Deadly Stillwater

Given the potential exposure, Heather went back to her compact to check her makeup again. She wanted things perfect. You never knew who might be watching. As she applied just a touch more lipstick, her thoughts turned back to last night. What had Burton been doing? It could have been an old friend, a late night beer and a chance to reconnect, but that didn’t feel right. The conversation hadn’t seemed confrontational, but it didn’t appear overly friendly either, not like two old buddies sharing a beer and swapping stores. It looked like a colder conversation, a business one. Could it be someone involved with the investigation? Perhaps, but then why meet up in Forest Lake? Why not at the hotel or somewhere closer in town? Why drive miles out to a far-flung suburb? It was odd.

And what exactly should she be doing with this information? She didn’t share it with anyone. What was there to share, after all? John Burton had a conversation in a bar with another man: alert the media.

She could ask Burton about it, although he’d proven a difficult person to reach, keeping himself in the background and allowing the local FBI office and St. Paul Police to be front-and-center. She’d thought of approaching him in the bar. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done something like that. For some reason, she held back. Intuition, instinct, whatever it was, told her not to do it. The whole event was strange, but without any context, it didn’t seem to mean much. But it did give her an idea.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Gail Carlson, a veteran reporter who used to work the investigative beat, but now worked general reporting. She was at the station today, but not covering anything.

“Carlson.”

“Foxx. I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Monitor the police band up in the Forest Lake area today.”

“Forest Lake, honey? Not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

“I know, I know. But all the same, monitor the jurisdictions up there, Forest lake, Chisago, maybe Wyoming.”

“What am I listening for?”

Heather explained. She wanted Carlson listening for anything about the bureau or St. Paul Police poking around the area.

“Heather, what do you got?” Carlson asked, suspiciously.

“Just a hunch.”

Heather’s cameraman stuck his head inside the truck. “The scuttle-butt says there’s going to be a big powwow here soon: FBI, police, and so forth, and then a press briefing at noon.”

“We best get out there then,” Heather replied, quickly signing off with Carlson. She stepped outside into the blazing heat, already ninety-three degrees. She decided that her suit coat was a no-go and jettisoned it. Besides the collar of her white, v-neck silk blouse plunged just enough to give a tiny hint of cleavage, which she knew would draw the attention she wanted.

“What do you think they’ll be talking about in there?” the cameraman asked.

“Word is there’s a call coming later today on the ransom. I haven’t been able to find out if there is a set time, or if they’re just sitting around waiting for it,” Foxx answered as they joined the gathering horde of media at the front of the police department. “There doesn’t seem to be much going on from an investigative standpoint.

“You think that’s unusual?”

“I’m not a cop, but I do think so,” Foxx answered. She watched as Mac McRyan pulled into the lot in his Explorer. His partner wasn’t with him, which was a bit unusual. “I can’t imagine Mac McRyan sitting around and waiting,” she said. “That’s not his style.”

McRyan, rather than parking to the side and trying to avoid the media, approached the front of the building. This was rather peculiar as well, Heather thought. Despite his friendly little news tip on Wiskowski yesterday, McRyan loathed television reporters. He generally did everything he could to avoid them. Today he looked relaxed, almost cheerful. As he passed her he gave her a “Hiya, Heather,” and smiled. As he walked through the media crowd he was pleasant in saying, “No comment” and “I’m sure the department or bureau will have something to say shortly.”

“Now that’s odd,” Heather remarked out loud as the doors closed behind McRyan.

“What?” the cameraman asked.

“McRyan just now.”

“What about him?”

“He was friendly, casual, relaxed – as if he wanted to be on camera. Heck, he gave me a wink, a smile and a hello. That never happens.”

“Heather,” the cameraman answered, smiling, “ come on. Any man smiling at you, even Mac McRyan, is not unusual.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she answered, waving him off, but then looked him in the eye. “But it is for Mac McRyan. He thinks most of us are parasites.”

The cameraman shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bite. What does it mean then?”

Heather bit her lip and thought for a minute. “Friendly, casual, relaxed,” she said, tapping her index finger on her lips. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s up to something.”