Secret Prey (10 page)

He hung up, made a notation on a legal pad, and said, ‘‘I can give you all the time you’d need this evening, but
if you gotta talk now, you gotta talk fast. And this is all off the record at this point, right?’’

Lucas nodded. ‘‘Yes. If we need an official statement, we’ll send you a subpoena and get a formal deposition.’’

Bone leaned forward. ‘‘So?’’

‘‘So do you think McDonald did it?’’

‘‘If one of us did it, it was McDonald. I didn’t do it. Robles, no motive. O’Dell, too smart. Unless I’m missing something. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s McDonald. Way down at the bottom, I don’t think he’s got the grit to pull it off.’’

‘‘Then why’s he running the place?’’

‘‘He’s not. He’s only speaking for it. And that’ll only last until O’Dell and I get the board sorted out. Then it’ll be one of us.’’

Lucas said, ‘‘Huh,’’ and then, ‘‘Have you ever heard of George Arris? Does the name ring a bell?’’

‘‘Yes, of course. He was a famous case around here, around the bank. He was murdered—this must’ve been a few months or maybe a year or so before I came here. Must’ve been back in ’85.’’

‘‘How was it famous? The name doesn’t ring a bell with me . . .’’

‘‘It was over on the St. Paul side of the river. Somebody started shooting white guys who were walking in the black areas—there were like three or four of them in a few weeks, shot in the back of the head.’’

‘‘Ah, jeez, I remember that,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Never solved. And Arris was one of them?’’

‘‘Yup.’’

‘‘What’d he do here?’’ ‘‘Worked with the trust department, setting up portfolios for rich folk.’’

‘‘Would he have worked with McDonald?’’

Bone said, ‘‘Probably. I’d have to look up the exact dates, but they probably overlapped. They certainly both went through that department. I don’t really know the details. I wasn’t here yet. I just heard about the killing later.’’

‘‘Okay. How about Andrew Ingall?’’

‘‘Andy? He was a vice president, also in the trust department, but he died a few years ago in a boating accident up on Superior. You think Wilson had something to do with it?’’

‘‘Why would he?’’ Lucas asked.

Bone leaned back, then spun his chair in a circle, stopped it with one foot, reached into a desk drawer where he apparently had a stereo tuner hidden. A Schumann piano piece, simple, easy, elegant, and sweet, sprang into the office, and Bone said, ‘‘Schumann,’’ and Lucas said, ‘‘I know—
Scenes from Childhood
,’’ and Bone said, ‘‘Christ, we’re so cultured I can’t stand it,’’ and Lucas said, ‘‘A friend of mine used to play them. Why would McDonald do Andy Ingall?’’

‘‘Because they were both candidates to run the operation. Then Andy sailed out of Superior Harbor one day, just moving his boat up to the islands. He never got there. No storm, no emergency calls, nothing. Just phhht. Gone. The theory was that he had a leaky gas tank—he had some kind of old gas engine, an Atomic, or something like that—and gas leaked into the bilge, and he fired up the engine out on the water somewhere, and boom. He was gone before he could call for help. That was the theory, but nobody ever knew for sure. No wreckage was ever found.’’

‘‘So McDonald got the job.’’

‘‘Well, no. When Andy disappeared, everything was screwed up for a while; then we had a general shuffling around, and McDonald wound up as a senior vice president in the mortgage company.’’

‘‘Huh,’’ said Lucas, and Bone said, ‘‘Yeah,’’ and asked, ‘‘Can’t you get this stuff from the FBI or somewhere?’’

‘‘Probably not. Besides, the computer’s down.’’

‘‘You too? Christ, it’s chaos downstairs . . .’’

‘‘Did you ever hear that McDonald might whack his wife around from time to time? Pretty seriously?’’

Bone nodded. ‘‘I heard it. I went out with a lawyer lady for a while, old family, she knows that whole country club
bunch; and she said something to me about it. She might have some details . . . You could talk to her if you want.’’

‘‘That’d be good . . .’’

Bone scratched a name and phone number on a piece of notepaper and pushed it across the desk. ‘‘Sandra Ollsen, two
l
’s. That’s her office phone over at Kelly, Batten.’’

