First, Kill the Lawyers, page 10
I waited.
I turned on my radio and hit the SCAN button. The receiver searched through God knows how many stations playing every kind of music you can imagine plus news and a lot of talk. Twice. I lingered on a jazz station for a song and then a golden oldies station. I used to like that kind of music, but somewhere along the line I lost interest. I don’t know why. I turned off the radio.
And waited some more.
Traffic was very heavy on Snelling Avenue. There were a lot of pedestrians and bicyclists on the street and sidewalks, too, mostly college-age kids, mostly coming and going from the coffeehouse on the corner. A couple of times I thought I had my man only to discover that I was mistaken.
About an hour passed before I saw him. Cowgill had actually ridden his ten-speed Raleigh within inches of my parked car, slowed at the intersection of the four-lane street, and started riding through it toward the apartment building.
He managed to get halfway across before the car hit him.
It was a blue car, bigger than most, and caught him square.
There was no squeal of brakes and no lurch right or left to indicate that the driver was trying to miss his mark.
Rider and bicycle flew up and out of one lane of traffic and into the next.
A Ford F-150 hit its brakes, but not fast enough, crushing first the bike and then the rider under the front tires.
The blue car kept going.
That’s when I screwed up.
I jumped out of my own vehicle and ran toward the accident scene.
I stopped before I reached it.
You should be chasing the blue car, I told myself.
Only by then it was too late.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the vehicle in my mind’s eye.
It was hopeless.
I had been so startled by the hit-and-run that I didn’t take note of the vehicle’s make or model. I hadn’t seen the license plate number and for the life of me couldn’t picture the driver.
At least a dozen people had gathered around the pickup and the bicycle and Cowgill’s body. The way it was twisted, I couldn’t imagine that he had survived.
The sound of multiple sirens grew louder.
I told myself that I should hang around and tell the police that I saw everything, which amounted to nothing. I would also have to explain what I was doing there, though, which would have put my clients at risk.
I returned to my Camry and pounded the steering wheel.
An ambulance and two police cruisers arrived.
I hammered the steering wheel some more.
“Goddammit,” I shouted.
I started up the car and drove off.
* * *
I was back in my apartment, puttering in the kitchen, when my cell rang. By then the local evening news had been on for twenty minutes.
“This is Taylor,” I said.
“It’s on TV.” Jernigan was shouting so loud I decided he didn’t need a phone. He could have just opened a window in his house and I would have heard him plain. “Did you see it? It’s on TV.”
“What?”
“Are you being coy with me, Taylor?”
My response was to sigh heavily into the phone transmitter.
“Please tell me that you didn’t do it,” Jernigan said.
“Are you asking me that?”
Jernigan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as if he were attempting to calm himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course you didn’t. But Jesus Christ.”
“I saw it, though.” I explained, adding, “I couldn’t identify the driver or his vehicle. I missed the opportunity.”
“Cowgill was murdered.”
“Not necessarily. Hitting a guy with a car, that’s amateur night. You’re sure to hurt the guy, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll kill him. It could have been a real hit-and-run accident.”
“That’s what the TV is calling it, but what do you think? I mean, what do you think the chances are?”
“All things considered? About three percent.”
“Cowgill was murdered,” Jernigan repeated.
“Do you know anyone who might have had a motive?”
“This is terrible.”
“I’m sure Cowgill thinks so.”
“I don’t know what to do about this, Taylor. If I go to the police with what I know, I’d be compromising my client. If I … Actually, I do know what to do. Nothing. I’m not going to do anything.”
“The police will investigate the crime as a hit-and-run.”
“I know.”
“There’s a lot they can do. Interview witnesses at the scene to see if anyone can ID the make, model, color of the vehicle. They’ll examine the footage taken from traffic cameras if there are any in the area, plus cameras in businesses that face the street. They’ll gather forensic evidence, glass from headlights or the windshield, paint, metal parts, brush marks and impressions left on clothing—anything that’ll help them get a profile of the car. They’ll check with local auto body shops, too. Honestly, though, the last year I worked as an investigator for the St. Paul Police Department, we had three hundred and thirty-something hit-and-runs. I think we solved six, and that was always because someone came forward.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“The detectives won’t even think to check Cowgill’s bank account or ask who his friends were. Unless somebody—”
“No, Taylor. The answer is no. You’re a licensed private investigator in the state of Minnesota. You have legal obligations to keep quiet as well.”
“Are you sure about that, Doug?”
“I’m sure. Listen, I don’t like this any more than you do, but we have to think about the higher moral good.”
John Kaushal used the same phrase yesterday, I told myself. The higher moral good. He was protecting a murderer. Jernigan was protecting a rapist. What’s the greater good in that?
“Is that your professional advice?” I asked.
“It is.”
“Maybe I’ll call a lawyer and get a second opinion.”
“Taylor, please. Don’t do anything we’ll both regret.”
