was a young black man with some legal trouble in his history. Lyman Hisle represented the driver and, as he so often did, got him off on a legal technicality, largely due to the bungling of the cops working the accident scene and the county prosecutor working the case. The chief was front-and-center, accepting the blame, explaining how the accident scene was mishandled and the breathalyzer test was improperly administered. Boone loudly claimed that if the victim hadn’t been black, the outcome would have been different. It was a rare public display from someone who built a fortune operating in the dark shadows of Minneapolis’ north side.
“You buy this Boone business?” Lich asked.
Mac was doubtful.
“Seems kind of obvious don’t you think?” He thought a little more. “I mean I know about those rumors for the last few months, Boone wants payback on the department, the county attorney’s office, Hisle, all that. I’ve heard that noise, but it just all seems a little too convenient.”
“Yeah, but,” Lich answered, “he’s wealthy, he’s got resources, and he’s smart.”
A mile west along West Broadway, Mac turned into an aging Super America gas station. At the station were two plainclothes Minneapolis homicide cops, one bald and the other with a head full of gray Einstein-like hair and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. They were both leaning against an unmarked car and, despite the heat, sipping tall coffees. Pulling up alongside, Lich laughed as he powered down the window.
“Aren’t you two fossils lookin’ at daisies from the wrong side yet?”
“ Diiiick Liiiiick,” the bald one called out.
“If it ain’t the Beeeaaaver Lick,” Einstein replied boisterously, loud enough for everyone in a three block radius to hear. Lich was known, loved, and ridiculed all over. Dick exchanged handshakes and profanities with them and then introduced Mac.
“Mac, these two relics are Bud Subject,” Lich pointed to the bald one, “and Ed Gerdtz,” the grey-haired one.
“Mac, I knew your old man. Hell of a cop, one hell of a cop,” Gerdtz replied in a deep, raspy voice, damaged from all the years of pounding coffin nails. They all shook hands, and Gerdtz never stopped laughing, talking, or smoking. You’d have thought they nominated a new pope with all the white smoke that came out Gerdtz’s head. It took five minutes to get back on task and into a car to drive to Boone’s.
Subject was behind the wheel while Gerdtz turned to them, blowing smoke through his mouth and nose as he spoke.
“Fat Charlie’s office, if you want to call it that, is over on the corner of Lowry and Penn. He’s got a hardware store and law office over there.”
“Law office?” Mac asked.
“Yeah,” Gerdtz answered, “One of Charlie’s sons — he has eight of them you know — runs his practice out of the basement over there. Get this though, his kid graduated from Stanford Law School.”
“Stanford?” Mac asked in disbelief.
“Hell yes! Did quite well, bright kid. Now he helps the old man run his businesses,” Gerdtz answered.
“Stanford law degree and he runs the old man’s drug business? I don’t get it.”
“It’s a lot more than a drug business these days,” Gerdtz replied, smiling. “Fatso’s gone upscale. He has that hardware store, law firm, a funeral home, three restaurants, four laundry mats, and now he’s branching into real estate.
“Real estate? A slumlord?” Lich inquired.
“No, downtown real estate, the high-end shit,” Gerdtz answered ruefully, shaking his head. “We’ve heard he’s got money in the condo developments that have been exploding down by the river and might even be getting into some of the development going up around the new Twins ballpark. Charlie’s moving up in the world.”
“So, let me guess,” Mac said. “He hasn’t touched drugs, a gun, or the dirty side of things for years. Now he’s just the bank.”
“That about sums it up,” Subject answered, slowing for a stop light. “Charlie’s gone legit, and there are way too many layers between him and the street.” The veteran cop sighed as he pulled up in front of the Lowry-Penn Hardware Store, a fairly nondescript building with a red brick exterior and large storefront windows displaying a power-washer, lawn mower, power generator, and table saw. Peering inside the windows, one could see rows and rows of shelves deep into the interior.
“Seems like a big hardware store for this area,” Lich said.
“Half the building used to be a law office,” Gerdtz answered. “I grew up around here, and an attorney named Riley ran a street practice in the left half of the building. He retired in the early ‘80s, and sold the building. It turned over a few times before Charlie bought the whole kit and caboodle, in ’90 or ’91 I think.”
“So you guys know him,” Mac said. “Taking the girls sound like his style?”
Gerdtz turned serious.
“I’ve got my thoughts on that, Mac, and so does Bud. We were talking about it a lot before you and Dick Lick got to the SA. But I want you to form you own opinion first.”
Subject waved them past the front door and around the south side of the building, past a sign that said “Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.” They walked around the back and down a narrow set of cracking steps. At the bottom, Gerdtz knocked on the door. A large, black bodyguard dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt tight over bulging muscles let them in and walked them through a kitchen and the law offices to a large room. There they found the man himself: Fat Charlie Boone.
Mac remembered seeing video footage of Charlie Boone walking into court six months ago, when the fat moniker fit and he was well over 300 pounds. The moniker no longer fit. Fat Charlie was still a large man, well over six feet, but now, like many, he was just a bit overweight. He sat in a high-backed armchair and wore a gold golf shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a lavender sport coat along with several gold rings and a gaudy gold watch. He held a cigar between the fingers of his left hand and a drink in his right. A haze filled the room, a prime specimen of early “pimp” styling with two round green felt card tables, a large bar with “Fat Charlie’s” stenciled on it in burgundy, and a series of couches and chairs set around a big screen TV. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile, contrasting against the dark-paneled half walls and red shag on the upper half. Two other men, probably Charlie’s sons, watched the cops over their own drinks.
“Detectives Subject and Gerdtz,” Charlie said in a deep but even voice.
“Charlie,” Gerdtz replied evenly. Then, spreading his arms, he boomed out, “What the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve wasted away, fat man.”
“Had me that gastric bypass by whatchamacallit.” Charlie laughed out loud, standing up and opening his coat, showing the svelte new Fat Charlie and conveniently proving that he wasn’t armed. “What do ya think? A new me, eh?”
“New you,” Subject said. But his next comment took the air out of the room. “Of course, the business is the same.”
“Well, let’s talk bidness then,” Charlie replied flatly, sitting back down in his chair.
“These boys here are from St. Paul,” Gerdtz said.
“I recognize these men,” Charlie replied, a little smile on his face. “I’ve seen them on TV. The young one, I believe, is Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, and the other is detective Richard Lich.” He sounded well prepared for the meeting. “Grab a chair,” he offered, waving them toward similar high-backed chairs. He held up his glass. “Care for a nip?”
Mac waved him off, as did Lich.
“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Boone asked.
“You know why we’re here,” Mac said.
“About those girls, I suspect. Just saw the report about the chief’s daughter on the big screen over there.”
“I saw you six months ago. You had some pretty harsh things to say about Hisle, our department, and particularly the chief,” Mac said. “I quote: ‘Maybe people like Hisle and Flanagan ought to experience the loss of a child. Then they’ll know what my sister and I are feeling today.’” Mac sat back in his chair. “Now Hisle and the chief are both missing a child. Sounds a lot like payback. What better way to get it than going after the chief and Hisle?”
“You’re right, of course. But I had nothing to do with that.”
“Bullshit,” Mac retorted, turning on the pit bull tone. “You and your people have never feared taking a body or