‘‘What kind of law?’’

‘‘Estate planning, wills, trusts.’’ He looked at his watch and said, ‘‘Listen, I’ve got to go to a meeting, but I can talk to a guy who’s gonna be there, and find out if there was anything between Wilson and Arris.’’

Lucas said, ‘‘Thanks,’’ stood up, and as they shook hands, said, ‘‘I understand you used to play a little ball.’’

‘‘Yeah, a little,’’ Bone said.

‘‘How well do you know Dama Isley?’’

‘‘Reasonably well—I heard he played for the Gophers, back when. Hard to believe.’’

‘‘Yeah. Listen, next time you see him, take a couple of minutes and talk a little ball, old-time stuff, like college days.’’

Bone shrugged. ‘‘Sure. Why?’’

‘‘Private project,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘You still play?’’

Bone, grinning, said, ‘‘I still shoot around a little bit on Saturdays. Always a couple of kids trying to take advantage of me.’’

Lucas said, ‘‘A banker? Playing for money?’’

‘‘Good grief, no,’’ Bone said. ‘‘Not for money. That’d be illegal.’’

ON THE WAY OUT, LUCAS PAUSED IN THE OPEN DOOR
of Bone’s office, saw Kerin Baki talking to the secretary, and said, loud enough for her to overhear, ‘‘I’m probably going to want to talk about McDonald again.’’

Bone, already settling back into his desk, distracted, missed the double-directed comment, nodded, said, ‘‘Okay,’’ and Lucas pulled the door shut. He smiled at Baki on the way out and said, ‘‘Thank you.’’

By the time the elevators reached the bottom floor, he
thought, the word on McDonald would be out. If Baki was as efficient as she looked, she could never pass on the chance to screw one of her boss’s competitors.

LIKE BONE, SANDRA OLLSEN WAS REALLY TOO BUSY TO
talk to Lucas; but he mentioned Bone’s name and was admitted to the mahogany offices of Kelly, Batten, Orstein & Shirinjivi. Ollsen was a tall, coordinated woman who looked as though she might once have played some ball herself.

‘‘How’s Jim?’’ she asked casually as Lucas settled into the chair across her desk.

‘‘Looks fine; something of a power struggle going on over there,’’ Lucas said.

‘‘Yes. With Susan O’Dell. I hope she kicks his butt.’’

‘‘Really?’’ Lucas asked.

‘‘Really,’’ she said. Lucas, bemused, watched her for a moment, waiting, and then she said, ‘‘He sort of dumped me.’’

‘‘Ah. I know the feeling,’’ Lucas said.

She looked him over. ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ she said after a minute.

‘‘You’d be wrong,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Anyway . . . he seems to think of you as a friend.’’

‘‘Right.’’ She rolled her eyes. ‘‘Actually, I don’t think he was actually looking for friendship when he started squiring me around. He was looking . . .’’ She grinned at him, not a bad smile at all. ‘‘Why am I telling you this?’’

‘‘Because of my open face and genuine curiosity?’’

‘‘ ’Cause you’re a trained interrogator, that’s why. When I was in college, we called you pigs.’’

‘‘When I was in college,
I
called us pigs,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘So what was he looking for when he started taking you around?’’

‘‘Sex,’’ she said, ingenuously. ‘‘Any place, any time . . . Some of the girls around the bank call him the Boner, if you know what I mean.’’

‘‘All right,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Listen, the reason I came by . . .’’

‘‘Bet nobody would ever call you that,’’ Ollsen said. ‘‘The Boner.’’

‘‘Only ’cause I carry a big leather sap in my pocket,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I’d beat the tar out of them.’’

‘‘Oh, it’s a sap. And I just thought you were happy to see me.’’

Lucas held up his hands: ‘‘All right, you win the war of wits.’’ And they both laughed. ‘‘But listen, the real reason I came around: You know about the Kresge killing, of course. We’re investigating it, and I’m wondering how well you know Wilson McDonald?’’

A sudden wariness appeared in her eyes, and she put a hand to her throat. ‘‘You think Wilson did it?’’

‘‘No, we don’t think anything, just yet. But he was one of the four people up there when Kresge . . .’’

‘‘Bit the bullet?’’

