Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

PTA.

He drew lines from Daniels to Jones. Jones to PTA. PTA to Daniels. A little triangle. Resources, money, people. PTA might have that. But why would they do something like this?

Mac took his cell phone out of his pocket and punched up his directory for the letter C. PTA was an economic juggernaut, the biggest employer in St. Paul. Which meant Mac knew about them what everyone else knew. He needed more information, especially financial. Chadley.

If anyone had the 411 on business, it would be Matt Chadley. Chadley was an old roommate from the university days and Mac’s financial planner. He worked for West amp; Palmer, the top brokerage in the Twin Cities.

Mac punched up the number, and the call was answered immediately.

“Matt Chadley.”

“Chads, Mac.”

“The infamous Detective McRyan. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about PTA?”

“PTA?”

“Yeah. Financially.”

“Well, buddy, I already have you invested in them, and for good reason. They’re a Wall Street darling. Total blue-chip stock.”

“Why’s that?”

“Impeccable books, as close to a sure thing as you can find. They hit their nut every quarter, never short on earnings expectations, almost always exceeding. Audits come back squeaky clean. SEC loves them. They have an active board that watches the money very closely. Closer than almost any board I’ve ever seen. Enron they ain’t. They keep executive compensation within reason, if not lower than normal. People like that. Makes them look responsible. The execs are tight with all the right people in Washington. The president and CEO, Ted Lindsay, and many of the people who work for him, are connected like you wouldn’t believe, so the government contracts keep coming. With 9/11, their stock has gone through the roof with increased spending on defense and intelligence, their bellwether areas. Mac, their stock is a must have. Like I said-I have it in your portfolio. It’s as reliable a performer as there is out there.”

“Ever any hint of financial impropriety, scandal?”

“Negative. I have a pretty good ear out there, and I’ve never gotten wind of any financial issues. Never. Why do you ask?”

“They can’t seem to keep a CFO alive.”

“No, they can’t. Wall Street loved Stephens. He was top notch. I didn’t know a ton about Jones, other than she was considered smart as a whip and followed the rules. In fact, internally they make a huge issue about that at PTA. If there’s bad news, get it out there. After Enron, WorldCom… well, trust became a big issue and PTA has it in spades.”

“Never any problems, Chads?” Mac asked skeptically.

“Not that I’ve ever heard. Why so interested?”

“I can’t really tell you. PTA, or somebody there, might or might not be tied into something I’m working. I’m just trying to get a feel for the company and wondered if there might be a financial issue, some impropriety going on.”

“Well, man, not that I’m aware of. PTA’s numbers are as reliable as anyone’s out there. So, if it’s a financial, it’s not because the books are cooked.”

Well nothing there. “Thanks, Chad.” Mac got ready to hang up the phone, a little disappointed, thinking or hoping he was going to hear something different.

“You’re welcome, Mac. One thing, though. If you wanted to talk to somebody on the inside, an old friend of yours recently left the board.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lyman Hisle.”

“Hmpf. Thanks.” With that, Mac hung up. He jotted down Lyman’s name. He checked his watch, 4:30 p.m.

It was late, and the chief wanted a final briefing on Knapp, after 5:00 p.m. Since it was all good news, there would probably be a drink or two served. Maybe one or two phone calls first.

Tired, Sally walked off the elevator and headed to her office, an afternoon of court appearances and plea-bargaining behind her. She carried her briefcase over her left shoulder, a warm half empty Diet Pepsi she bought two hours before in her right hand. Her hair felt like it had lost all of its bounce, and she could feel her blouse un-tucking from her skirt. An afternoon in heels left her feet, ankles, and calves aching.

She sat down at her desk and shook her mouse to wake up her monitor. She had thirty-five new e-mails. She had eight new voicemail messages. “Sheesh. Gone a few hours, and all hell breaks loose,” she muttered. Where had the day gone? She and Helen had a meeting with Chief Flanagan about Knapp at 5:00 p.m. Helen would be by any minute. She wondered if Mac was going to spring his little theory. Probably only after he’d had a couple pops of the chief’s Irish whiskey to get his courage up.

Mac. She’d spent a lot of time with him in the last few weeks. He was the most perceptive person she had ever met, seeing things others didn’t, two steps ahead of everyone else. Cautious, he never over-committed to anything, keeping his options open, evaluating things from every possible angle before acting. Sally was both interested and, at the same time, fearful of what he might come up with.

She knew Mac had doubts about whether Senator Johnson had killed Daniels. Nobody else thought that way, but Mac had maintained to her in private what he thought. They had talked about the case every so often, and Mac always said, “I still wonder about that case.”

She wanted to think about something else, so she started looking at her e-mails. A quick scan told her that only about eight or nine were truly work related. That made her like most other working people-seventy-percent of her e-mails were personal. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the first work e-mail. Helen, right on time.

“Shall we go see Charlie?”

Oh, we’re on a first name basis now are we? “We shall.” Not wanting to spend another minute in heels, she reached under her desk for a pair of black flats. She took one last drink of the warm Diet Pepsi, left it on her desk and joined Helen in the hallway.

“So, anything interesting happen today?” Helen asked.

The meeting was short with no real cop business discussed. It was a celebration. Drinks naturally had been served, a little Irish whiskey. Flanagan wouldn’t have it any other way. With Knapp caught, his big headache was gone, even if the department was being questioned about his assassination. While there was some criticism, there was an undercurrent of “The bastard got what he deserved.” So, while the day wasn’t perfectly sunny for the chief, partly cloudy was just fine. Mac wasn’t about to ruin the day and kept quiet.

“So, it’s off to the bar for all of you?” Flanagan inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Riles responded. “We’re going to have a couple.”

“But I think we’ll go easier than last night,” Rock added.

“Well, good. You boys have earned it.”

They all filed out. Sally whispered in Mac’s ear, “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you at the Pub. First I have to talk to someone.”

They picked up McRyan as he pulled out of the parking ramp, all of them well familiar with the Explorer. McRyan made the short trek over to the Pub, parking in his usual spot in back. They watched him go in the back door from their perch across the street. Another van simultaneously pulled into the parking lot on West Seventh, across the street from the front. Shortly after McRyan had gone in, Kennedy pulled in, followed by Lich, Riley, and Rockford.

Bouchard shook his head, snorting. “Man, these guys do like to drink.”

“That they do,” Viper replied. “Of course, at a bar owned by ex-cops, I doubt the real ones are paying full price.”