First, Kill the Lawyers, page 16
Clark Peterson was standing in front of them.
“I’ll call you back,” I said.
* * *
Claire was the first to see me coming out the door. She smiled slightly and her body seemed to relax, and I thought, that’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. Peterson turned his head. He smiled, too. A disarming smile. If I hadn’t known him I would have liked it.
I moved casually to where the trio was standing—casually, dammit—and worked hard to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“Hey,” I said. “How was camp?”
“Exhausting,” Amanda said. For emphasis, she slumped her shoulders and dropped her equipment bag on the ground as if it weighed ten thousand pounds. “Kicking a soccer ball is hard.”
Claire saw her chance to escape.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” she told her daughter. She nodded at the man standing in front of her. “Mr. Peterson.”
“Clark, I said to call me Clark.”
She didn’t. Instead she retrieved Amanda’s equipment bag and walked around him, making sure that she was between Peterson and Amanda as they headed for the building.
“Friends?” Peterson asked.
“Neighbors,” I said.
“Very pretty. Both of them. The mother doesn’t seem very trusting, though. I merely inquired if this was where you lived, if she knew you, and all of a sudden she starts cross-examining me. Who am I? Why am I here?”
“Let’s walk to your car and you can tell me all about it.”
“Do I make you nervous, too, Taylor?”
“Isn’t that why you came to my home without calling first, to make me nervous?”
We started down the street.
“I don’t know why people get jumpy when I’m around,” Peterson said. “There’s only one person I wanted to kill, and she’s dead, so…”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to know if you’ve made any progress finding our little hacker, if you have any names you’d like to share.”
“Not yet. In any case, I don’t work for you, Peterson. I don’t report to you. I work for John Kaushal.”
“Way I look at it, since I’m paying Kaushal’s bills, yes, you do work for me.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“I don’t care how you see it.”
We reached a purple Bentley Continental GT convertible, the top down. I estimated the retail value in excess of two hundred thousand dollars.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
Instead of waiting for an answer, I yanked open the door and held it for him.
“Why are you being like this?” Peterson didn’t give up his smile, but his eyes had a put-upon look as if he were a puppy that had been kicked for no apparent reason.
“I’m antisocial,” I said. “Ask anyone.”
“You can see why I’m anxious, though, can’t you?”
“Whatever the hacker reveals, if he reveals anything, can’t be used against you in a court of law. As far as the state is concerned, you got away with murder. So, no, I don’t see why you’re worried.”
“You should have my problems, Taylor. You really should.”
Peterson slipped into the driver’s seat. I closed the car door and leaned against it.
“Is this the part where you threaten my life?” he asked. His eyes brightened as if he were looking forward to the prospect.
“Funny you ask. A guy called the other day and threatened my partner and me. It wasn’t the first time that happened, or even the twentieth, and we joked about it. See, if we wanted to kill someone, we would never warn them first. I bet you didn’t warn your wife, did you? One day, though, you could be walking down the sidewalk and hear footsteps behind you and start to turn, or a car might pull up next to you at a stoplight and you’ll lean over to look at the driver, or someone holding a clipboard will knock on your front door and you’ll open it and say, ‘Can I help you,’ and—boom. It’s that simple, that easy. You of all people should know that.”
“Don’t try to scare me, Taylor.”
“I’m not. I’m telling you, Peterson, that you’re scaring me. See, I don’t care if you live or die or move to New Orleans like you said. You mean nothing to me. Unless you threaten the people I care about. Then you’ll become the most important person in my life. Are you threatening the people I care about?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Cuz it’s not in your best interests.”
“All I want is to collect my inheritance and get the hell out of here with as little muss and fuss as possible.”
“I don’t blame you a bit.”
Peterson started the Bentley. I stepped back.
“Very nice car,” I said. “A little flashy for my tastes, though. It’s easy to spot from a long way off.”
Peterson put it in gear.
“It’s why I like it,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My cell phone woke me at about nine Sunday morning. It was on the nightstand next to the bed, and I had to reach across Alexandra Campbell’s naked body to fetch it. She bit my shoulder when I did.
I read the caller ID. It listed the name of a woman I didn’t recognize. I lay back against the bed before I accepted the call. Alex rolled on her side toward me and started teasing my neck, shoulder, and chest with her lips and tongue and fingers. I thought if I ignored her she’d quit, except she didn’t.
“This is Taylor,” I said.
“Mr. Taylor, my name is Heather. I’m an assistant to Mayor Mary Feeney.”
I decided that short answers were best considering what Alex was doing to me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Mayor Feeney would like to discuss a matter with you that she says you are already familiar with.”
“Okay.”
“Can you meet her for brunch at ten thirty?”
“Where?”
I was surprised by the location Heather suggested because it was in St. Paul.