‘‘Exactly the words I was looking for,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Anyway: How well do you know McDonald?’’

‘‘My parents knew the family quite well . . .’’

‘‘Does Wilson McDonald beat his wife?’’

‘‘Ah, Jesus,’’ she said, softly. ‘‘I wondered what Jim told you. What are you going to do, blackmail him with it? Wilson?’’

‘‘Domestic violence is not my department,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I’m just trying to get a reading on him, what kind of a guy he is.’’

Again, she hesitated, and Lucas added, ‘‘This is all informal. There won’t be any record of what you say.’’

‘‘But you could subpoena me.’’

‘‘If it got to that point, you’d be morally obliged to tell us anyway,’’ Lucas said.

She thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘‘I was at a pool party last summer—Rush and Louise Freeman, he runs Freeman-Hoag.’’

‘‘The advertising agency.’’

‘‘Yes. Wilson got drunk. He was getting loud and he
went into the pool with his clothes on—Audrey said he fell, but I saw it, and he looked like he was jumping in. Anyway, we got him out, and Audrey walked him around the house out toward their car, and they started arguing. And Louise went over to Rush—I was talking to Rush— and she said something like, ‘Rush, you better go around, they’re starting to argue.’ Something about the way she said it. So Rush went around the house, and I followed, and we both came around the corner just in time to see Wilson hit her right in the head. He just swatted her and knocked her down. Rush ran over and they started arguing, and I thought Wilson was going to fight him. But Audrey got up and said she was all right, and I got between the two guys. And they went off.’’

‘‘Nobody called the police?’’ Lucas asked.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘I thought that was the correct thing to do,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I mean with the lawer-doctor-advertising set. No violence.’’

She nodded. ‘‘I’ll tell you what, buster. If any guy ever hit me like that, his ass would be in jail ten minutes later. But . . . sometimes things are more complicated. Audrey didn’t want it. She said he was drunk and didn’t mean anything.’’

‘‘So that was the end of it.’’

‘‘Yes. Then, anyway. I was talking to Louise afterwards, and she said that he’d beaten her up before. A couple of times a year.’’

‘‘And she’d know?’’

‘‘Yes . . . She’s a little younger. Louise is. She’s Rush’s second wife, used to be his secretary. She knows Audrey’s younger sister pretty well, I don’t know how. The sister told Louise that Wilson beats up Audrey a couple of times a year. Sometimes pretty badly.’’

‘‘Do you think Wilson McDonald could have killed Kresge?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘Not just because I saw him hit Audrey. I was always a little afraid of him. I knew him when
I was little—he was five or six years ahead of me at Cresthaven, and my brother knew him. He’s big and fat and mean; he’s got those little mean eyes. He’s a goddamned animal.’’

Lucas nodded: ‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Even if he did it, you won’t get him. He’s pretty smart, but most of all, he’s a McDonald,’’ she said. ‘‘The Mc-Donalds . . . they’ve got this family thing. They don’t care what a family member does, as long as he doesn’t get caught at it.’’ She stopped: ‘‘No, that’s not quite right: they don’t care what he does, as long as he’s not convicted of it. In their eyes, not being convicted is the same as not doing it. That comes from way back. The first McDonalds were crooks, they stole from the farmers with their mill. The second or third generation were still crooks, and they made millions during the Depression with real estate scams that they ran through Polaris. And they’re still crooks. And they’ve got very good legal advice.’’

‘‘But don’t quote you.’’

‘‘Subpoena me first,’’ she said. ‘‘Then you can quote me.’’

‘‘Do you think Louise Freeman would talk to me?’’

‘‘Probably. She’s the kind who’d have all the dirt, if I do say so myself.’’

SIX

A GRIM-FACED HELEN BELL STEERED HER TOYOTA
Camry into the driveway at her sister’s house and said, ‘‘Audrey, you’re crazy.’’

‘‘It’s all right,’’ Audrey McDonald said sharply. She had a small black circle under her left eye, now covered heavily with makeup, where one of Wilson McDonald’s blows had landed. ‘‘He must be sober by now. He had to work today.’’

‘‘He could have gone to work this morning and be drunk all over again,’’ Bell said. She was four years younger than her sister, but in some ways had always been the protective one. ‘‘That’s happened.’’

