From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel Read online

  “How much?”

  She drummed some more, stopped abruptly, and looked at her smartwatch.

  “Buy me lunch,” Maryanne said. “Twelve thirty. Kincaid’s.”

  “Owwww, pricy.”

  “You said it yourself, McKenzie—we millenials like our creature comforts.”

  * * *

  Kincaid’s was one of the more upscale restaurants in St. Paul, as its prices suggested. You wouldn’t think that a guy with my money would care, but I’ve discovered that the older I get, the more I reflect the blue-collar values I learned growing up in Merriam Park. I managed to get a window table with a view of the Landmark Center and Rice Park beyond, both decorated for the holidays, plus an outdoor ice rink where couples skated hand in hand in large circles. Maryanne Altavilla joined me five minutes later. She ordered a cup of lobster bisque and an open-faced crab sandwich. I had a Wagyu sirloin with crispy green-onion potato cakes and roasted green beans. It was very good. Not as good as the steak you can get at Rickie’s, but still …

  “The question at the time—did the money belong to or was it in the care, custody, control, management, or possession of a federally protected financial institution?” Maryanne said. “It was ruled, against the strenuous objections of our legal team, I hasten to add, that the money had not yet reached its destination even though the crime had taken place in the parking lot, that it was not in possession of Midway National Bank at the time of the robbery. Therefore, according to the contractual relationship between the bank and the messenger service, it fell upon the armored truck company to make good the loss, which meant it fell on us. By the way, the vocabulary has changed since then. The armored truck business is now known as the cash-in-transit industry or simply referred to as the cash management business.”

  “All this means…?”

  “Midwest Farmers had to write a check—$654,321.”

  “And?”

  “We’d like to get it back. I ran it by my supervisor before I came over, and he said exactly what I thought he’d say—if you find it, he’s sure that we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  “That’s what I figured, too,” I said. “How much help are you willing to give me, though?”

  Maryanne reached into her pocket and pulled out a flash drive. She set it on the table next to her plate. I reached for it, but she set her hand on top and drew it back.

  “McKenzie,” she said. “We both know how this works. The money belongs to whoever digs it up.”

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

  “Especially if it’s not still conveniently stashed in the canvas bags used by the armored truck company so the rightful owner can easily be identified. There’s no law that says you’d have to turn it in. If you take this, though, I will consider it a personal contract between you and me that you will return the money to Farmers.”

  “For a substantial reward, you might add.”

  “Half, maybe more. Anything we can recover at this point would be a bonus.”

  “My lawyer would tell you that a verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” I said.

  “So would ours, and we have hundreds. Do we need a paper contract, you and I?”

  “This is where it gets complicated.”

  “In what way?”

  “To find the money, I might need to enlist Ryan Hayes.”

  “The son?” Maryanne said. “The son who helped Leland Hayes rob the armored truck in the first place?”

  “He did it against his will.”

  “Is he out of prison?”

  “The BOP kicked him loose about six months ago. He’s now an upstanding member of society.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Convincing him to help will be a problem,” I said. “I might need to offer him an incentive.”

  “This is an issue because…?”

  “It’s against the law for a criminal to profit from his crime.”

  “Riggs v. Palmer, Plumley v. Bledsoe, the slayer rules—I see where you’re going.”

  “So…”

  Maryanne started drumming her fingers again. Because of the white linen tablecloth it didn’t sound nearly as loud as it had in her office.

  “Our business arrangement is with you,” she said. “Recover the money and you’ll be handsomely rewarded. Whatever you do with the reward is none of our business. I don’t even want to know.”

  * * *

  I plugged the flash drive into my computer back at the condominium and pulled up the contents. In Minnesota, an insurance company has thirty business days in which to conduct an investigation and either accept or deny a claim, and Midwest Farmers Insurance Group used every damn one of them to find the money Leland Hayes stole before agreeing to pay off Midway National Bank. It had half a dozen investigators working the case. At least that’s how many handwritten field reports were scanned into the case file Maryanne Altavilla had given me.

  There was no evidence of fraud, so the Special Investigations Unit spent all of its resources attempting to track Leland’s movements before and after the robbery took place, more often than not retracing the efforts of the FBI. There were documents, of course, and plenty of them. Plus transcripts of witness interviews, photographs, and even video.

  A lot of time was also spent trying to follow the money. The $654,321 came in denominations of $1 to $100 bills that had been gathered from cash-intensive businesses like supermarkets, check-cashing stores, and other banks. And it was unmarked. No one had bothered to paint a tiny blue dot in the upper right corner of each bill or taken the time to make Xerox copies of them—remember Xerox? Also, this was long before 9/11. There was no Patriot Act, no Homeland Security, and the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, aka FinCEN, was just getting started. However, the Bank Security Act was in place, as well as the Annunzio-Wylie Anti-Money Laundering Act and the Money Laundering Suppression Act, which demanded that banks report cash transactions of $10,000 or more, as well as any suspicious monetary activity. The FBI couldn’t find a single Suspicious Activity Report in the greater five-state area that could help lead them to the cash, however.