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up the phone.
By then Alexandra had moved to my ear.
“Honest to God, Alex,” I said.
“Who was that?”
“An assistant to the mayor of Minneapolis. I’ve been invited to brunch.”
Alex moved her hand between my legs and gripped me tightly.
“What about my breakfast?” she asked.
* * *
Mayor Mary Feeney was sitting alone at a table next to a window at the Louisiana Café on Selby Avenue when I arrived. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses or a big floppy hat; she hadn’t disguised herself at all. Yet she went unrecognized in the busy restaurant, and I thought—context. No one expected to see the mayor of Minneapolis in a Cajun joint in the Summit-University neighborhood of St. Paul, so they didn’t. It didn’t hurt, either, that instead of business attire, she was wearing tight jeans and a V-neck shirt that made her look younger than she had in the offices at Hannum, Hillsman, and Byers.
She was studying the menu. When I reached the table, she looked up at me and smiled as if she were surprised to see me there.
“Mary,” I said.
She smiled some more and gestured at the chair across from her. “Thank you for coming.”
I sat. A waitress appeared. The mayor said, “I’m ready to order, but I’m sure my companion will need more time.”
“Actually, I’ve been here before and I already know what I want.”
Feeney ordered Zydeco French Toast and iced tea. I had the blackened catfish filet, three fried eggs, hash browns grilled with green peppers, onions, and portobello mushrooms and topped with cheddar cheese, Russian rye toast, a side of Cajun andouille sausage, and coffee. Yes, that was a lot of food, but after spending the night with Alex, I needed all the nourishment I could get.
The waitress retired.
“Thank you for not using my title,” Feeney said.
“You’re welcome.”
“Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I want to get as far away from it as I can.”
“So you crossed the mighty Mississippi and came all the way to St. Paul?”
“It doesn’t seem like it should make much difference, yet it does.”
“I don’t think you get to be the mayor of Minneapolis unless you want to be the mayor of Minneapolis.”
“Be careful what you dream.”
Always good advice, I thought but didn’t say out loud.
“When I started in politics, it was because I wanted to make the world a better place,” Feeney said. “I’m not joking. I was that naïve.”
“Or idealistic.”
Feeney smiled at the word.
“That, too,” she said. “Lately, though, it seems all my energy is devoted to keeping my job. ’Course, you can’t make the world a better place if you’re not in office, can you?”
“Mary, why am I here?”
The waitress reappeared before she could answer. The service at the Louisiana Café was that fabulous. Our conversation switched to food. We chatted about it as we ate. I was pushing the remains of my eggs and browns around the plate with a slice of toast when we returned to the original topic.
“My impression when we were in Scott Mickelson’s office was that you don’t care for Bryan Daggett,” the mayor said.
“He’s a bully.”
“You don’t care for me, either.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does. You see, I want to lobby you into joining my side.”
“I thought we were already on the same side.”
“I’m the one who’ll get tossed down a well if things go badly.”
Not that you don’t deserve it, I thought but again didn’t say.
“Ryan-Reed is owned by the Guernsey family,” Feeney said. “Are you aware of that?”
“I wasn’t then, but I am now.”
“The Guernseys intend to buy as much of Minneapolis—of Minnesota—as they can get their hands on. I went along with them because I needed the money. My last election was both brutal and expensive. The seven-point margin I won by? It was bought and paid for by the Guernseys.”
“Now you’re suffering buyer’s remorse,” I said.
“In a manner of speaking. I want to separate myself from the Guernseys as much as I can. It’s important that the voters in Minneapolis know that I am not in the pocket of the one percent.”
“How can I help?”
“Have you identified the computer hacker yet?”
“No.”
“When you do, I would like you to impress upon him the fact that he has friends in high places.”
“You?”
“All I ask in exchange is that he be a friend to me.”
“In what way? Just in case he should ask.”
“There’s a treasure trove of scandalous information concerning the Guernseys, Ryan-Reed, and Minnesota River State Bank that I’d be willing to let him find.”
“If, in exchange, he loses your notes,” I said.
“You know how these things work.”
“I was just guessing.”
Feeney leaned back in her chair.
“Plus,” she said, “if he has any legal problems, he should know that I can be relied upon to make them go away, especially if they originate in my city.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it.”
“I can’t make the world a better place if I’m not in office, Taylor.”
“You said that before.”
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars to deliver the message. There’s another five for you if you convince the hacker to accept my offer.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You have no quarrel with the price? It’s a fair price?”
“It’s a very fair price.”
“I’ll have the first installment delivered to your office tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t have it on you, Mary? I’m disappointed.”
The mayor grinned as if I had made a wonderful joke.
