“So, anything interesting happen today?” Helen asked.
The meeting was short with no real cop business discussed. It was a celebration. Drinks naturally had been served, a little Irish whiskey. Flanagan wouldn’t have it any other way. With Knapp caught, his big headache was gone, even if the department was being questioned about his assassination. While there was some criticism, there was an undercurrent of “The bastard got what he deserved.” So, while the day wasn’t perfectly sunny for the chief, partly cloudy was just fine. Mac wasn’t about to ruin the day and kept quiet.
“So, it’s off to the bar for all of you?” Flanagan inquired.
“Yes, sir,” Riles responded. “We’re going to have a couple.”
“But I think we’ll go easier than last night,” Rock added.
“Well, good. You boys have earned it.”
They all filed out. Sally whispered in Mac’s ear, “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll tell you at the Pub. First I have to talk to someone.”
Chapter Thirty
They picked up McRyan as he pulled out of the parking ramp, all of them well familiar with the Explorer. McRyan made the short trek over to the Pub, parking in his usual spot in back. They watched him go in the back door from their perch across the street. Another van simultaneously pulled into the parking lot on West Seventh, across the street from the front. Shortly after McRyan had gone in, Kennedy pulled in, followed by Lich, Riley, and Rockford.
Bouchard shook his head, snorting. “Man, these guys do like to drink.”
“That they do,” Viper replied. “Of course, at a bar owned by ex-cops, I doubt the real ones are paying full price.”
“Probably not.”
Viper picked up the radio and called to the other van, “Kraft, head in and give us an eyeball.”
“Copy that.”
Mac, Sally, Riley, Rock, and Lich were standing in the middle of the bar, each with a Heineken, talking about the case and how life would be a little dull going back to routine homicide work.
“You say that now, Riles, but I stood here a few weeks ago, and you sure looked like you wanted to go back to mundane police work then,” Mac said, playing along.
“That was then, this is now.”
“Isn’t that a movie title or something?” Rock asked.
Just then, on cue, Uncle Shamus showed up.
“Shamus,” Riley said, “to what do we owe the honor?”
“I need to borrow my nephew for a few minutes, but in the meantime, next round is on me.” The bartender instantly appeared with another order.
“God, I love this family,” Riley said as he put down his empty and grabbed the full Heineken sitting opened for him on the bar.
“I’ll be right back,” Mac said to everyone and followed Shamus upstairs.
Uncle Shamus had a large corner office in the back of the second floor. On the outside of the door it said, “OFFICE OF THE PROPRIETOR.” Every McRyan who had filled that role over the years had used the office. It was an impressive room, with high ceilings, crown moldings, polished wood floors, tasteful furniture and a one hundred- year-old oak desk the size of a dining room table. In front of the desk were two old high-backed, burgundy, leather chairs. Sitting casually in one of them was Lyman Hisle, nattily attired in a gray Italian three-piece suit, a perfect Windsor knot in his black silk tie, even at this late hour. He was sipping an Irish whiskey, neat, when Shamus and Mac walked in.
“Lyman, thank you for coming. I know this seems a little odd.” They shook hands and shared a smile.
“I was intrigued when Shamus called. Am I to assume that you don’t want others to know of this?”
Mac nodded.
“So, pray tell, how can I be of assistance?”
“This is off the record in my direction, and yours. I need some information.”
“About PTA, Shamus says.”
“You were on the board?”
“I was.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Time mostly. PTA has a very active and involved board, and I couldn’t give it the time and attention it needed and deserved,” Lyman responded, shifting in his chair to look directly at Mac, one leg over the other, “So, tell me, why would one of St. Paul’s finest need to know anything about PTA?”
“I’ll tell you why in a minute.”
“Very well.”
“Tell me about the power structure over there.”
“Ted Lindsay is the president and CEO. We brought him in a number of years ago. He’s done a fabulous job.”
“Where’d you get him from?”
“He was the chief operating officer at Fillmore Electronics, a competitor. He was there two, three years, I think, and did good work. Before that he worked for the government. He was a spook sort of. He held numerous positions in the NSA, then the CIA, where he was deputy director of Operations before he left and went to make his fortune in private industry.” Lyman took a sip of his drink.
“He seems to have done well for PTA.”
“Sure has. Since 9/11, bad as it sounds, the company has exploded, no pun intended. There’s been a renewed emphasis on intelligence gathering. The equipment necessary for that is one of the company’s better areas. Even better, Lindsay’s connections in the government are amazing. He has friends, contacts-hell, spies- everywhere.” Lyman put his drink on the desk and counted on his fingers. “He knows when the military, NSA or CIA contracts are coming up before anyone else, what the budget is going to be and who the key decision maker will be. He’ll know what he needs to know about the person who has decision-making authority and what buttons to push in that direction.”
“I heard he knows everyone in D.C.,” Mac added.
Lyman agreed, “His contacts in Congress are impressive and he’s been an aggressive campaign contributor.” Lyman creased a smile, shook his head a little, and said, the admiration showing, “If Ted goes after something, he gets it.”
Mac, interested, said, “You said spies?”
“Yeah. I mean, he knows people all over the place with information. I wouldn’t doubt he’s spreading a little money around, which is illegal, but he’s a former pro, with a staff of former pros. For them stuff like that is second nature.”
“Staff of former pros?”
