The St. Paul Conspiracy (3 page)

Mac stifled a chuckle, “No, sir.”

“Whatever you do, Lich doesn’t talk to the press. He always loves to talk. It’s your case. You run it, and he follows.” There was a brief silence, and then, “Look, if Dick pulls his head out of his ass, don’t be afraid to use him. He’s been around. If he’s set right, he knows what he’s doing. But you lead. I’ll let him know that.” With that Peters clicked off.

It was his case for now. This was going to be a major case, and Peters was giving him the chance to take the ball and run with it. Mac planned to do just that.

Mac watched forensics as they started to set up, unpacking gear from their fishing-tackle boxes. Black lights, cameras, plastic bags. He walked out into the hall and up to Schmidt. “Cleaning lady?”

“Down in the kitchen.”

Mac headed down. As he came to the bottom of the steps, Lich walked in. In his early fifties, Lich was pot-bellied and bald. He owned a collection of old, faded suits, replete with coffee stains and the occasional burn hole from one of his cigars. His choice that morning carried a couple stains. Lich, as Mac often said, was a piece of work.

Lich was divorced, so he and Mac had that in common. He had been cleaned out, which they didn’t have in common. It was a point Lich frequently made. His ex had cleaned him out and left him without a pot to piss in.

“Mornin’, Mac. Your cousin filled me in.” Just then Lich’s cell phone went off, and Mac figured it might be Peters. He didn’t want to be there while that conversation took place. Instead he headed for the kitchen. The cleaning lady was sitting at the kitchen table with a uniform cop named Jones. “Lich’ll be a minute,” Mac explained to Jones.

The cleaning lady was hunched over, looking anxious and just a shade from terrified. Just then Lich came in and whispered to Mac, “Peters says you lead.”

Mac nodded, “Let’s get after it then.”

The cleaning lady, Gloria, had arrived at her normal time, 7:00 a.m. She had gone upstairs to grab some clothes for the laundry. On the way up the steps, she had picked up the slacks on the landing and saw the blouse at the top. As she bent over to pick up the shirt, she glanced around the corner and saw Daniels lying on the bed. She then immediately called 911.

After having gotten the summary, Mac asked, “Did you and Ms. Daniels ever talk? Have a conversation?”

“Sometimes. She was friendly, always letting me make coffee for myself, as long as I made some for her. Sometimes I would bring rolls. She was a nice lady.”

“Did she ever mention anyone who might be after her? That she was concerned about? Was there ever any hate mail lying around? Disturbing phone messages? Anything like that?”

The woman’s eyes were wide with innocence. “No.”

“How about people she saw, dated? Ever talk about any of that?”

“We never talked about things like that. I didn’t know her like that. I might see her in the morning and say, ‘You have a date last night?’ She would just kind of smile and nod.”

“Was she seeing anyone right now?”

“She might have been, but I don’t know who it was.”

“Is it ‘might’? Or do you know?”

Terror edged into her eyes. “I think she was seeing someone. Yes.”

“Why do you think so?”

“When she’s dating someone, she gets up really late. She works late and I think her dates are late.”

“And if she’s not seeing anyone?” Lich asked.

“Then she’s a pretty early riser, has coffee, reads the paper, exercises. But if she had a date, it seemed like she liked to sleep in late.”

“Anything else that tells you she was seeing someone,” Mac continued.

“No, just that she seemed to be sleeping in late.”

“And you don’t know who she’s seeing?”

“No. She never said. If he ever stayed the night, he was gone before I ever got here.”

“How many days a week do you come?” Lich asked.

“Three.”

“Three?” Mac asked, “Seems like a lot for someone who lives alone.”

Gloria said, “Ms. Daniels, she liked things perfect.”

“Neat freak, huh.” Lich said.

“Not so much that as just a perfectionist,” Gloria answered. “Just the way she was.”

“When you arrived here this morning, did anything seem out of place, you know,” Lich asked, and then pointed up, “other than the obvious?”

Gloria vigorously shook her head. “No, everything seemed pretty normal.”

“How’d you get in?” Mac inquired.

“Front door. I have a key.”