  Nor could it answer the basic question—why did Leland Hayes come back to St. Paul?

  He could easily have left Minnesota in the hours between the time he robbed the armored truck and when I encountered him. He could have driven north and crossed into Canada, for that matter. In those days, a passport wasn’t required; you could do it with a driver’s license. Even if he loved his son, which he clearly didn’t, there was nothing he could have done for him. Plus, he must have known that Ryan would give him up the first time he was asked, which he did. So what was he doing on Arcade Street—without the cash—three hours after the heist?

  I took notes.

  It was my intention to reconstruct Leland’s movements myself, interview all of his known associates, as the cops would label them, along with his neighbors, and visit his old haunts. It was the coldest of cold cases. Most of the people who knew Leland were probably long gone by now, and those who weren’t—let’s just say memory is a tricky thing and let it go at that. On the other hand, the statute of limitations had long ago rendered everyone involved in the heist not guilty on all counts. Witnesses who had nothing to say twenty-two years ago might have plenty to talk about now. At least, that’s what I was hoping for, although, honestly, I didn’t like my chances.

  I was reading a transcript of an interview with a woman named LaToya Cane, described by the investigator as an “uncooperative, unmarried African American woman”—“unmarried” was underlined twice as if that meant something—when my cell started playing “West End Blues.” The caller ID read NINA TRUHLER.

  “Hey, you,” I said.

  “McKenzie, you should drop by the club,” Nina said. “Butch Thompson is playing solo piano during Happy Hour. You love Butch Thompson.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll even buy you a beer.”

  “Why?”

  “Wha
t do you mean why?”

  “You know I hate surprises almost as much as Bobby Dunston does.”

  “Can’t a girl just want to spend time with her beau?”

  “Beau? Does that make you my belle?”

  “I like that—ma belle amie.”

  “Nina…”

  “There’s a man here. A young man, old enough to drink but just barely. He asked members of my waitstaff if they knew who you were. They said they did, but you weren’t around and they didn’t know if you were going to be around. He said he’d wait. They shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. What about the man?”

  “My people said he was very nice, very polite. Right now he’s sipping a beer and listening to Butch. He’s African American, not that that matters.”

  “What does matter?”

  “McKenzie, he’s carrying a gun.”

  “Call the police.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You have a sign on your door, don’t you—management bans guns on these premises?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call the cops. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I saw them in the parking lot beneath an LED light mounted on a tall metal pole, a young, light-skinned African American dressed for success and two older white men wearing the colors of the St. Paul Police Department. No shots or angry words were being exchanged when I arrived. In fact, it looked as if everyone was getting along just fine.

  I found a slot for the Mustang, parked, and strolled up to them. The kid saw me coming and smiled. The cops were somewhat anxious, so I made sure they could see my empty hands as I approached the circle of light. It was only about 5:30 P.M., yet in Minnesota in December it might as well have been midnight.

  “Are you McKenzie?” the kid asked. He told the officers, “This is the man I came to see. Listen, I’m very sorry about all of this. I certainly didn’t mean to frighten anyone. But I do have a license to carry a concealed firearm.”

  “Not in private establishments that have posted a sign banning guns on their premises,” the taller officer said. “The owner here doesn’t think guns and alcohol should mix.”

  “I appreciate that,” the young man said. “That’s why I’m content to lock my gun in the trunk of my car. At the same time—there are no legal penalties for entering a private property or business that has posted these signs.”

  “Funny how you know only those parts of the law that benefit you.”

  “Again, I apologize. I’m sure you officers have more important things to do than hassle me.”

  “Is that what we’re doing, hassling you?”

  The kid grimaced. An African American male trying to make nice with white cops and not doing a very good job; I didn’t blame him for being concerned.

  “A poor choice of words,” he said. “I apologize again.” The young man turned from the officers toward me. “Mr. McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “With a gun?” I asked.

  The young man sighed as if it were a topic he had long grown tired of.

  “I meant nothing by it, as I just explained to the officers,” he said. “I have since secured my firearm in the trunk of my car—”

  “So I heard.”

  The young man sighed some more.

  “Can we talk?” he asked. “Officers, again I apologize for taking you from more important duties.”

  The two cops stared as if they wanted to slap the cuffs on him for something, anything, yet couldn’t think of a good reason or even a bad one. “Have a nice day,” one of them said, even though it was evening. The other didn’t speak at all, at least not to us. He did speak quietly to his colleague, though, as they walked off. Probably discussing how they’d like to put an arm on the kid for violating the jackass ordinance, if nothing else. After a moment, they separated, went to their respective patrol cars, and drove off.

