First, Kill the Lawyers, page 18
Freddie and I retreated to the office. First thing Freddie did was check for phone messages and review our emails. I watched him do it.
“What?” he asked.
“I was just wondering, does Hayley have a laptop in her backpack? I bet she doesn’t, the way she throws it around. If she did, she wouldn’t have needed to use the computers at the Library.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe that’s why she hasn’t sent the intel she stole to NIMN. She doesn’t have a computer.”
“Or she didn’t want her emails and whatnot traced back to her.”
“No. Her cover’s blown. If she didn’t know that before, she’d’ve figured it out after what happened yesterday.”
“How does that help us?”
“Why don’t you stay here and take care of business while I drive out to Mound, buy a good book at the Library, something by William Kent Krueger—”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Get a cup of joe. Hang around a bit. See who drops by.”
“Do you really think Hayley will return to the scene of the crime? No one does that, man. It’s a myth. Mostly people stay as far away from the bad thing as they can get.”
“We seek comfort in what we know. The fact the barista knew her by name, it’s obviously a place she’s familiar with. Don’t forget the free computers, either.”
“What about the divorcée?”
“I think we torched that bridge yesterday. If Hayley thinks I was responsible for the attack, Brooke probably will, too.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to give ’er a try.”
“Okay. In the meantime—”
“If Helin calls, I’ll let you know.”
That’s when the cops knocked on our door.
* * *
“You gonna talk to us or what?” Detective Sergeant Nathan Vanak asked. He was sitting in one of our chairs, his legs crossed at the ankles and his feet resting on our low round table, his hands locked behind his head as if he owned the place. His partner was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, a bored expression on his face.
“Wanna cup of coffee?” Freddie asked.
“No, I don’t want a cup of coffee,” Vanak said. He glanced at his partner. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“Depends. They got decaf?”
“Do you guys have decaf?” Vanak asked.
“No,” I said. “We don’t have decaf.”
“They don’t have decaf,” Vanak said.
“Never mind, then,” his partner said. “Gotta say, though, it doesn’t seem hospitable not having decaf.”
“It doesn’t, does it?” Vanak agreed. “What about visitors who don’t want caffeine? Don’t you care about them?”
“Yeah, me and Taylor have an act, too,” Freddie said. “Banter back and forth ’bout nothin’ to confuse and confound suspects and such. So let’s pretend we’re both confused and confounded. What the hell?”
“Clinton Siegle’s wife, what‘s her name?”
“Linda,” I said. Vanak was aware of the name, of course. He just wanted to know if I was emotionally invested in the case.
“Linda, right,” he added just to be sure. “Nice woman. Having her husband killed like that, a real tragedy.”
“It was.”
“Linda confirmed Siegle’s involvement with Standout Investments. She told us about the mysterious memo that the company is supposedly trying to suppress. The company would only speak to us through its attorney, though. What was the name of that Harvard prick?”
“Cormac Puchner,” Vanak’s partner replied.
“What kind of name is Cormac?”
“Irish,” Freddie said. “Ancient Irish.”
“How do you know?”
“Musta been TV or somethin’ like that, cuz you know us brothers can’t read.”
“Don’t give us shit, Freddie.”
“Not me. Wouldn’t wanna confirm no racial stereotypes you might have.”
“No, you wouldn’t want to do that.”
“Sergeant Vanak.” I purposely used his title because I wanted to snap him up. “If you’re upset about something and you want to take it out on us, I can live with that if you tell us why you’re upset.”
“Puchner is obfuscating like crazy. Refuses to even acknowledge that Siegle and Walter O’Neill were actually killed, much less that Standout was somehow involved.”
“Obfuscating,” Freddie said.
“You like that word, Freddie?”
“Gonna teach it to my kid soon as I get home.”
“What else?” I asked.
“We spoke to Mrs. O’Neill. She’s devastated by what happened to her ex. Have you met Mrs. O’Neill?”
“No.”
For a moment, it looked like Vanak was going to say something besides the words that actually came out of his mouth. “She gave us permission to search his office. It was a small space in one of those business malls you see along the highway. Not opulent like your digs. I’m told that the average PI makes about forty-five thousand a year. What do you two pull down? A lot better than that, I bet.”
Neither of us cared to admit that we were in the ninetieth percentile when it came to income, but I noticed Freddie slowly take the mayor’s envelope off his desk and slip it into a drawer.
“You went to Walter’s office,” I said.
“Someone had broken in,” Vanak said. “His computer was stolen. We couldn’t find any written notes. Nothing to indicate what he was working on. Nothing that could tell us who he was working for. What does that tell you?”
Neither Freddie nor I had an answer.
