and the Tommy-Bahama types.
As Heather entered from the back, she found a large bar beneath dark-paneled walls covered with framed sports jerseys and newspaper clippings, souvenirs of the Twins ’87 and ’91 World Series victories and recent Minnesota Gopher hockey national championships. In the dim lighting, she noted pool tables and dartboards in a segregated area to her immediate right. Straight ahead, a short hallway led to the main bar area where booths and tables surrounded a long, four-sided mahogany bar. In the far right corner, karaoke was going strong with an American Idol wannabe belting out Eddie Money’s “ Shakin ” — badly.
Heather picked her way around two sides of the main bar before spotting Burton, who was sitting in a booth, talking to another man. She grabbed an open bar stool, three from the corner nearest to Burton, and sat down.
The bartender appeared instantly, a good-looking, six-foot, black-haired early twenty-something in a tight black Ranger T-shirt, which showed his chiseled upper body. “What can I get ya’, darlin’?” he said with a bright white smile.
Darlin’? He was cheesy for sure, but definitely cute. “You know what a Vodka Sonic is?”
“Sure darlin’. Vodka, club soda, splash of tonic, and a lemon. We call it a Jolly Roger around here.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Vodka Sonic for the pretty lady it is,” the bartender replied, strolling off to mix the drink.
Heather alternately looked at a table tent menu with nightly specials and toward Burton, still deep in conversation with the other man, who was perhaps a little shorter. The man had short black hair, slightly graying at the temples. His profile revealed a large nose with a knot two-thirds of the way up, where it had been broken before. Both men had a beer in front of them, one-third finished, along with a bowl of popcorn. They leaned in close as they talked, their hands crossed in front of them.
“So where is the investigation at?” Smith asked, taking a pull off of his Budweiser.
“We’re good,” Burton answered, hat pulled down low. He ignored his Miller High Life and cautiously peered around the jam-packed bar, trying to determine if anyone was watching or looking in their direction. He wasn’t comfortable meeting in this environment, but Smith insisted and he was the one pulling the strings. “The discovery of the house today actually worked to your advantage.”
“How so?” Smith asked with raised eyebrows.
“Besides the obvious, which is that we didn’t find anything to identify you, it means that the best St. Paul has to offer are sitting on the house right now. It’s the only break the case has had, so they’re lying in wait, hoping you’ll come back.”
“Which means they’re wasting their time and not looking for us,” Smith answered, smiling, taking another hit off the beer. He was so happy, he was thinking of ordering another.
“And that’s a good thing,” Burton said. “These guys aren’t bad, particularly this McRyan character.”
“Now that name’s familiar,” Smith answered. “Why do I know that name?”
“Let me tell you why,” Burton took a sip of his beer. “You were still in the can at the time, but last winter the St. Paul police took down a crew of ex-CIA guys running security at Peterson Technical Applications, you know, PTA, in St. Paul. This McRyan was the main guy in all that, figured it out, broke the case wide open, and chased the guy behind it through downtown. He put him down in the RiverCentre Parking Ramp.”
I saw a TV report on that,” Smith answered. “Shootout in downtown. Arms sales and stuff like that.”
“That’s it,” Burton replied, taking a couple of kernels of popcorn out of the basket. “Anyway, this kid’s a pretty good cop. He’s fourth generation. I knew his old man,” Smith said, nodding his head.
“As well you should,” Burton added. “Simon was a hell of a cop, one of the best local cops I ever saw. His son is a chip off the old block for sure, scary smart and just tenacious as hell.”
“Tenacious?”
Burton related the argument about releasing the video to local authorities and the mayor and Duffy’s objections. “He didn’t back down one bit. He’s essentially calling the mayor, his boss I might add, an idiot and political hack in front of a room of cops and agents. He was one hundred percent right and wouldn’t back down until he got his way.”
“What lets him get away with that?” Smith asked, stunned.
“I’m not totally sure. If I had to guess, at least part of it is his DNA. Word is he’s never, ever, backed down from anything. On that arms sales thing, he was repeatedly told to leave it alone, but didn’t. Hell, he wouldn’t, and he brought that thing home. If he thinks he’s right, he won’t stop.”
“He’ll end up on the street if he keeps doing that.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think he worries about it. He’s got money.”
“How? He’s just a cop.”
“It’s not widely known, even within his department, but he invested ten grand about five or six years ago with two old high school friends in a coffee business, the Grand Brew. You’ve seen them around town haven’t you?”
Smith nodded.
“Well, that little enterprise is up to nearly thirty shops, with more on the way, and McRyan has a piece of that action, gets a check every so often. When that little business goes public or gets bought by a bigger corporation a few years from now, he’ll be a multi-millionaire. It gives him a certain freedom to say what he thinks and do what he wants. He doesn’t have to worry about whether he can make the mortgage payment.”
“Tenacious and he’s going to be rich, which is good for him. But what makes him like the old man? What makes him someone we should be worrying about? I mean he can’t be that old? What, early thirties?”
“Thirty-three to be exact.” Burton snorted and shook his head, “You haven’t seen him in action. Let me tell you a little about him.” The agent pulled out a paper-clipped set of papers out of his pocket. “I got myself a look at his personnel file. Honors graduate of the University of Minnesota and William Mitchell College of Law, second in his class. His college entrance exams and LSAT to get into law school were off the charts. The guy is brilliant.”
“Why did he become a cop, then?”
“He’s fourth generation. Two of his best friends growing up were two cousins, Peter and Thomas McRyan. Apparently, the three were tight and all planned on becoming cops. But Mac has the college grades, marries a smart and pretty girl, and they both head off to law school, graduate with high honors, and line up the six-figure jobs after graduation.”
“Still doesn’t answer my question. Why the cop bit?”
“Two weeks after he takes the bar exam, his two cousins die in the line of duty, and he feels the calling of the family business. That was eight years ago. He trashed a legal career where he’d probably have made a big pile of money and blew his marriage because the wife didn’t like him being a cop, all to take up the family business. I guess he felt obligated.”
“So in eight years, he’s the best St. Paul has? I bet the veterans love that.”