* * *
The deal I made with Alexandra Campbell to let me leave her bed unharmed to see another woman was that I’d return immediately after. When I did, I found her on her backyard patio surrounded by a wide assortment of plants and shrubs that she had planted herself. Most of them had stakes in front with tiny cards listing their Latin and common names. She was wearing form-fitting yoga clothes and going through a variety of poses. I sat on an iron chair in front of a round iron table with a hole in the center to accommodate a huge umbrella and watched.
“See anything you like?” she asked.
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Alex smiled as best she could while on her knees, her back arched, the top of her head pressed against the ground, her arms thrust above her, her fingers interlaced.
“This is called a grounded tipover tuck,” she said. “Good for headaches.”
“Do you have a headache?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she went into a stretch position, one leg back and one leg front, her torso leaning forward and twisted so that her head was looking straight up and she was able to press the palms of both hands together above her shoulder.
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to get into shape,” she said.
“I am in shape.”
She grinned like she thought I was kidding myself.
“I run three to five miles nearly every day,” I said. “I do martial arts training at a gym in downtown Minneapolis.”
“How often?”
“As often as I can.”
“Can you do this?” Alex asked.
She stood on one leg, reached behind her for the second leg, and raised it well above her head while thrusting her other hand straight out in front of her.
“No, I can’t do that,” I said.
My cell phone rang.
“You’re not going to answer that, are you?” Alex said.
The caller ID read BROOKE ST. VINCENT.
“Business,” I said and swiped right.
“Taylor,” Brooke said.
There was a lot of ambient background noise on her end, and I told her that it was hard to hear.
“I have you on speakerphone,” she said. “We’re at the Minneapolis Institute of Art, and they have some kind of children’s event going on today.”
“Hi, Taylor,” a second voice said.
“That was Hayley O’Brien,” Brooke said.
“Hello, Ms. O’Brien,” I said.
“Brooke said you wanted to talk. Since you helped me yesterday, I said I would.”
I stood and pivoted away from the patio because Alex had assumed a position in which her hands and feet were planted firmly on the ground, her back curved, and her breasts and pelvis pointed at the sky. I found it very distracting.
“I appreciate it,” I said.
“Brooke is my friend, and she said you’re a good guy.”
“Where can we meet?”
“Here. Meet us—it’s really noisy in here. Meet us on the front steps near the lion.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up the phone and turned back toward Alex. She was now sitting on her heels, her back perfectly straight, the crown of her head pointed upward, her forearms resting on her thighs, the fingers of both hands curled into an “okay” gesture. The scoop neck on her Lycra top gave me a nice view of her breasts.
“Don’t move an inch,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going now?”
“I’m leaving you for another woman. Actually, two of them this time.”
“Kinky.”
* * *
In fact, the Minneapolis Institute of Art had two carved lions in front of it, with a long flight of concrete steps between them that led to a seldom-used front door flanked by Greek columns. Brooke St. Vincent and Hayley O’Brien were sitting on the steps near the first lion and gazing out on Washburn Fair Oaks Park across the street. It was a peculiar sight, Brooke with fair, unblemished skin and golden hair, dressed as if she were visiting, well, the Minneapolis Institute of Art, sitting next to Hayley with her piercings, tattoos, and stringy hair up in a kind of Princess Leia hairstyle, dressed as if she were cleaning out the basement.
Hayley’s backpack was resting on the concrete step. She dragged it closer when I mounted the steps. Although I stopped a few steps below them, my head was even with theirs.
“Taylor,” Brooke said. She offered her hand and I shook it. “This is Hayley O’Brien.”
I offered to shake her hand, but Hayley was using it to clutch her backpack.
“How are you doing?” I asked her.
“Fine.”
“You had a bit of a scare yesterday.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“I was.”
Hayley tilted her head and looked at Brooke as if she thought I was lying and wanted to know if her companion agreed.
“I’m sure you two have plenty to talk about,” Brooke said.
She attempted to rise. Hayley grabbed her wrist and held her in place. When she was sure Brooke wasn’t going anywhere, she turned back to me. A troubled expression touched her eyes and mouth.
“Why were you following me?” Hayley asked.
“I wasn’t.”
“Then why were you at the Library the same time I was?”
“Coincidence.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither would I if I were you. You don’t know me well enough to trust me.” I glanced at Brooke. “Neither do you.”
“We have friends in common. They trust you and I trust them.”
I appreciated the sentiment very much, although I knew from experience not to embrace it too tightly. To her credit or detriment, depending on your point of view, Hayley remained unconvinced as well.
“Tell me why you were there in the first place and I might believe you,” she said.
“Have you ever heard of NIMN—Not in Minnesota?”
“Yes.”
“Someone from NIMN apparently sent an email to my employers using the computers at the Library.”
“I never touched those computers.”
