Deadly Stillwater

“That about sums it up,” Subject answered, slowing for a stop light. “Charlie’s gone legit, and there are way too many layers between him and the street.” The veteran cop sighed as he pulled up in front of the Lowry-Penn Hardware Store, a fairly nondescript building with a red brick exterior and large storefront windows displaying a power-washer, lawn mower, power generator, and table saw. Peering inside the windows, one could see rows and rows of shelves deep into the interior.

“Seems like a big hardware store for this area,” Lich said.

“Half the building used to be a law office,” Gerdtz answered. “I grew up around here, and an attorney named Riley ran a street practice in the left half of the building. He retired in the early ‘80s, and sold the building. It turned over a few times before Charlie bought the whole kit and caboodle, in ’90 or ’91 I think.”

“So you guys know him,” Mac said. “Taking the girls sound like his style?”

Gerdtz turned serious.

“I’ve got my thoughts on that, Mac, and so does Bud. We were talking about it a lot before you and Dick Lick got to the SA. But I want you to form you own opinion first.”

Subject waved them past the front door and around the south side of the building, past a sign that said “Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.” They walked around the back and down a narrow set of cracking steps. At the bottom, Gerdtz knocked on the door. A large, black bodyguard dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt tight over bulging muscles let them in and walked them through a kitchen and the law offices to a large room. There they found the man himself: Fat Charlie Boone.

Mac remembered seeing video footage of Charlie Boone walking into court six months ago, when the fat moniker fit and he was well over 300 pounds. The moniker no longer fit. Fat Charlie was still a large man, well over six feet, but now, like many, he was just a bit overweight. He sat in a high-backed armchair and wore a gold golf shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a lavender sport coat along with several gold rings and a gaudy gold watch. He held a cigar between the fingers of his left hand and a drink in his right. A haze filled the room, a prime specimen of early “pimp” styling with two round green felt card tables, a large bar with “Fat Charlie’s” stenciled on it in burgundy, and a series of couches and chairs set around a big screen TV. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile, contrasting against the dark-paneled half walls and red shag on the upper half. Two other men, probably Charlie’s sons, watched the cops over their own drinks.

“Detectives Subject and Gerdtz,” Charlie said in a deep but even voice.

“Charlie,” Gerdtz replied evenly. Then, spreading his arms, he boomed out, “What the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve wasted away, fat man.”

“Had me that gastric bypass by whatchamacallit.” Charlie laughed out loud, standing up and opening his coat, showing the svelte new Fat Charlie and conveniently proving that he wasn’t armed. “What do ya think? A new me, eh?”

“New you,” Subject said. But his next comment took the air out of the room. “Of course, the business is the same.”

“Well, let’s talk bidness then,” Charlie replied flatly, sitting back down in his chair.

“These boys here are from St. Paul,” Gerdtz said.

“I recognize these men,” Charlie replied, a little smile on his face. “I’ve seen them on TV. The young one, I believe, is Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, and the other is detective Richard Lich.” He sounded well prepared for the meeting. “Grab a chair,” he offered, waving them toward similar high-backed chairs. He held up his glass. “Care for a nip?”

Mac waved him off, as did Lich.

“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Boone asked.

“You know why we’re here,” Mac said.

“About those girls, I suspect. Just saw the report about the chief’s daughter on the big screen over there.”

“I saw you six months ago. You had some pretty harsh things to say about Hisle, our department, and particularly the chief,” Mac said. “I quote: ‘Maybe people like Hisle and Flanagan ought to experience the loss of a child. Then they’ll know what my sister and I are feeling today.’” Mac sat back in his chair. “Now Hisle and the chief are both missing a child. Sounds a lot like payback. What better way to get it than going after the chief and Hisle?”

“You’re right, of course. But I had nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit,” Mac retorted, turning on the pit bull tone. “You and your people have never feared taking a body or making one disappear. I’ve heard about it for years. Maybe your hands aren’t dirty, you haven’t touched the body directly, haven’t pulled the trigger, but you sit in that throne over there, drink your drink, smoke your cigar, and give the orders on who lives or dies.”

Lich jumped in as if on cue, the good cop.

“Look, my partner here can be a little harsh.”

“Being an asshole is more like it,” Fat Charlie added.