* * *
Someone knocked on my door, so I opened it. Amanda Wedemeyer walked in. She was wearing blue shorts and a red jersey with blue piping and her name stitched across the back. She made a big production out of crumbling to the floor and lying flat, her arms and legs outstretched as if she were making snow angels. She sighed like a martyr giving up her last breath.
“Hi, Mandy,” I said.
I left the door open and walked back to the kitchen area. Ogilvy bounded into the room, paused when he saw the girl, sniffed around her as if looking for food, and nudged her arm when he didn’t find any.
“Tough day?” I asked.
“First game of the season. We got—what’s the word Coach used? Oh yeah. Crushed. Hear that, Ogilvy? Crushed.”
The rabbit kept ramming Amanda’s hand until she started to stroke his fur. The gesture made her smile. Apparently some rabbits know just what to do.
“Crushed happens,” I said. “Although not always in the first game.”
“Did you play soccer when you were a kid?”
“No.”
“It’s hard.”
“A lot of running around, anyway.”
“You played baseball, though,” she reminded me.
“A little.”
“Do you still play?”
“Just the game of life.”
A voice came from the hallway.
“How’s that going?” Claire asked.
“Sometimes I get crushed.”
Claire stepped into my apartment and looked down at Mandy. She was also wearing blue shorts and a red jersey with blue piping and her name stitched on the back. A soccer mom, although I had to admit the uniform looked damn good on her. I wondered if Alex Campbell had a soccer uniform.
Claire poked her daughter with the toe of her sneaker.
“Are we going to go through this every time you lose?” she asked.
“I hate getting beat,” Amanda said.
“Why do we play the game?”
“We play to win,” I said.
Both mother and daughter looked at me.
“I wasn’t supposed to answer that question, was I?”
“We play the game for the fun of it,” Claire said.
“Yeah, that too.”
Amanda didn’t remind me of my daughter; she was at least seven years older than Jenny when she died. Claire didn’t remind me of Laura, either. They were very different people, different ages, different looks, with different perspectives on life. So it wasn’t like I saw them as replacements for the family that I had loved and lost. Yet having them around often made me ponder what my life would have been like if John Brown hadn’t run that damned red light. Would I be happy? Probably happier than I was, anyway, I told myself.
Brown was murdered shortly after he was released from prison, and the cops, including some very old friends, were convinced that I did it right up until the true killer was revealed. Make no mistake. It didn’t break my heart to see the sonuvabitch in the ground, and I felt no animosity toward his killer. His death didn’t make me feel any better, though. Now I wondered what was going to happen when Claire’s ex-husband was released from prison. He was doing time for embezzling to support a gambling addiction. Would it change the dynamic between the girls and me? Claire had divorced him, true. He was still Amanda’s old man, though, and would probably be allowed visitation and at least some parental rights.
“You okay?” Claire asked.
“Hmm? Sure. I just have a lot of things on my mind.”
Claire nudged her daughter again.
“Homework,” she said.
“Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“Go.”
Amanda crawled off the floor and retreated to the apartment across the landing as if she were marching off to meet a firing squad, and not too bravely. Claire stayed behind.
“Are you okay?” she asked again.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I’m okay, Claire. Trust me.”
“You know, when I was going through all that upheaval with my ex-husband, I never spoke to anyone about it. Not when he bankrupted us, not even after our home was foreclosed on. Who could I tell? It felt so much like—like losing. I realize now that not having someone to talk to only made it worse.”
“I understand.”
“Do you understand that you can always talk to me?”
I don’t know why I did it, but I wrapped my arms around her and hugged so tightly that I heard her groan. I didn’t let her go, though, and she didn’t push me away.
Eventually I released her and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No. It was nice.”
“Good night, Claire.”
“I should come back later.”
“You shouldn’t. You should leave. Go away, Claire, before I forget how much I like you, how much I like you both.”
She did, but as she was closing my door she said, “You and I are going to have a long, long conversation, and soon.”
The door closed, and I said, “Why? So you can learn for yourself how much of a soulless jerk I am?”
CHAPTER TEN
I was sitting behind my desk with my feet up and staring at the bulletin board. Freddie had put up a dozen more index cards and joined them to the appropriate cases with red yarn: O’NEILL to SIEGLE to CLASS ACTION, APRIL HERRON to BRIBE, and her friends ANDROMEDA WOHLWORTH to MURDER and LISA KING to RAPE. Also linked to RAPE was a card labeled KENDRICK. A second card tagged COWGILL was attached to RAPE, and another card marked HIT-RUN/MURDER? was attached to that. The stretch of yarn meant to join HACKER to NIMN was still left undone.
“It’s starting to get complicated,” I said.
“You think? You’re gonna love this, then.”
Freddie put up another, much larger card labeled GUERNSEY FINANCIAL INC. Under GUERNSEY, he had written RPG HOLDING CO. Under that he wrote MINNESOTA RIVER STATE BANK, RYAN-REED INC., and STANDOUT WORLDWIDE INVESTMENTS. Under that he wrote the names ROBERT PAUL, ROBERT JR., KURTIS and MELISSA GUERNSEY. He then proceeded to run yarn from that card to DIVORCE, BRIBE, CLASS ACTION, and MURDER.
