The St. Paul Conspiracy

Telling his wife about all of this had been awful. He suspected Lyman heard her screaming from the other end of the house. Not only did she find out that her husband had been cheating on her-no, that wasn’t bad enough-but her husband, having embarrassed her in that fashion, was now implicated in the murder of the woman. Not only that but Mason had waited too long; she had heard it first from a reporter and not him.

He admitted to the affair; no sense hiding it now. He had intended to ask for a divorce. The timing just hadn’t been right to do it. “Don’t you worry, the divorce will be coming,” was her response. There would be no supportive wife through this.

He just had to get through this somehow. He had plenty of money put away. Between what he inherited from his parents as an only child, and his private sector and senate earnings, he was in good shape. Gwen earned more than he had for years, so the divorce would not be financially crippling. Upon reflection, if he could beat this, he could go somewhere far away and live. It would not be the life he envisioned for himself two days before, but things could be worse-he could be living in a cell like this for the rest of his life. An island somewhere, with the ocean, the sun and a cocktail, while not the senate dining room, it beat the alternative.

Get through the arraignment, arrange for bail and get out of the Twin Cities. He decided to go up to his cabin afterwards. It was only an hour or so away, so if he had to drive in to see Lyman, he could. Better yet, he could have Lyman come out there. He could ice fish, snowshoe, cross-country ski and snowmobile. There were other cabins around, but he had ten acres to himself. The isolation would be good. He felt better just thinking about it.

He took his suit coat off, loosened his tie and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to nap. About the time he felt himself dosing off, the steel door to the cell opened, and the older detective, Lich, appeared with another detective he hadn’t seen before.

“Time to go, Senator,” Lich said.

“Where’s your partner?” the senator asked.

“He’s working on something.”

It took Mac a minute to realize that Paul Blomberg was worth a look. Blomberg lived in an apartment building that backed up to the alley that split Daniels’ block in half. He had left for Las Vegas on the morning they found Daniels’ body and hadn’t known anything was going on. He returned late the night before and found Mac’s card. He wasn’t sure what he saw exactly, but it might be easier to show him.

Blomberg was the typical late-twenties single professional living on Grand Avenue. His apartment was like many found in the area, a one-bedroom job, wood floors, built-in wooden buffets and tiny kitchens. Blomberg had just gotten back-his suitcase was sitting in the middle of the apartment, three days of newspapers and mail stacked on top. Blomberg may have been a professional, but he looked worn out, his hair disheveled, a few days of growth on his beard and dark circles around his eyes. He was drinking coffee out of an oversized mug.

After shaking his hand, Mac asked, “You always look like this?”

“Funny guy,” replied Blomberg, “Vegas for three days’ll do this to you.”

“I imagine it might. How’d you come out?”

“About even. No good at the craps table, but the sports book wasn’t bad.”

“Yeah? What treated you good there?”

“The Wild, man.”

Mac smiled, “Put a little money on the road win at Colorado did you?”

Blomberg returned the smile, “Man knows his puck.”

“I know a thing or two about the game,” Mac replied. “So, tell me about what you couldn’t explain on the phone.”

Blomberg waved him back to the kitchen. It was small, a little fridge and stove and barely enough counter space for a sink and microwave. There was a side window overlooking a parking lot. A small dinner table in front of the window had a toaster and a wood spire that held four mismatched coffee cups. Mac looked out the window. On the other side of the parking lot was Kozlak Foodmart, where Mac often grocery shopped.

“So?”

“Well, she was killed when?”

“Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“Hmm. I wonder,” Blomberg said.

“What did you see?”

“It was 2:45 to 3:00 a.m., and I was up. Just couldn’t sleep. Wish I could have that night, too, because there wasn’t much to be had in Vegas,” Blomberg said, and he paused, his mind obviously back on the Vegas trip again.

“Yeah, so?” Mac replied.

“Anyway,” Blomberg said, sipping his coffee, “I decided I’d make a piece of toast and have a glass of milk, figuring maybe that would help me sleep.”

“That’s nice,” a little impatient.

Blomberg picked up the pace, “Anyway, as I’m waiting for the toaster to pop, I see this van pull up in the parking lot, lights out. Kind of odd at that time of night, I thought.”

“So the lights are out. What happened then?” Mac asked, peering out the window.

“Anyway, it pulls up, and it looks like the passenger-side sliding door opens.”

“What do you mean looks like?”

“If you look out the window, you’ll see. The van turned away from me. It pulled up parallel to the guardrail there. As it was turning to go to the guardrail, the door looked like it started to open.”

Mac peered down, then looked back at Blomberg. “Then what?”

“Some guy came from across the alley, jumped in, and they pulled away.”

“Some guy?”

“Yeah, he just ran from over there on the right, across the alley and jumped in the van, and they pulled away.”

“Did you get a look at the guy?”

Blomberg shook his head. “It was really dark, and he was dressed in dark clothes.”

“See a face, anything like that?”

“No. Not at all. Like I said, it was dark.”

“Tall, short, heavy, slight?'

“Sorry man. I couldn’t make any of that out.”

Mac took a look out the window. The lot had parking spaces on the east and west side, as well as a row down the middle. There was a short guardrail that separated the parking lot from the alley. The guardrail prevented someone from pulling into the lot from the alley. “Let’s go down and take a look.”

They got down to the parking lot, and Mac walked to the guardrail at the back. He looked up to the apartment and Blomberg’s window.

“So the van pulled up here?” Mac pointed to the area in front of the guardrail.

“A little further away.”

Mac walked another ten feet, “Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now where did the guy you saw come from?”

“I didn’t see where he came from really. I saw him come from the alley and jump in the van. The van pulled away pretty fast, and I don’t think the door was even closed when they drove away.”

“Show me where he was in the alley when you saw him.”

Blomberg climbed over the guardrail and stood in the middle of the alley. “I didn’t see where he came from. I was watching the van, and I noticed him out of the corner of my eye.”

Mac walked over to where Blomberg was standing. He looked back east down to the other end of the alley and the left turn into the back of Daniels’ place. Mac walked down the alley towards Daniels’ place. The alley was narrow, but there were all kinds of garages along the left side and a few interspersed between the various businesses and apartments on the right. There were several tall trees and a couple of large weeping willows. Mac thought about when he was a kid playing kick the can. He could have hidden forever in this alley.