“We’ve heard that Wiskowski was identified through a phone call from somewhere in western Wisconsin, can you confirm?” a round male reporter from Channel 3, sweating profusely.
“No comment.”
“Has Wiskowski admitted to taking the girls as revenge for the death of his son?” a willowy blonde from Channel 6 asked, at least aware of the motive angle.
Mac stopped, hesitated, and then repeated, “No comment.” However, as he opened the door for Lich and others he looked back out and saw in the distance, leaning against a railing, Channels12’s Heather Foxx, for once not one of the horde accosting them as they walked into the building.
However, if outside was the frying pan, inside the building was the fire — the political fire. Mayor Olson had just witnessed the spectacle, on live TV no less, and was none too pleased to have his name dragged through the muck. Hizzoner was pissed and let everyone hear it as he followed Riley and Rock down the hall.
“Jesus Christ,” the mayor yelled. “You couldn’t have done this just a little more low-key? You couldn’t have handled this in Cottage Grove? You couldn’t have perhaps figured out a way to avoid that fuckin’ mess outside? Hell, you had that son-of-a-bitch looking sympathetic for Christ’s sake.”
Riles stopped in his tracks, turned, and stood stone solid, letting the mayor nearly run into him.
“Sorry, Sir,” Riles said, his six-foot-three-inch frame towering over the diminutive mayor. “It perhaps could have been handled differently. And you know what? You can chew my ass for it for a week after we get the girls back. But if you don’t fucking mind, I have a job to do. Or are you going to run the interrogation?”
“I’m not sure you should, Detective,” the mayor answered. “Perhaps Wiskowski is right, you’re out of control. You’re all out of control.”
Burton stepped between Riley and the mayor before Riley, fists balled, face red with anger, did something as stupid as what he looked ready to do.
“Let’s everyone calm down,” Burton demanded. Mac and Lich pulled Riley away while the FBI man eased the mayor back from the gathering crowd.
“As for the media fiasco out front,” Burton said, shrugging his shoulders, “that’s as much my fault as anyone’s. I could have anticipated that. But Detective Riley is right, we’ll deal with that later. Right now, we got bigger fish to fry. This guy may well have the girls, and it’s these men you think are so out of control that broke this thing for us. Let them do their job for now. We can analyze crowd control later.” Burton turned toward Riles and the rest of the crowd and, with his back to the mayor, winked before he led everyone away.
Around a corner and out of earshot of the politician, the FBI man muttered in Mac’s ear.
“Your mayor is a fuckin’ idiot.”
12:30 AM
The interrogation was nothing more than a brawl, with both sides aggressive, uncompromising, gesturing, shouting, and foul-mouthed. Riley and Rock pulled their dual bull-in-the-china-shop routine, while Burton and Duffy jumped in to play the softer edges, trying without success to calm it down. Old man Wiskowski was having none of it. Gaunt, looking like the dying man he was, Drew Sr. was nevertheless animated and pugnacious, the tough Chicagoan coming out strong. While his attorney tried like mad to restrain him, Wiskowski was constantly up and out of his chair, cussing and shouting at the top of his lungs at Riley, or Rockford, or the one-way glass on either side of the room. He waved and pointed, risking another removal of the IV from his arm. It was an altogether ugly site, yet somehow morbidly entertaining.
“And you were so careful, stealing the vans, burnin’ then, and you planned it so well Drew,” Riles thundered, leaning down to Wiskowski’s face, with both hands on the table. “But then you or your people got sloppy, using your own vehicle, the car.”
“Fuck you,” Wiskowski yelled back. It was his favored response.
Mac and Lich watched intently through the one-way window, fueling up with coffee. The chief and Lyman were watching from the observation room on the other side.
“He isn’t exactly denying involvement,” Mac mused, sipping the last of his coffee.
“He isn’t exactly admitting it either,” Lich answered, putting a stick of gum in his mouth. “The only thing I know for sure is that this interview is going nowhere.”
The chief apparently agreed. Barging into the interview room, he grabbed Wiskowski by the collar of his shirt and screamed, inches from his face.
“Where’s my daughter, you piece of shit? Where is she? Where is my daughter!” It was all Riley and Rock, both as big and strong as bulls, could do to pull the chief off of Wiskowski.
“How do you like it now?” Wiskowski fired back, the fight still raging as another spate of hacking shook him. “How does it feel, you Mick piece of shit? My son died because of you.”
“He got what he deserved. He got prison. What happened to him in there isn’t on me. That’s on you. He was nothing more than a carbon copy of you.” The chief spat as Riley and Rock held him back, letting a different interrogation play itself out.
“Well he’s dead now. And if there’s any justice in this world, you’ll soon know how it feels.”
“What’s that mean? You son of a bitch, you have her. Where is she? Where is my daughter?”
“Go fuck yourself, Flanagan” Wiskowski replied as the boys escorted the livid chief from the room. But for the first time a smile appeared on his face.
Mac saw it. He’d never taken his eyes off the old man.
“I wonder what that little smile is all about?”
“What smile,” Lich asked. “I didn’t see a smile.”
“I did, right when Wiskowski said, ‘go fuck yourself.’ Everyone in the room was trying to push the chief out, so they wouldn’t have seen it. But I saw it.”
“You think that means he has the girls?”
“I’m starting to think maybe he does. That or he’s just enjoying pulling everyone’s chain,” Mac said. He opened the door and jumped into the hallway to tell Burton.
“It might be worth a shot,” he finished.
“It might at that,” Burton answered, “And we’re not getting anywhere. But let’s let things cool just a bit for a few minutes, then we’ll go back in.”
“That’s good. I need to grab something first anyway.” Mac said. He went to his cluttered desk and grabbed an oversized maroon coffee mug with a large, gold “M” on it — symbol of the University of Minnesota — from atop a Parade of Homes magazine. Mac had an affinity for looking at houses and real estate, even with the housing market in the tank. He picked it up and looked at the cover, which featured four high-end houses, one of them a Wiskowski-designed home. Mac put down the magazine and went back down to the interview room. He found Burton talking to Riley and Rock, explaining that McRyan was going to take a run at Wiskowski.
“Where’s the chief?” Mac said.
“Up in his office with Hisle and six uniforms to make sure neither of them moves.”
“What’s with the coffee cup?” Burton asked, point to Mac’s hand.
“Wiskowski has donated a lot of money to the football program at the U over the years. He has a soft spot for the program.”
“Gonna try to create some common ground, are we?”
“The direct approach hasn’t worked.”
“Going softer?”
“A little indirect perhaps. One other thing. If he’s got the girls, he has to be holding them somewhere, right?”
“Yeah, we’re looking at his home, businesses, and other placed right now.”
“Have your guys take a look at recent real estate purchases as well,” Mac said. “Something out of the ordinary, something that doesn’t fit with what the company normally does.
“Like what?”
“I don’t’ know. Just something that doesn’t seem right for his business dealings. He builds luxury homes. Is there a purchase somewhere that doesn’t fit?”
Burton promptly sent one of his team members off on a computer search.
“Anyone else from Wiskowski’s world unaccounted for?” Riley asked.
“We can’t find his kid Steve yet,” Duffy answered. “We think he might be shacked up somewhere. He’s
