“Why’s that?” Wallace asked, looking up from the pleadings.
“Mediocre facts,” Brown answered. “Lyman offered to settle the case for a couple hundred thousand early on, but Mueller refused.”
“So they ended up at trial, then?” Shamus asked.
“Yeah, and Lyman did an absolute number on Mueller at trial. The jury came back and nailed him but good. I think the verdict eventually put Mueller out of business. His insurance didn’t cover harassment, and he had to pay the verdict out of his back pocket. For a little trucking company, $3.4 million is hard to swallow,” Brown said. He moved on to check on the next group.
Shamus grabbed the deposition transcript for Thomas Mueller and found the personal information for Mueller and his family. He looked to a young attorney from Hisle’s office named Ramler who’d come to help and was sitting at a laptop.
“Dougie, you ready?”
“Yes sir,” Ramler answered, his fingers at the ready.
“Good. I’ve got a Thomas Oliver Mueller…”
Peters ushered Mac and the boys into a small, windowless interview room. After a minute, the chief joined them. He was sleep-deprived and ill-looking, with large dark bags under his eyes. But his bright blue eyes were alert as ever, and he cut to the chase.
“What are you boys up to?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Mac replied.
The chief looked at Mac squarely. “I know you,” he said, and then pointed at the rest of the group. “I know all of you. Burton’s setting up for the ransom and has everyone waiting it out. They’ve run all the criminal connections between Lyman and me and crapped out, he says. The only possible lead is this safe house that we got a tip on yesterday. He says you guys have been sitting on that house for seventeen hours or something like that. You four? Sitting on a house for seventeen hours? I don’t buy it. That’s not your style, just sittin’ around and waitin’. So while we were in there, I was watching you,” he pointed at Mac. “I was watching all of you. Mac’s standing there, checkin’ his watch every two minutes. The rest of you are all looking around the room as if you’re looking for someone or something. And your body language says you’re not buying what Burton is sellin’. So what are you up to?”
Mac didn’t want to burden the chief further — the man was under enough stress as it was. But the jig was up. Mac glanced over to Peters, who nodded.
“We haven’t been laying back, Chief.”
“But whatever it is you boys are up to, nobody else in that room has a clue, do they?” the chief asked.
“They do not.”
“Why not? And I better not find out that this is some sort of fuckin’ pissin’ match.”
“It’s not,” Mac answered and then put all the cards on the table. “We’re worried the kidnappers have someone on the inside.”
“What?” the chief replied, stunned. “How did you reach that conclusion? How do you know this? Who is it? Is it one of our people, the FBI, who?”
“We don’t know,” Riley answered. “But all of us think someone is a source for these assholes.”
The chief was flabbergasted. He paced around the room, pinching the bridge of his nose and then sighed. “Tell me what you boys are thinking.”
“You better start from the beginning, Mac,” Peters suggested.
Mac started, “Chief, these guys have been ahead of us from the start.” He laid out what they knew about the two kidnappings, the woman working the inside, the calculated dropping and blowing of the vans, the setting-up of Drew Wiskowski, and the fact that the criminal-case connections between the chief and Lyman weren’t panning out. “These guys left next to nothing behind,” Mac said. “Then, at the safe house, after we searched it, we were sitting on it, watching from across the street.”
“That’s when things might have changed, Chief,” Riles added.
“How so?”
“Pat and I were talking to the owner of the house and his wife, and we start talking about when the kidnappers left the safe house.”
“So?”
“It was within minutes of his call. And then we talked about how the vans left in a hurry. Mrs. Hall said, and I quote, ‘they ripped out of there.’”
“That triggered all sorts of alarm bells,” Riley added. “We started thinking that maybe they got a tip.”
“That’s a pretty big stretch,” the chief replied, skeptical. “And you didn’t find anything in the house did you? No forensic evidence, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Lich answered, explaining the chipped paint on the basement beds. “It’s thin, but we think it was a safe house, the place these guys were operating out of.”
“And forensics is telling us that the house was cleaned at least twice in the days before we went in.”
Still, how can you know they were tipped off?”
“Other than the timing of when they left and how, we don’t,” Mac answered honestly. “My gut tells me something wasn’t right about it. And if they weren’t tipped off, why not come back?”
The chief nodded at that.
Mac continued, “We know that’s a little thin, but… I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”
“So what have you been doing to look into that?”
“Before I get to that, there’s one other thing that occurred to us last night,” Mac added. “We looked at all the connections for Lyman’s criminal cases to you, but one thing we weren’t looking at was Lyman’s civil cases.” He quickly related the story about the attorney getting chased with an axe in Minneapolis the day before. “We’ve looked at the obvious connections on the criminal side, so now we’re looking at Lyman’s civil cases. If someone is pissed enough to go after an attorney with an axe, why not do what the kidnappers are doing here?”
“So what are you doing?”
“We have people down at Lyman’s office and at an off-site storage unit looking through the civil cases, the harassment, discrimination, and class-action stuff.”
“There are thousands of names,” Riles added. “Plus Hagen…”
Hagen lorded over his computer, monitoring the program, swiveling back and forth in his chair, twirling a pen through his fingers when his monitor beeped at him with a hit. He sat up and clicked on the search result, which showed connections between a Smith Brown on the chief’s list and a David Mueller, the son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, a defendant in one of Hisle’s sexual harassment cases.
Sally noticed Hagen peering closely at the computer and walked over. “What do you have?”
“Connection of some kind,” Hagen answered, running his cursor over the screen, clicking on and reading various links. “Smith Brown, who was…” Hagen looked away from the computer to a binder-clipped packet of papers, flipping through it until he found Smith’s name, “…a DEA agent that Chief Flanagan put in prison fifteen or sixteen years ago, and a David Mueller, who occupied the neighboring cell at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.”
“Who’s Mueller?”
The computer whiz scrolled down the screen and whistled, “Son of Thomas Oliver Mueller, who Hisle sued back in the early ‘90s. It must have been a good case, because Hisle got himself a $3.4 million verdict.”
“Where are these guys now?”
Hagen clicked through several programs and brought up the federal prison system records, accessing the records for Leavenworth. After a minute he found the records, and they both whistled. “Brown finished his sentence six months ago, and Mueller has been out for nine months.”
“What are their current addresses?” Sally asked, pulling up a chair and grabbing a notepad.
“Brown has one in Chicago, and Mueller,” Hagen clicked on a different link, “Mueller has an address in Osseo.” Osseo was a small northwestern suburb of Minneapolis. “Is this worth a look?” Hagen asked, turning his gaze to Sally, who was furiously jotting notes down on a legal pad.
“Keep digging and I’ll ask Mac,” she said as she took out her cell phone.