“Not that I recall. Roads were icy as hell that night, and you know how Shepard gets. He got going too fast in the snow, hit that patch of ice, and that was all she wrote.”
It was a dead end. Shepard Road could get nasty, and Mac remembered at least a couple of times when he almost lost it driving along there. He wrote Stephens’ name down on the bottom of the page anyway. CFO for ten years at PTA. Jones took over for him. That’s how someone so young got the gig.
He kept going around the page, jotting down little notes and theories. Daniels, dating the senator. Maybe he said something to Daniels? But why kill Jones then? Maybe Daniels mentioned something the senator said to Jones. Jones told somebody who didn’t like it? Mac shook his head. They’d never get to it if it followed that path.
He looked around the notepad, twirling his pen like it was a baton. How about reversing it? Something Jones said or knew? What would she know? Why would she tell Daniels? Mac stared at the ceiling, running things through his head. Daniels, Jones, the senator. What’s the connection? To kill them, you wouldn’t do it on a whim, by the seat of your pants. No, it would take planning. To kill all of them you had to have resources, money, people, and intelligence.
He took another look at his page, going around the question clockwise. Daniels, Jones, Johnson, Stephens… Mac drew a dotted line from the bottom of the page from Stephens to Jones. They worked together at PTA. Daniels was a reporter, specializing in politics and business. Mac thought about the DVDs of her work, white-collar crime and political news. Resources means money and people. Who has resources? Who has money? Who… has… people…? “Shit.” Mac said under his breath as it crystallized before his eyes.
He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to a window that looked a few blocks south to the center of downtown St. Paul. Mac stared at the tall building for five minutes. He admired the combination of glass and stone. He looked at the letters on top of the building, illuminated in the late afternoon dim. It was impressive, holding a prominent position in St. Paul’s skyline. He went back to his desk and wrote the letters down in the upper right hand corner of the notepad, between Daniels and Jones.
PTA.
He drew lines from Daniels to Jones. Jones to PTA. PTA to Daniels. A little triangle. Resources, money, people. PTA might have that. But why would they do something like this?
Mac took his cell phone out of his pocket and punched up his directory for the letter C. PTA was an economic juggernaut, the biggest employer in St. Paul. Which meant Mac knew about them what everyone else knew. He needed more information, especially financial. Chadley.
If anyone had the 411 on business, it would be Matt Chadley. Chadley was an old roommate from the university days and Mac’s financial planner. He worked for West amp; Palmer, the top brokerage in the Twin Cities.
Mac punched up the number, and the call was answered immediately.
“Matt Chadley.”
“Chads, Mac.”
“The infamous Detective McRyan. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me what you know about PTA?”
“PTA?”
“Yeah. Financially.”
“Well, buddy, I already have you invested in them, and for good reason. They’re a Wall Street darling. Total blue-chip stock.”
“Why’s that?”
“Impeccable books, as close to a sure thing as you can find. They hit their nut every quarter, never short on earnings expectations, almost always exceeding. Audits come back squeaky clean. SEC loves them. They have an active board that watches the money very closely. Closer than almost any board I’ve ever seen. Enron they ain’t. They keep executive compensation within reason, if not lower than normal. People like that. Makes them look responsible. The execs are tight with all the right people in Washington. The president and CEO, Ted Lindsay, and many of the people who work for him, are connected like you wouldn’t believe, so the government contracts keep coming. With 9/11, their stock has gone through the roof with increased spending on defense and intelligence, their bellwether areas. Mac, their stock is a must have. Like I said-I have it in your portfolio. It’s as reliable a performer as there is out there.”
“Ever any hint of financial impropriety, scandal?”
“Negative. I have a pretty good ear out there, and I’ve never gotten wind of any financial issues. Never. Why do you ask?”
“They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”
“No, they can’t. Wall Street loved Stephens. He was top notch. I didn’t know a ton about Jones, other than she was considered smart as a whip and followed the rules. In fact, internally they make a huge issue about that at PTA. If there’s bad news, get it out there. After Enron, WorldCom… well, trust became a big issue and PTA has it in spades.”
“Never any problems, Chads?” Mac asked skeptically.
“Not that I’ve ever heard. Why so interested?”
“I can’t really tell you. PTA, or somebody there, might or might not be tied into something I’m working. I’m just trying to get a feel for the company and wondered if there might be a financial issue, some impropriety going on.”
“Well, man, not that I’m aware of. PTA’s numbers are as reliable as anyone’s out there. So, if it’s a financial, it’s not because the books are cooked.”
Well nothing there. “Thanks, Chad.” Mac got ready to hang up the phone, a little disappointed, thinking or hoping he was going to hear something different.
“You’re welcome, Mac. One thing, though. If you wanted to talk to somebody on the inside, an old friend of yours recently left the board.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lyman Hisle.”
“Hmpf. Thanks.” With that, Mac hung up. He jotted down Lyman’s name. He checked his watch, 4:30 p.m.
It was late, and the chief wanted a final briefing on Knapp, after 5:00 p.m. Since it was all good news, there would probably be a drink or two served. Maybe one or two phone calls first.
Tired, Sally walked off the elevator and headed to her office, an afternoon of court appearances and plea- bargaining behind her. She carried her briefcase over her left shoulder, a warm half empty Diet Pepsi she bought two hours before in her right hand. Her hair felt like it had lost all of its bounce, and she could feel her blouse un- tucking from her skirt. An afternoon in heels left her feet, ankles, and calves aching.
She sat down at her desk and shook her mouse to wake up her monitor. She had thirty-five new e-mails. She had eight new voicemail messages. “Sheesh. Gone a few hours, and all hell breaks loose,” she muttered. Where had the day gone? She and Helen had a meeting with Chief Flanagan about Knapp at 5:00 p.m. Helen would be by any minute. She wondered if Mac was going to spring his little theory. Probably only after he’d had a couple pops of the chief’s Irish whiskey to get his courage up.
Mac. She’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks. He was the most perceptive person she had ever met, seeing things others didn’t, two steps ahead of everyone else. Cautious, he never over-committed to anything, keeping his options open, evaluating things from every possible angle before acting. Sally was both interested and, at the same time, fearful of what he might come up with.
She knew Mac had doubts about whether Senator Johnson had killed Daniels. Nobody else thought that way, but Mac had maintained to her in private what he thought. They had talked about the case every so often, and Mac always said, “I still wonder about that case.”
She wanted to think about something else, so she started looking at her e-mails. A quick scan told her that only about eight or nine were truly work related. That made her like most other working people-seventy-percent of her e-mails were personal. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the first work e-mail. Helen, right on time.
“Shall we go see Charlie?”