“Want to know what it tells us?” Vanak’s partner said. “It tells us that Siegle might not have been the target. Up till now we were working under the premise that O’Neill was killed because he just happened to be sitting there when the hitter went after Siegle. Now we’re wondering if O’Neill was the primary, because he found out something he shouldn’t have, and Siegle was killed because he was a witness. According to your statement, the last thing he said before you told him to call 911”—he didn’t consult his notes, yet he quoted me accurately—“He’s looking at me. He sees me standing at the window. Oh my God, he’s coming toward the house.”
“What do you have to say about that?” Vanak asked.
“It hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Give us something. I’ll settle for a name.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I mean I can’t.”
“He was your friend. Are you telling me that you won’t help us find his killer because of some fucking rule? Taylor, Freddie, I promise it won’t come back on you.”
“He wasn’t our friend,” I said. “That’s beside the point. We can’t give you anything because we don’t have anything. O’Neill’s clients aren’t our clients. If we knew who he was working for, what he was doing, we would tell you, but we honestly don’t know. I thought this was about Standout, and now…”
Vanak rose from his chair and went to the door. His partner opened it. He paused before crossing the threshold.
“I’m going to leave this for now.” He wasn’t looking at us as he spoke. Instead, he gazed into the corridor. “I’m going to leave it because I know about you two. I know you’re going to pursue this on your own. I know that you’re going to tell me whatever you learn.”
Vanak and his partner left, closing the door behind them.
“Are we going to tell them if we learn anything?” Freddie asked.
“Apparently that’s what we’re expected to do.”
“We always do what’s expected, don’t we?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We were upset that we might have misread the murders of Clinton Seigle and Walter O’Neill, only we didn’t know what to do about it. We decided it was best to stick to the original plan. So, while Freddie held down the fort, I made my way to the lot where my Camry was parked. Along the way I called Brooke St. Vincent. She told me that she had lost contact with Hayley.
“I don’t know what to do,” Brooke told me. “I keep calling, but she must be swiping left.”
I told her I was sorry to hear it.
“I tried calling Axis Mundi. No one answered. I left a message. An hour later, Maura called. She said that Hayley left home eight days ago and she hasn’t seen her since. She said she’s very concerned.”
Eight days ago, I told myself, would have been Monday, two days after the lawyers received the emails from NIMN.
“What happened after I left the Institute of Art?” Brooke asked.
I explained.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Brooke said.
“Hayley’s made a lot of enemies.”
“Why? Who? It can’t be her family, can it?”
“I don’t know.” God, how I hated those three words.
“I’ll keep calling,” Brooke said.
“If you would give me her number—”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Not without her permission. I’m sorry, Taylor.”
“No. That’s a good thing. Be loyal to your friend. She needs it.”
“I can’t give you the number at Axis Mundi, either.”
“I understand.”
“If I reach Hayley, I’ll tell you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Where will you be?”
“For now I’m heading to the Library just in case she tries to use the computers there.”
“You’re a good person, Taylor. When all this is settled, I hope you’ll call on me.”
As quickly as a lightning strike I flashed on the times I could have hit on Brooke and didn’t, and now she was telling me what I had wanted to tell her. There’s a lot to be said for the slow game, I told myself.
“I will,” I said. “Count on it.”
* * *
I had consumed four twelve-ounce cups of coffee and a turkey pesto sandwich by early evening with no sign of Hayley O’Brien.
There are tricks to staying alert while conducting surveillance. One of them is to stay active. The worst thing you can do is just sit still and watch a doorway for eight hours or more. If you don’t actually fall asleep, your mind will meander to the point where a polka-dot elephant could wander past without you noticing it.
I wondered if that was what had happened to Walter. If he had allowed his concentration to drift. If that’s why his killer was able to approach his vehicle without him noticing. Or did he notice? Did Walter know his killer?
I shook the questions from my head and instead focused on the job. I conducted my surveillance from inside the café itself, the parking lot, the bookstore, and outside again with numerous stops in the café’s restroom. I wore a couple of different hats and jackets so no one noticed me. At least no one bothered to call the cops to complain about the stalker who was now sitting in a Camry on the far side of the street with a clear view of the Library’s entrance.
It helped that I was able to park in the shade. It was sunny and seventy degrees outside, about average for the Twin Cities in late September. Yet it slowly climbed to over ninety degrees inside my Camry with the tinted windows up. Windows up make it harder for the subject to see you while you’re seeing them.
I was thinking that trading the furnace for a table inside the café again wasn’t a bad idea. There had been a shift change. The current baristas hadn’t seen me before, and the Library was busier now than it had been earlier in the day. I slipped on a light jacket, no hat, and opened the car door. That’s when I saw her.
I ducked back inside the car.
Hayley was wearing the same clothes as the day before and carrying the same backpack. She paused at the door, looked up the street and down, and stepped inside. I crossed the street in a hurry while wondering what she was going to do when she saw me—fight or flight?
