Mac McRyan swerved his Ford Explorer through traffic in Spaghetti Junction just north of downtown St. Paul, flasher and siren going strong, as it had been since he left Stillwater and his boat fifteen minutes earlier. It had been a wonderful Sunday up until now. With his sister, Julia, her husband, Jack, and his girlfriend, Sally, he had spent the day on his family’s boat on the St. Croix River, picnicking and soaking up the sun. It was the most relaxing day that he and Sally, a busy Ramsey County prosecutor, had experienced in months — at least until now. As the group was tying up the boat and deciding where to go for dinner, the call came in. Now he skidded to a quick stop just short of the patrol car parked across the intersection of Selby and Western.
Mac’s full name was Michael McKenzie McRyan, but for all of his thirty-three years he’d simply been known as Mac. He’d been in the McRyan family business — the St. Paul Police Department — for eight years. A fourth- generation cop, Mac had relatives sprinkled throughout the department.
He rolled his athletic six-foot-one frame out of the Explorer. Ruggedly handsome, Mac had short blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and a taut face with a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon on his scarred chin. A former captain of the University of Minnesota hockey team, he was still at his 190-pound playing weight and worked hard daily to keep it that way. Sliding on his Oakley sunglasses, he walked toward a uniform cop who waved him through. Mac took in the scene, with squad cars and Crown Vics everywhere. He saw two techs from County Forensics taking pictures and prowling around the parking lot behind Cel’s. And, of course, the chief’s Boys stood just behind them.
The boys were Detectives Pat Riley, Riley’s partner, Bobby Rockford, and Mac’s own partner, Richard Lich. When St. Paul Police Chief Charles Flanagan needed results — when the shit hit the fan — he turned to his Boys. Lyman Hisle was as high profile as it got in the Twin Cities, and his daughter had been abducted in broad daylight. Not to mention, Hisle was a close personal friend of Charlie Flanagan. Needless to say, the chief needed his best cops on the case.
They were a motley crew.
Pat “Riles” Riley was a sizeable man, well over six feet tall and two hundred pounds. The veteran detective had dark eyes, a heavy Nixonian five o’clock shadow, and a thick mane of black hair, which he combed back. A sharp dresser, Riles looked like a mobster in his pinstripe suits, perfectly pressed shirts, and stylish ties. Loud, boisterous, and loyal, Riles was like a brother to Mac, having served with Mac’s father, Simon, when he first became a detective years ago.
Bobby “Rock” Rockford was even larger than Riley. He was black, dark black, with his eyes deeply embedded in his large, shaved head. When he smiled, he showed a gap between his two front teeth. He’d been a college defensive tackle and wasn’t averse to getting physical when the circumstances warranted. Rock, given his size, appearance, and growl, could be downright frightening. Mac had watched him scare a guy into shitting his pants once.
Then there was “Dick Lick.”
Richard Lich was short, squat, and balding with a bushy porn star mustache in constant need of trimming. Twice divorced, he spent plenty of time lamenting his perpetually dire financial circumstances. He blamed both ex- wives not only for his financial difficulties, but also for his inability to fix his wardrobe. Perhaps the worst dresser ever to carry a shield, Dick donned a pitiful series of old soiled suits, all some shade of brown, whether it be gravy brown, dirt brown or shit brown. He topped each ensemble off with scuffed shoes, faded shirts, chewed-on cigars, and in the winter, either a black or brown fedora. While Riles and Rock scared the hell out of people, Lich was comic relief, a true piece of work. But he was a piece of work that people tended to underestimate. Few realized that he was a damn fine detective. Possessed with a quick wit and an easy manner, he was a perfect partner for Mac, smoothing out his younger partner’s abrasive edges.
With Mac as the catalyst, the boys had earned their reputation on the PTA case. Their work had brought down a small band of retired CIA agents and their corporate employer, PTA, a St. Paul military and intelligence contractor. PTA and its various players were behind the murders of an investigative reporter, a U.S. senator and the company CFO, while trying to cover up illegal arms deals. Since that case, the chief often had the four of them work cases together as an unofficial special investigative unit.
As Mac approached the boys, Lich called out, “Nice outfit.”
Mac still wore his boating gear: tan cargo shorts, navy blue Polo golf shirt, and leather sandals — all of which was at odds with the badge hanging around his neck. His blonde hair stood up just a bit more than usual, wind- blown from a day on the river.
“You’re the last person who should give fashion advice,” was Mac’s ready response. Lich had matched his shit-brown slacks with a faded orange golf shirt, untucked and fully open at the collar. Mac turned to Riley.
“What the hell happened? Are we sure this was a kidnapping?”
Riley exhaled, running his hand through his large mane of black hair.
“Let me run it down, and you tell me what you think.” Riles walked to the back of the Prius. “Shannon Hisle got off work at 5:00. She walked out the back door. Her car is this Prius. It looks like when she reached the back of her car somebody grabbed her. The positioning of her keys and phone on the pavement away from her car at least suggest that.”
“And then what happened?”
“We think whoever grabbed her jumped into a white van that pulled away and turned right on Selby. From there…” Riley’s voice trailed off.
Rock jumped in, rubbing a hand across his shaved head, “Our witnesses… well… kind of…”
“Suck,” Lich finished.
“Suck, like they didn’t see anything?” Mac asked.
“Regular Havercamps,” Riles replied, never one to pass up a Caddyshack moment. He pointed across and to the south along Western Avenue. “An old couple was walking along the sidewalk down there, maybe a hundred yards away, and they think they saw a guy dressed in black pick her up and throw her into the van.”
“Think?” Mac asked.
“Older couple, in their seventies, maybe early eighties, vision is a bit of an issue.”
“Anything about the van?”
“White. It comes out of the alley, and turns right. The guy in black throws her in and off they go,” Riles said.
“Anything else?”
“Another witness, female,” Riles turned and pointed to the southwest corner of Selby and Western, “was waiting on that corner, facing north, about ready to cross the street when she thought she heard a scream. She turned around and saw the van slow and then quickly pull away, turn right and go east on Selby.”
“So then what happened?”
“Confusion really,” Lich said. “The elderly couple came walking up and spoke with the woman on the corner, asking, you know, ‘did you see that?’ They’re not sure what they all saw, so they walk across the street into the parking lot and see keys and a cell phone lying on the ground. They go inside the cafe and explain what they saw. The cafe workers come outside, see that Hisle’s car is still in the lot, and call 911.”
“How long did all that take?”
“Three or four minutes at best, maybe more,” Lich replied. “Nobody saw it all happen, just bits and pieces.”
“So anyway, a squad gets here maybe a minute or two later,” Rock added. “They ask some questions, get basically what we’re talking about now, and make the call.”
“So before we even have an alert out about a white van, it’s what?” Mac asked.
Lich shook his head, skeptical, voicing what everyone else was thinking.
“At best, eight to ten minutes, probably more.”
“Maaaaaan,” Mac groaned. “That’s a lot of time to get away before we even start looking. Did we get anything on the van? Plate, make, model, anything?”
“No plate, white van. It looked like a typical delivery or repair van, panel type, no lettering, maybe slightly dented behind the driver side door, but that’s it.”
“Nothing striking that would draw attention,” Lich added.
“Where did the van come from?” Mac asked.
