Roger Stelljes - The St. Paul Conspiracy

He got his cash, grabbed a bottle of water and went to the cashier. As he paid, he noticed the security television, showing all the pumps, and thought of Knapp. That had been a lucky strike, noticing that camera, he thought. It was always those little things that broke cases. The security camera could have easily been missed, and they might still be looking for Knapp. Instead, he noticed it, and Knapp was history.

Knapp and the surveillance camera got him back to thinking about PTA. He’d missed something on that case, he just couldn’t figure out what. There was an overlooked detail somewhere. Mac hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, lest people think he was obsessing, which of course he was. But he thought about the case morning, noon, and night. Enough already, Mac. Let it go! he said to himself as he climbed into the Explorer and drove to Sally’s.

They stayed up until 10:00 p.m. and then went to bed. Mac laid in the dark room, spooning against Sally, her body warm. Mac never had been one for going to bed early. Carefully reaching over Sally, he grabbed the remote off her nightstand and powered up the TV. He liked spending time at Sally’s place because she had full cable, plus some premium channels. She was a big sports fan and liked movies as much as he did. Flipping through the channels, he caught the end of Ocean’s Eleven . A fun movie, the actors all looked like they had a good time making it.

Mac flipped around some more. He caught a late edition of SportsCenter , catching some Timberwolves highlights. While not a huge hoops fan, he followed the hometown club. They’d won, beating the Bulls.

Mac tried some more channels and came to Indiana Jones . He loved Indy and once dressed up as him for Halloween, with the fedora, leather coat, whip, the whole nine yards. Indy and Marcus were in the library, looking at the roman numerals. Mac smiled, he loved this part.

Alt awoke stiff and sore. He’d fallen asleep in his easy chair and had overslept. He wanted to be into the office by 8:30 a.m. That was the time he woke up. A hurried shower, shave, and change of clothes put him downtown by 9:15 a.m.

He walked into the operations center, and Bouchard and Hennessey were waiting for him. Alt saw it immediately-they were agitated. “What’s up?”

“At the front desk at Channel 6 we found a log book, the receptionist completes it. We missed it the other times we were in.” Hennessey said.

“How?”

“It’s usually in a locked cabinet. For some reason, it was left out last night.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It records packages dropped off and for whom. There’s one for a CD, October 26th, a large package from an outfit called Flash Local Delivery. Note indicated it was a large box. The signature looks like Daniels’.”

“Have we checked this Flash whatever’s records?”

“Hagen’s giving it a shot right now,” Bouchard responded and led them to the computer whiz.

“What did you get?” Alt asked.

Hagen looked up at them through pop-bottle glasses, “They don’t have any sort of system that I can crack into. They don’t exist in cyberspace.” If Hagen couldn’t crack them, they didn’t have a system, or at least one that was tapped into the outside world.

“Where are they located?”

“Over in South Minneapolis. Address puts them in a residential neighborhood.”

Alt thought quickly, and then said to Hansen and Hennessey, “Take the big van. You might need some tools. We have to know if that’s our package.”

Mac slept soundly, well after his normal waking time. He rolled over to find Sally standing at the end of the bed, dressed, with wet hair. “You making breakfast, big boy?”

Mac smiled, “After a shower.” A quick shower, some jeans and a black mock turtleneck, and Mac was downstairs firing up the coffee and mixing some quick eggs. The TV was on, and he had it on the Golf Channel of all things as Sally walked into the kitchen, her hair now dry and styled. She looked like a million bucks in blue jeans and a white turtleneck with her shoulder-length red hair. She walked over and gave him a warm kiss, and looked at what he was mixing. “Scrambled eggs, yummy. Did you find the cheese and ham?”

“All ready shredded and chopped,” he replied, pointing to the center island.

“Looks great.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table to watch TV. “What’s with the Golf Channel?”

“I like it. This is one of those segments where the pro teaches an amateur. I learn a few things watching these.”

“I understand, but we’re going skiing.”

“This isn’t Colorado. We don’t have a ski channel. Besides, you like golf. You might learn something.”

Sally watched as the golf professional showed video of the amateur’s golf swing at a driving range. Then they cut back to the studio where the pro, amateur, and host were standing on some fake grass with a net, ready to do some sort of live demonstration. The host asked the softball question about the value of video. The pro responded, “There isn’t anything you can’t improve through the use of video.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Sally said.

“What’s that?” Mac asked.

“Pro says there isn’t anything that can’t be improved by video.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“I mean video tells you everything,” Sally said. “Don’t you remember in law school, when they videoed us making oral arguments?”

“Vaguely.” Mac said as he poured the eggs into the pan, adding the ham and cheese.

“I sure do. I learned a ton about myself watching that. I keep some of those lessons with me today.”

“I know what you’re saying. I remember in college we watched tons of video of our games and of the opposing teams. Learned a ton about myself, picked up tendencies of the other side. So, yeah it helps,” he replied. “You know who else was a fanatic about video?”

“Who?”

“Claire Daniels.” Mac said as he moved the scrambled eggs around the pan.

Sally shot him a disapproving look. “Aren’t we done with that, yet?”

“I’m just saying. When we went through her place, she had DVD copies of all of her reporting, videos of herself working out and playing golf, just like this guy on TV. She was anal about it. I remember the sports guy at Channel 6, saying she was a total perfectionist, super hard on herself, vain in that respect. She critiqued every report she did. It’s why she was so good, I guess.”

“I imagine so,” Sally said. “We’re not going to talk about that case all weekend are we?”

“No. I promise.”

Flash Local Delivery was located in a residential neighborhood on Oakland Avenue in South Minneapolis. Quick research by Hagen found it had been incorporated six months earlier by an Everett Flash, hence the business name. A Yellow Page ad indicated same-day delivery, personal pickup, and confidential service with a personal touch. No kidding, it was being run out of the guy’s house. Hansen and Hennessey found Flash working in an office on the side of a detached garage. As they went in the door, Flash was on the phone, writing down some notes on a legal pad. A laptop was plugged into the wall, no phone line. No wonder Hagen couldn’t get in.

Flash hung up and asked, “What can I do for you gentlemen.”

“We want to see if you remember a package you picked up on October 26th and delivered to Channel 6,” Hansen said.

“Did you send it?”

“No, a friend of ours did.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I could help your friend,” Flash answered, “but I can’t tell you anything about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hennessey replied, “but our friend was killed shortly after she sent the package. We’re trying to track some things down. It would really help if you could provide us with some information.”