Deadly Stillwater

Pat ran his hand hard through his thick mane of black hair. “They ripped out of here, boys. Mrs. Hall said that she almost missed them because they ripped out of here.”

“At roughly the same time we’re getting the call, which is five to ten minutes after the call from Mr. Hall originally came in,” Mac answered, pointing at Rock with his notepad. “Isn’t that awfully convenient? That they left the house like that at about the same time as I got the call? And we’ve been sitting here how long, and nobody’s been back?”

“Could be a coincidence,” Rock answered. “They could be back any minute for all we know.”

“Riles looked at Mac, who said, “I doubt it. We can keep sitting on this house. But they’re not coming back.”

“Oh shit,” Lich said, rubbing his face with both hands.

“Mother fuckers,” Rock muttered. “They’ve got someone inside.”

“We’ve got the rest of the night off,” Mac said. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

“Who can we trust?” Lich asked.

“Peters,” Riles answered.

“Double Frank, I’d say,” Rock added.

“And any McRyan,” Mac said. “And Sally – we could use her help. But beyond that?” He shook his head. “We gotta keep this close.”

“We got lots of people hanging around,” Riles said. “Within the department and then all those FBI people. God,” he sighed, running his hand over his face. “It could be anyone.”

“Not to mention Hisle’s law firm,” Lich added. “Lyman’s a good guy, but who knows?”

“I’d start with the department,” Mac said matter-of-factly. That stunned everyone. Mac had more institutional love than anyone else.

“Why not the fuckin’ FBI?” barked Rock.

“Easy, Rock,” Mac answered, holding up his hands. “It could be them, too. But, if you’re with the bureau, how could you know for sure you’d be on the case?”

“Whereas people in the department…” Lich started.

“Could be certain, or at least more certain, that they would be involved,” Rock finished. “I see Mac’s point.”

“We need to move carefully, boys. Very carefully,” Riles said. “Ideas?”

“Let’s go to the Pub,” Mac answered. “Just us and Peters. We’ll get Sally over there, too. We gotta start making some moves of our own.”

22 “ You’re a drop dead gorgeous woman, with a fantastic body, a great mind, and impeccable timing.”

10:45 PM

Mac pulled in behind the bar and noted that it was a slow night for the other family business: McRyan’s Pub, a true St. Paul institution. The pub sat on West Seventh Street, just on the outskirts of downtown and one block from the Xcel Energy Center, home of the NHL’s Minnesota Wild. It was the favored watering hole of hockey fans and the St. Paul Police alike, not to mention the single largest employer of ex-cops in the city.

As the window over the front door indicated, the Pub was established in 1907. Opened by Mac’s great-grandpa Patrick, the pub had a colorful history of serving drinks before, during, and after Prohibition. During Prohibition, they had been served in the now-infamous Patrick’s Room. Located in the basement, Patrick’s Room lay behind a hidden door disguised as a built-in wooden buffet, the type you would find in any older St. Paul Home. A latch inside the middle drawer of the buffet pushed the door into a large party room. During Prohibition, the police, politicians, citizens, and even notorious criminals like John Dillinger sat together, knocking back illegal drinks and having a good time.

Today, the inside of Patrick’s Room was adorned with black and white photos of that bygone era, while a plaque outside described the room’s infamous history. These days, the hidden room was used for private parties, meetings, and the occasional cop poker game.

Mac walked in the back door and stepped left into the main level of the Pub. A classic old-fashioned bar – massive stretch of mahogany with a brass rail – ate up half of the length and breadth of the room. Behind the bar were the typical bottles and taps and a long mirror with “McRyan’s Pub” stenciled across it, along with the Minnesota Wild Logo, a badge, and a shamrock. On most nights, this part of the bar was full of cops having a bump after a shift, happy to have made it through another tour, swapping war stories and telling lies. Tonight there were a few hanging around, but things were eerily quiet, voices in a hushed murmur. Nobody was in a happy, celebratory, or terribly talkative mood.

Mac made conversation for a few minutes with the bartender, a retired patrol cop, until Uncle Shamus walked in. Shamus, a retired St. Paul Detective, was the Pub’s current proprietor.

“Michael,” Shamus said, coming over to give his nephew a big bear hug. “Boyo, let’s get you something to drink and go down to Patrick’s. I’ve got food on the way, whatever you and the boys need.”