  “Let’s talk,” the young man said.

  “Start with your name.”

  “That’s right. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Jackson Cane.”

  He offered his hand, but I didn’t take it. Instead, I flashed on one of the names I had just read in Maryanne Altavilla’s SIU case file.

  “Are you related to LaToya Cane?” I asked.

  My question jolted the kid, although he tried to hide it.

  “That’s my mother,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “How do you know my mother?”

  “She lived next door to Leland Hayes.”

  “That was before I was born.”

  “Okay,” I said again, trying to not give anything away.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “No.”

  “It’s twenty degrees out.”

  “Winter in Minnesota, get used to it.”

  Jackson was wearing a thigh-length quilted nylon parka with a fur-lined hood large enough to fit over a suit coat, black slacks, and black dress shoes, but no hat or gloves. He reminded me of a bank teller as he rocked back and forth against the cold. I, on the other hand, was perfectly comfortable in my leather coat, leather gloves, boots, and a maroon knit hat emblazoned with the gold M of the University of Minnesota pulled over my ears.

  “This is ridiculous,” Jackson said.

  “Tell me what you want. Tell me why you came to this place looking for me with a gun.”

  “The gun—I have a right to carry a concealed weapon.”

  “So do I. Why did you come here?”

  “I knew this was a place where you hung out.”

  “How did you know that?”

  He paused before he answered, “Research.”

  “If your research told you that, it would also tell you where I live. Why didn’t you go there?”

  Jackson didn’t answer.

  “Was it because of the guys sitting at the security desk?” I asked. “Was it because of all the cameras? Guess what. You’re standing beneath a camera right now.”

  I pointed upward. Jackson’s gaze followed my finger to the camera mounted to the light pole.

  “Tell me what you want,” I told him.

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “Go on.”

  “About the money.”

  “What money?”

  “McKenzie, you know what money. The $654,321. It belongs to me.”

  “How does money stolen from an armored truck before you were born belong to you?”

  “Anyone who finds it can keep it,” Jackson said. “I know how the law works.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m willing to give you a portion if you help me.”

  “How much is a portion?”

  Jackson hesitated before he answered, “Twenty-five percent.”

  “You big spender, you. What, pray tell, do I need to do to earn it?”

  “There’s someone we need to talk to, someone that knows exactly where the money is hidden but refuses to say.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it? Make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

  Jackson’s response was to stare at me.

  “For God’s sake,” I said. “Who told you I was that guy?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “How the hell do you know who I am in the first place?”

  He refused to answer.

  I moved a few steps toward him.

  Jackson moved a few steps backward.

  I was thinking how much fun it would be to drive the palm of my hand against his nose the way I had done to Karl Anderson. Jackson must have been reading my mind, because he abruptly pointed up at the camera above our heads. He wasn’t grinning as if he had won something, though. Instead, he looked like he was afraid I was going to punch him anyway. Which is why I didn’t.

  “You had a business proposition for me,” I said. “Okay, here’s one for you—I’m going after the money myself, for no other reason than t
o keep someone else from getting it. You can help. Start by telling me who told you about me, who told you my name. I’ll give you a portion.”

  “The money belongs to me.”

  “Not if I get it first.”

  “The money belongs to me,” Jackson repeated.

  “Have it your own way,” I said. “Oh, just so you know—I have a gun, too.”

  I turned and walked toward the entrance to the club. I was tempted to look behind me to see if the kid was impressed with my parting line, yet resisted just in case he wasn’t.

  * * *

  Rickie’s was crowded. It was Monday night, and the elegant upstairs dining room and performance hall were closed; a red sash was fixed across the entrance of the carpeted spiral staircase that led to it. All of Nina’s customers, instead, were gathered in the comfortable downstairs bar. Most of the small tables, wooden booths, and comfy chairs and sofas gathered around the fireplace were taken.

  Butch Thompson was playing Scott Joplin from the small stage set in the corner, working “Sunday Rag” before sliding effortlessly into Jelly Roll Morton’s “Winin’ Boy Blues No. 1.” I stood just inside the door and listened to him. Butch was one of the last great ragtime and stride jazz pianists. I wondered briefly who would replace him when he moved on and couldn’t think of a single name. It made me sad.

  I pulled off my hat and turned toward the bar. There was an empty spot at the corner, and I asked myself if it had been reserved for me. I answered yes when the bartender set a fresh Summit Ale in front of me without asking if I wanted it. But then, Nina’s people had always been good to me. We had an arrangement. They would take my order, yet never give me a bill. In return, I would always leave a tip large enough to cover the order and then some.

  “The place is hopping,” I said.

  “Partly it’s Butch,” the bartender said. “He always draws a crowd. I think it’s mostly the weather, though. People are enjoying it before the real winter sets in. Do you want to see a menu or just order or what?”

  “I want to talk to the boss first.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re here.”