She did neither. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed as if I were a bad habit she just couldn’t shake.
“Would you please leave me alone?” she said.
I rested my hand on her shoulder. “I am so relieved to see that you’re okay. Brooke St. Vincent will be, too.”
Hayley shook my arm away. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
We were standing inside the café in front of the bank of computers.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I said. She couldn’t possibly be that naïve. “Someone was shooting at you.”
“I don’t know that. It could have been you.”
“Lady, I’m just a hired hand. You’re the one making people angry. Angry enough to kill.”
“Are you going to protect me from them?”
“I’m trying.”
“Why? You’re not my father.”
“I used to be a father. My daughter died in a car accident. She’d be about your age if she had lived.”
“Is that true?” Hayley said. “Or just something you’re telling yourself?”
“Does it matter?”
“Once I do what I came to do, everything will be fine.”
“No, it won’t.”
“You don’t know.”
“What are you? Eight? This is grown-up shit that you’re doing, and it’s dangerous. Three people have been killed already. I knew one of them personally.”
“What?”
“Goddammit, Hayley. Will you do what I ask? Will you let me help you?”
I didn’t realize I was shouting until I felt the silence that followed. It seemed everyone in the café had quit their own conversations and was now staring at us. Hayley was staring as well, at some point far off in the distance. Something must have clicked inside her head. She suddenly lost her defiance and started trembling, to the point where she seemed to be bouncing up and down like a tennis ball.
“None of this was supposed to happen,” she said. “People being killed. Your friend, you said your friend…”
A young man sitting with a young woman at a nearby table abruptly stood up. “Are you okay?” he asked. He was speaking to Hayley, but I noticed he kept glancing down at his date, and I thought, he’s not the first guy to do something foolish to impress a girl.
Hayley’s eyes refocused. “Do I look like I’m okay?” she said.
“If he’s bothering you—”
“Bothering me?”
I rested my hand on Hayley’s shoulder again. “Please,” I said.
Hayley nodded her head. At least I think she nodded her head. In any case, she didn’t stop me from grabbing hold of her elbow and leading her out of the Library. The young man did nothing to stop us.
As I opened the door for her, I moved to relieve her of the backpack.
“No,” she said and clenched it to her chest.
It wasn’t quite night, yet most of the vehicles zipping by had their headlights on. We managed to cross the street without getting run down, but it required effort. When we reached the sidewalk, I nudged Hayley in the direction of my car. That’s when frat boy and his friend stopped us.
“Hayley,” frat boy said.
She was startled enough to curl into me so that her face was pressed against my chest. My left arm went around her shoulder. My right went slightly behind my hip not far from where the Beretta was holstered beneath the jacket.
“I knew you’d come back,” frat boy said. “Where else were you gonna go? You don’t have any friends.”
“I thought you were my friend,” Hayley said. She refused to look at him.
“Me? I’m just the guy who was fucking you.”
“Why are you doing this, Sean?”
Now you know who’s who, I thought.
“For the money, why else,” Sean said. “Now give me the files.”
“No.”
“They belong to me.”
“No. Taylor?”
“You heard the lady,” I said.
“This ain’t got anything to do with you.”
That came from Sean’s pal. I pivoted so that he was on my left and Sean on my right with the street at my back.
“You were wrong before, Sean.” I used his name as if we had known each other for a thousand years. “Hayley does have friends.”
“Yeah, like who?”
“Me, to start with.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the one with a hand six inches away from the butt of a nine-millimeter Beretta semiautomatic handgun.”
Hayley’s head came off my chest. She looked at me as if she couldn’t believe what I was saying. Sean seemed confused as well. His fingers went to his puffy nose and probed for a bit before he slowly dropped his hand.
“You’re the guy from before,” he said.
“That’s right.”
His friend took a step forward. I remembered the Colt he had pulled the other day, the one that was now locked in my office safe. I wondered if he had another gun and decided, why wouldn’t he? It’s easier to get a gun in this country than a driver’s license. I watched his hands carefully.
Sean seemed to sense the danger. “Chad,” he said.
His friend stopped moving.
We stood there for a second or two without speaking.
Sean said, “We can make a deal.”
“I love deals,” I said. “What do you get?”
Hayley spun in my arm until she was facing Sean.
“No deals,” she said.
“What do you get?” I asked again.
“Taylor—”
“I get the files,” Sean said.
“What do we get?”
Sean and Chad exchanged looks. From the expressions on their faces I could tell we weren’t going to get anything except the wrong end of the stick.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Hayley and I are leaving.”
“Not until she returns my property,” Sean said.
“It’s mine.” Hayley’s confidence seemed to be returning. “It belongs to me.”
“I’m the one who did all the work to get it.”