Mac went to look at the front door for a second. There was a dead bolt, fairly new. He examined the lock and the door. It was clean, no scratches, no signs of forced entry. He walked back to the kitchen.

“Gloria, is your key for the deadbolt?”

“Yes.”

“Was the deadbolt locked this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a new lock?”

“It was put in a few months ago.”

Mac looked past her to a stairway going down the back. “Is the back entrance down those stairs?”

The cleaning lady nodded.

Mac and Lich went down the steps and looked at the back door. Unlike the front door, the knob was very old. There was a deadbolt, but it wasn’t locked. Through the door was a single-car garage with a garage door and a dead-bolted side door to the left. This dead bolt was newer looking. As with the front door, there was no sign of forced entry.

“Wonder if the same key opens both?” Lich said.

“Let’s see.”

They headed back up, and the cleaning lady confirmed that both doors had the same key. Mac did some quick mental gymnastics. No evidence of forced entry. No evidence of robbery. Maybe somebody had a key?

Just then a couple of other younger detectives from robbery homicide showed. Mac chuckled. Bill Clark and Al Green looked like a couple of IBM guys. They were tall, with short black hair, blue suits, and red ties.

“I must not have gotten the memo.”

Green and Clark at first looked blankly at him. Then they looked at each other and just shook their heads, “Fuck you, Mac,” Green replied. “The captain ordered us down to give you a hand. So, what do you need smart ass?”

Mac chuckled and gave them the rundown on what they had so far, which wasn’t much. “Let’s start door knocking on all these brownstones and checking the apartments across the street. Use some uniform guys, and I’ll get Peters to send some more down.” Mac was also thinking the newsies would be there soon, and he would need to control them and the crowd. The media would go nuts with one of their own dying.

“Bill, grab Paddy. He’s up for detective. Take him around with you. Al, grab another uniform and start knocking on doors. If you come across something, let me know.”

With that Green and Clark headed out to start the canvas.

Mac and Lich headed back upstairs. Morgan was jotting down some notes as another tech took a few more pictures of the body. A third tech was dusting for prints. “Linda, got anything for us?”

Morgan stared at her notes a minute, biting her lower lip. “Body temp indicates preliminary time of death as between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Cause of death is pretty obvious; she was strangled. He got on top of her and basically pressed the air out of her, with his hands on her neck, thumbs straddling her windpipe, fingers around the back. Strong sucker whoever did it.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah, she’d had it all right. I’ll be able to tell you a little more about that once we examine her downtown.”

“Will you be able to get DNA?” Lich asked.

“We should.”

Mac thought for a moment, “She had sex, but...”

“It looks consensual. I’ve taken a quick look. There’s nothing to indicate rape. There’ no tearing around the vagina that I can see. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Are you saying he—we’re assuming a he—killed her after sex?”

“Not necessarily. I might know more when we get back and examine her. Could be that she was into something weird, sexual asphyxiation, something like that. I don’t see any tools or props around here to suggest that, though. It could be she said he was a bad lay, and he got pissed and killed her. Heck if I know right now, but we might be able to do better after we examine her.”

“All right. Are you going to move her now?” Mac asked.

“In a bit. We need to take more pictures and do a few other things.”

Lich appeared to be mildly interested for a change. “What do you think?” Mac asked.

“No signs of forced entry. At this point, nothing points to a break in so it seems like it was someone who knew her.”

Mac couldn’t argue with that. No forced entry made it more likely it was someone she knew, which would narrow the field of suspects. They headed down the steps. Lich reached the bottom and was looking at the front door. Mac slipped by him onto the front porch and looked out at the street as a Channel 12 news van pulled up. “Ahh, shit.”

“You knew they’d get here sooner or later. They’ll soil themselves when they find out it’s Daniels.” Lich replied lightly, morbidly amused by the situation.

Mac turned back towards Lich, who was standing, hands on hips looking out to the street. Mac’s eyes wandered down to the floor mat in front of the door. He kneeled down and flipped it up thinking,
She wouldn’t
... but she did.

“Well, lookey there,” said Lich, “I didn’t think people did that anymore.”

“Might explain no forced entry,” Mac thought. Lich called upstairs for forensics to come and get a picture. Just then Mac’s cell phone chirped.

