Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

“Probably not.”

Viper picked up the radio and called to the other van, “Kraft, head in and give us an eyeball.”

“Copy that.”

Mac, Sally, Riley, Rock, and Lich were standing in the middle of the bar, each with a Heineken, talking about the case and how life would be a little dull going back to routine homicide work.

“You say that now, Riles, but I stood here a few weeks ago, and you sure looked like you wanted to go back to mundane police work then,” Mac said, playing along.

“That was then, this is now.”

“Isn’t that a movie title or something?” Rock asked.

Just then, on cue, Uncle Shamus showed up.

“Shamus,” Riley said, “to what do we owe the honor?”

“I need to borrow my nephew for a few minutes, but in the meantime, next round is on me.” The bartender instantly appeared with another order.

“God, I love this family,” Riley said as he put down his empty and grabbed the full Heineken sitting opened for him on the bar.

“I’ll be right back,” Mac said to everyone and followed Shamus upstairs.

Uncle Shamus had a large corner office in the back of the second floor. On the outside of the door it said, “OFFICE OF THE PROPRIETOR.” Every McRyan who had filled that role over the years had used the office. It was an impressive room, with high ceilings, crown moldings, polished wood floors, tasteful furniture and a one hundred-year-old oak desk the size of a dining room table. In front of the desk were two old high-backed, burgundy, leather chairs. Sitting casually in one of them was Lyman Hisle, nattily attired in a gray Italian three-piece suit, a perfect Windsor knot in his black silk tie, even at this late hour. He was sipping an Irish whiskey, neat, when Shamus and Mac walked in.

“Lyman, thank you for coming. I know this seems a little odd.” They shook hands and shared a smile.

“I was intrigued when Shamus called. Am I to assume that you don’t want others to know of this?”

Mac nodded.

“So, pray tell, how can I be of assistance?”

“This is off the record in my direction, and yours. I need some information.”

“About PTA, Shamus says.”

“You were on the board?”

“I was.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Time mostly. PTA has a very active and involved board, and I couldn’t give it the time and attention it needed and deserved,” Lyman responded, shifting in his chair to look directly at Mac, one leg over the other, “So, tell me, why would one of St. Paul’s finest need to know anything about PTA?”

“I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

“Very well.”

“Tell me about the power structure over there.”

“Ted Lindsay is the president and CEO. We brought him in a number of years ago. He’s done a fabulous job.”

“Where’d you get him from?”

“He was the chief operating officer at Fillmore Electronics, a competitor. He was there two, three years, I think, and did good work. Before that he worked for the government. He was a spook sort of. He held numerous positions in the NSA, then the CIA, where he was deputy director of Operations before he left and went to make his fortune in private industry.” Lyman took a sip of his drink.

“He seems to have done well for PTA.”

“Sure has. Since 9/11, bad as it sounds, the company has exploded, no pun intended. There’s been a renewed emphasis on intelligence gathering. The equipment necessary for that is one of the company’s better areas. Even better, Lindsay’s connections in the government are amazing. He has friends, contacts-hell, spies-everywhere.” Lyman put his drink on the desk and counted on his fingers. “He knows when the military, NSA or CIA contracts are coming up before anyone else, what the budget is going to be and who the key decision maker will be. He’ll know what he needs to know about the person who has decision-making authority and what buttons to push in that direction.”

“I heard he knows everyone in D.C.,” Mac added.

Lyman agreed, “His contacts in Congress are impressive and he’s been an aggressive campaign contributor.” Lyman creased a smile, shook his head a little, and said, the admiration showing, “If Ted goes after something, he gets it.”

Mac, interested, said, “You said spies?”

“Yeah. I mean, he knows people all over the place with information. I wouldn’t doubt he’s spreading a little money around, which is illegal, but he’s a former pro, with a staff of former pros. For them stuff like that is second nature.”

“Staff of former pros?”

“Yeah.” Lyman said, sipping the last of his drink. “PTA has a security staff that is the size and has the budget of a small army. Old habits die hard, I guess. Lindsay’s paranoid and a nut about security.”

“This security detail, how big?”

“Oh, he’s got a couple hundred on staff, spread over all of the facilities. Not to mention the equipment. Hell, they use the same stuff they sell to the government.”

“Who runs the security?”

“Webb Alt.”

“What’s his story?” Mac asked.

“Former spook-although you wouldn’t necessarily know it to look at him.” Lyman scratched his head, “He isn’t particularly impressive physically, but people are scared to death of the guy. He’s got a bunch of his old cronies from CIA and NSA on staff here in town.”

“Lindsay,” Mac asked, shifting gears, “I imagine he’s made himself quite a fortune.”

“He has, although not as big as he’d like.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he thought he should be paid like Jack Welch. The board disagreed. We were sensitive to executive pay before it became a trend. So, there was some bitching.”

“Did he threaten to leave?”

“Oh, I don’t know if it was that bad for him. There were some whispers, but nothing ever came of it. We upped his pay a little more and threw in a few more options, and the whole thing seemed to blow over. He has it pretty good at PTA. A few more years, and he’ll retire with a $100 million in the bank, plus the potential of more with stock options. Not bad when most of your career was in government service.” Lyman held his glass out and Shamus refreshed his drink. “So, Mac, what’s this all about?”

“In a minute,” Mac said, momentarily filibustering. “Has there every been any financial issues or problems with PTA that you’re aware of?”

“No,” Lyman replied, shaking his head, “As a board, we went over those books very carefully. Always have. We were very active and not a rubber stamp, something that bothers Lindsay from time to time. The SEC, the company auditors-the board never found any improprieties. PTA’s books balance, always have. It’s why the stock is such a winner.”

“Tell me about James Stephens.”

“Came to PTA with Lindsay. He’d been in government service as well, at Treasury and then at the CIA. He left the CIA with Lindsay and went to Fillmore. In fact, Lindsay brought five or six upper-level executives over when he came. It was a shame, that car accident.”

“What about Jamie Jones, the most recent CFO?

“I don’t really know much about her. She was well regarded and very well liked by Stephens.” Lyman furrowed his brow, “Mac, what in the hell is this all about?”

“Let me tell you a little story, and you tell me what you think.” Mac related his theory.

Lyman didn’t react much, sitting back in the chair, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. When Mac finished, Lyman took a long drink, looked away for a moment, and then took another long drink. “Christ, Mac,” he said after a minute, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What do you make of it?”

“Pretty thin. You couldn’t go into court with it, as I’m sure your girlfriend has told you.”