“I hit the computer last night like you said,” Freddie said. “What I discovered, Ryan-Reed, according to the Minneapolis/St. Paul Business Journal, was purchased two years ago by an investment group called Pretty Good Pie Investments.”
“Pretty Good Pie?”
“I have no idea where the name came from,” Freddie said. “All I know, the Kansas City Business Journal wrote that Pretty Good Pie is a wholly-owned subsidiary of MNPride Inc. Inc. magazine had a piece that claimed MNPride was owned by RPG Holding Company. Wikipedia claims that, wait a sec…”
Freddie retreated to his desk and found a sheet of paper. He brought it to me.
“Read it for yourself.”
I obliged.
RPG Holding Company (“RPG” or Robert Paul Guernsey) is a Minnesota-based company owned by Guernsey Financial Inc. and headquartered in Golden Valley, Minnesota. RPG is the largest family-owned financial and bank holding company in Minnesota, with assets over $1.4 billion. It operates 11 businesses including Minnesota River State Bank, Ryan-Reed Inc., Standout Investments Worldwide LLC, Oak Tree Stores, and Minneapolis-Butler. RPG is 86% owned by Robert Paul Guernsey Sr., Robert Guernsey Jr., Kurtis Guernsey, and Melissa Guernsey.
“Good job, Freddie,” I said.
“Now we know the Guernseys are involved in four out of the five cases. Not sure it amounts to anything, though.”
He returned to his desk and sat in his chair. There was a coffee mug in front of him. Several times he brought it to his lips but did not drink. Eventually he set the mug on his desk.
“What I can’t figure out is what’s taking so long,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“NIMN. The hacker said he was going to send the intel he swiped to NIMN. Shoulda taken ’im all of ten seconds. Only it’s been six days since the lawyers received the emails and nothin’. What’s the holdup?”
“According to the website, NIMN makes sure to authenticate—”
“Six days? How much time does it take to authenticate a selfie of some shithead raping a girl?”
“Most news organizations refuse to identify victims of sexual assault.”
“NIMN isn’t a newspaper. Besides, publish the pics and the punk goes to prison. Keep ’em quiet and he gets away with it. Which outcome do you think the victim would choose?”
I placed my index finger against my cheek.
“Hmm,” I said.
“Hmm, hmm, what the fuck does hmm mean?”
“Maybe NIMN is letting the victim make that decision.”
“Big of ’em if that was true.”
“Maybe we should ask.”
“In the meantime, what about the other shit?” Freddie asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m starting to think the hacker never sent the intel to NIMN, that he’s sitting on it.”
“That could be true, too, especially if it’s extortion like you first thought. But man, you’re right. It’s been six days. What’s he waiting on?”
“If it’s a hacker for hire, maybe he’s waiting to get paid,” Freddie said.
“Unless he’s already been paid.”
“That requires explanation.”
“Someone hires the hacker to get the goods on the Guernsey family’s business dealings. The Guernseys hear about it and make him a better offer.”
“Why the Guernsey family? Why not the lawyers?”
“If it were the lawyers, they wouldn’t need us. As far as we know, the Guernseys have the most to lose and the most to pay.”
“The Guernseys gain with DIVORCE, lose with CLASS ACTION, split with BRIBE, there’s nothing connecting them to MURDER except a distant acquaintance, and nothing connecting them to RAPE at all. If Puchner and the others are telling the truth, they don’t know about any of this yet.”
“As far as we know.”
Freddie began to chant “Thin, thin, thin, thin, thin,” until he grew tired of the word.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I told him.
He didn’t have any. Instead, he stared out the window and I stared at the bulletin board.
“Steve said we’re not being bugged,” Freddie said. “Came in yesterday and swept the place, did I tell you? So there’s that. Also, the software, whatever he put on our computers to catch the hacker if he tried to hack us—nothing.”
“Any progress on locating the hacker?”
“He said if it was easy everyone would do it. I’m starting to worry about him, her. When it’s Sara, she’s all sunshine and lollipops. But Steve, he’s all intense and, what’s the word? Brusque?”
“They’re probably having an identity crisis. I know I am.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You met my father. He never wanted me to be a police officer, much less a private investigator. He wanted me to go into business like him, like my brother. I’m starting to wonder why I didn’t.”
“You know my mother. She wanted me to be an actor. Named me Sidney Poitier Fredericks like somehow that was goin’ to get me a part in Raisin in the Sun or the lead in a remake of Lilies of the Field. ’Course, she coulda been onto somethin’. I’m prettier than he is.”
“Yet here we are. What a great disappointment we must be to both of them.”
“Speak for yourself, man. Ever since I made her a grandma, I’ve been the old woman’s favorite child.”
“All it would take is a couple of anonymous phone calls to the cops. I know I’d feel better. How ’bout you?”