“McRyan.”

“Peters. You and Lich need to come down and fill me in. The chief’ll be in on the meeting. It’s 8:40 now. Be here by 9:00.”

Peters clicked off. Downtown was ten minutes away. Mac looked at Lich “We have an audience in twenty minutes.”

“The chief?” Lich asked.

Mac nodded. Lich chuckled lightly.

“Bet he’s had half the city council on the horn yelling at him this morning. Now this. I wouldn’t miss it.” Lich replied.

Mac snorted, “Well let’s get going then. I’d hate to deprive you of the show.”

Chapter Three

“Real police.”

Viper yawned. It had been a long night. After a couple hours’ sleep, he was back to monitor the situation. Sitting in the back of a blue van parked on the northeast corner of Summit and St. Albans, he looked back at Daniels’ brownstone one-hundred-fifty yards away through tinted glass. A crowd had gathered, and a number of uniformed cops controlled the situation, putting out the yellow crime scene tape, keeping people to the other side of the street. It was 8:15 a.m.

Viper took another drink of water, avoiding the coffee the rest of his crew swilled. He rarely drank coffee. It was bad for the system, and he was a self-professed health nut, except for the occasional beer or glass of wine. He would have to watch it though, or he’d have to hit the can, and he didn’t want to leave the van. He wanted to make sure events started and stayed on the proper course.

A couple of detectives, a young blond-haired one in a sharp blue suit and an older bald guy in a rumpled shit-brown suit were talking on the front porch of the condo. Suddenly the young detective looked down and flipped up the mat. The key. Viper figured they’d find it. That was fine by him. No evidence of forced entry, meaning someone had a key or easy access to one. The senator, when they found him, would have to admit he used it. His prints would be on it.

Viper trained the binoculars on the young cop and watched him reach for his cell phone. It was a brief call, thirty seconds at most. He looked to the bald detective, said something and pointed away from the condo. They walked down the steps and looked to be leaving. Then they stopped, turned and climbed the steps to the neighbor’s condo to the right of Daniels’. The young detective pointed in a few directions, and the other detectives nodded. Directions given, the younger detective and the bald one left the porch and headed to the south and out of sight.

Viper thought a little more about what he had just seen. It looked like the young cop was in charge of the situation. He couldn’t be much over thirty years old. Yet, he seemed to be the one giving directions, with everyone else nodding when he talked. The bald guy, much the younger detective’s senior, hadn’t said much at all. Viper wondered why such a young cop would be calling the shots on a high-profile case like the death of Claire Daniels. He would have someone make a call. Maybe they caught a break.

* * * * *

As Mac walked through the door and into the St. Paul Public Safety Building, the intensity of the day hit him in the face. Faces were taut, voices low and serious. It was not St. Paul’s finest day, and all eyes were on the department. The desk sergeant saw Mac and Lich walk in and directed them up to the chief’s office.

Charles Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for eight years. At fifty-four years old, he was a thirty-three-year veteran of the police force who had worked his way up from uniform cop to chief. He was a tall, slender Irishman who seemed to have aged ten years in the last month, largely due to the serial killer. His once bright red hair had turned gray.

Chief Flanagan knew police work but, to put it charitably, the politics and public relations aspects of his job were not his strengths. His saving grace was that he had the complete and total support of the force, unusual for many big-city chiefs. He was, as Mac’s uncle Shamus liked to say, real police. The chief always stood behind his men. While that made him popular with the rank and file, it occasionally made him some enemies at City Hall, enemies now making his life miserable. Mac had known him for as long as he could remember. He had been with Mac, Shamus and Pat Riley, another St. Paul detective, when Mac’s dad was shot and killed.

Mac and Lich walked into the chief’s outer office, and his secretary led them in. As they entered, the chief looked up. He walked to Mac, shook his hand warmly and said, “Mac, it’s nice to see you, boyo.”

“Good morning, Chief. Nice to see you as well.” The chief’s appearance told Mac what kind of day it had already been. The suit coat had been jettisoned, the tie and collar loosened, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. There were three coffee cups on his desk, all half empty. If Mac didn’t know better, he got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, although a quick scan failed to reveal an ashtray.