yard. “Employee purchase form right here. Three weeks ago. They bought heavy plywood, two-by-fours and wood screws.”
“How about PVC piping?” Mac asked.
“Nope. Just the wood and the screws. We don’t sell PVC pipe.”
“But they bought it all about the time Smith met with those boys at the diner,” Lich added.
Mac nodded, but he was getting anxious. He looked at his watch, which now said 4:10 PM. Time was running out and, while they were confirming the players, it wasn’t getting them any closer.
“We know who it is now,” Lich said, pulling Mac to a corner. “We know it’s Brown and the Muellers.”
“Which is great, we’ve figured out who’s behind it. But where are the girls? We’re no closer to answering that.”
“Maybe we tell Burton, a few select others, see if we can spread the word quietly.”
Mac ran that around in his head, thinking about what Dick said, thinking it might be time to broaden their little group in the know. “Maybe…” he started, when his cell phone rang. It was Sally, reporting that Jupiter and Hagen narrowed the source of the pipe. “Okay, so I have Hanlin’s in Brainerd, Hankley’s in Grantsburg, or Hanburg’s in Wyoming, just north of Forest Lake up Interstate 35,” Mac repeated as he wrote down all of the stores on his notepad.
“What’s with Hanburg’s?” Zorn asked, overhearing Mac.
Mac pulled the phone away from his ear. He figured anything he said in front of Zorn or Miller was fine. He gave them a quick rundown on the girls being buried alive. Zorn looked sick, probably thinking that wood purchased from his business had been used for that purpose. “There’s PVC piping these guys used. You don’t sell that here. We think it came from one of those three stores.”
“Two things,” Zorn said, a dead serious, pissed-off look on his face. The small-town friendly demeanor was long gone. “I know Freddy Hanburg out in Wyoming. He owns that store. He’d be sick about this. I’ll call him for you right now.”
“And I’ll call the Wyoming chief,” Mitchell added.
“You said there were two things,” Mac said. “What’s the other?”
“The Mueller kids are from Chisago Lakes. That’s ten miles up the road from Wyoming. You don’t have much time left from what you boys are telling me. If I were you boys, I’d look there first.”
32
5:10 PM
Fifty minutes until the ransom call. Wyoming was thirty-five miles east from Osseo. With the light holiday traffic, Mac made the drive in a little over twenty minutes, his portable roller pushing what traffic there was over to the slow lane. Hanburg’s hardware sat on the main drag of Wyoming, a quarter mile east of I-35.
“We’re getting our fill of small towns these last couple of days,” Lich said as Mac skidded to a stop in front of the hardware store. The Chisago County sheriff and Wyoming police chief were waiting in front, along with a man in his mid-fifties, sporting a large beer belly and a flowered shirt that looked like a tent. He had the look of a walrus, with a bushy mustache and two-day old razor stubble.
Mac and Lich jumped out, showed their credentials, and quickly exchanged introductions. “Ray Zorn told you what we’re here for?” Mac asked Hanburg.
“He did,” Hanburg answered over his shoulder as he opened the front door to the store. “I’ll do anything I can to help you boys.” Hanburg’s was an old-school hardware store. Inside the door was an island checkout area with registers on either side. To the right was a more open area for lawn mowers, tillers, and snow blowers. The back of the store was a maze of metal shelves. It reminded Mac, oddly, of the hardware store at Fat Charlie’s place in North Minneapolis.
“Can you take a look at these photos? Tell us if any of these people were in your store recently?” Mac asked as they walked to Hanburg’s office in the back.
Hanburg took a look, but shook his head. “I couldn’t tell ya. But I’ve made calls to all my guys, and they’re on their way here. Maybe they can be more helpful to you.”
“When will they be here?” Lich asked impatiently. “We’re on a tight clock.”
“I know you are,” Hanburg replied. “I told them to hurry, not optional if they wanted to remain employed. They’re good fellas who work for me. They’re hustlin’ in. It’s rough you know, it’s…”
“…a holiday,” Mac interrupted, frustrated. “That’s been an issue all day.”
Hanburg sat in his metal desk chair, pulled up to the computer, and started working the keyboard and mouse. “You boys got a picture of the piping? There are different kinds. I want to look for the right ones.”
Mac pulled three still photos out of his folder and handed them over.
Hanburg looked at the sticker. “That looks like one we sell. Let me run a search here. What do you think, back a month or two?”
“At the most,” Mac answered, walking around behind Hanburg and sitting on a corner of the desk. Within a minute, the store owner had a report up on his screen. It showed purchases of the PVC pipe over the past two months, providing dates, amounts purchased, and payment methods. There were more than fifty purchases, many of them bulk sales to local building and plumbing contractors.
“How many are in cash?” Mac asked.
Hanburg narrowed the search more. “I’ve got five that paid in cash.”
With Mac and Lich now on the PVC pipe, Sally, Jupiter, and Hagen searched for any connection between Smith or the Muellers and anyone from a list of cops provided by Double Frank and Paddy the day before.
“We’re not finding anything,” Jupiter admitted.
“Not even a sniff,” Hagen added.
“Let’s take a look at the FBI people working the case,” Sally said.
“You want me searching FBI personnel files?” Hagen asked, concern in his voice. Jupiter flipped up an eyebrow as well.
Sally didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”
Carrie kept talking, about anything and everything, her family, friends, boyfriend, job hopes, aspirations, school, everything. She talked about her whole life, as if she wanted to relive it one last time, which she knew she might be doing. Talking about it let her make a mental escape, if only temporarily. It put her mind in a place outside the box, a place where there was light and sun, and she could move wherever and however she wanted to.
Shannon wasn’t carrying along with the conversation.
She was barely conscious.
Carrie held her tight, trying to keep her awake. She talked to her, rubbed her arms and legs, doing anything she could to keep Shannon conscious and comfortable. Carrie was trying to buy as much time as possible, praying somebody would get to them soon.
Over the last hour, Carrie kept talking, about TV shows, her favorite music, and even about politics, a first for her, just to show how few topics were left to comment on. Then she started talking about Jessica Alba. “I mean, that girl is so beautiful. I can’t imagine what she does to keep her body looking that good, can you?”
Shannon didn’t respond.
Carrie shook her shoulder, “Shannon, doesn’t Jessica Alba have a great body?”
Shannon mumbled incoherently.
“Shannon! Shannon! Wake up, honey! Wake up!” Carrie babbled on for a few minutes before she realized it was no use. Shannon had warned that this could happen. Her body was shutting down. Time was running out.
Gail Carlson pulled into the gas station across the street from Hanburg’s hardware. She’d heard the call come through on the Wyoming police band, a call for the chief, asking him to meet two St. Paul police detectives at