‘‘I’ll be okay,’’ Audrey said.

‘‘You’ll never be okay until you leave him,’’ Helen said. ‘‘The man is an animal and doesn’t deserve you. Even the police know it, now—you said so yourself.’’

‘‘But I love him,’’ Audrey said. On the drive over, Helen had gotten angrier and angrier with her sister, but now her face softened and she patted Audrey on the thigh.

‘‘Then you’re going to have to see a doctor, together,’’ she said. ‘‘There’s a name for this—codependency. You can’t keep going like this, because sooner or later, it won’t just be a slap, or a beating. He’s going to kill you.’’

‘‘You know what he’s said about that, about a doctor,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘They don’t go to psychiatrists in the Mc-Donald family.’’

‘‘But it’d all be confidential,’’ Helen protested. ‘‘Times have changed . . .’’

‘‘After this bank thing is done with,’’ Audrey said, as she pushed open the car door. ‘‘Maybe then.’’

Bell watched her go. She hated McDonald. She’d never liked him, but over the years distaste had grown into this curdling, bitter-tasting hatred. Audrey would never remove herself from McDonald. Somebody else would have to do it for her, like a surgeon removing a cancer.

She liked the metaphor: Dan Kresge had been a cancer on the bank, and he’d been removed. Good for the bank and everybody employed there. McDonald was a cancer on her sister: the sooner he was cut out, the better.

AUDREY EASED INTO THE HOUSE, MOVING QUIETLY,
wary of an ambush. Was he in the tub again? In the study? She stepped into the kitchen, and the board that always squeaked, the one she’d sworn two hundred times to fix, squeaked.

‘‘Audrey? Is that you?’’ He was in the study; he sounded sober.

‘‘It’s me,’’ she said tentatively.

‘‘Jesus Christ, where have you been? I’ve been calling Helen, but nobody ever answers.’’ He’d been lurching down the hall as he spoke, a yellow legal pad in his hand, and when he turned into the kitchen, he spotted the black eye and pulled up. ‘‘Holy cow. Did I do that?’’

She recognized the mood and moved to take advantage of it: ‘‘No, of course not,’’ she said sarcastically. ‘‘I’ve been hitting myself in the face with a broomstick.’’

‘‘Aw, Jesus . . .’’ That was all she’d get. He went on, ‘‘But Jesus, we gotta talk. I got a cop following me around. And the board’s gonna meet on Wednesday, but probably won’t make a decision. They’re talking about a search, for Christ’s sake.’’

‘‘A search? That’s just a way of slowing everything down.’’

‘‘I know that. It’s me or O’Dell or Bone.’’

‘‘Have you talked to your father?’’

‘‘Just for a minute, to ask him to stay out of it for the time being. I thought it might be a little too obvious if he got out there. At this point.’’

‘‘Good thought . . . What about the cop?’’

‘‘It’s this fuckin’ Davenport,’’ McDonald said impatiently. ‘‘He was talking to Bone today, and the word is, he’s asking about me.’’

‘‘What’s he asking?’’ Audrey asked. ‘‘He doesn’t think you . . .’’

‘‘I don’t know; I’m finding out. He could be a problem.’’

‘‘How can he be a problem? You didn’t shoot anybody.’’ His eyes slid away from hers: ‘‘I know . . . but he could be a problem.’’ He looked back: ‘‘I mean, Jesus, if there’s a search, you think they’re gonna pick a guy who the cops are investigating?’’

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘And the thing is, the sheriff up there, Krause, he’s just about signed off on the thing, from what I hear. He’s dead in the water. If it wasn’t for Davenport, it’d be pretty much over with.’’

‘‘Maybe that’s something your father could help with right now.’’

‘‘Come on in here,’’ Wilson said, and turned back toward the study. The study was a large room with a window looking out on the front lawn, and two walls of shelves loaded with knickknacks, travel souvenirs, and small golf and tennis trophies going back to Wilson’s days in prep school and college. Framed photos of Wilson and Audrey with George Bush, Ronald Reagan, and in much younger days a tired-looking Richard Nixon, looked down from the third wall. Wilson dropped into the brown-leather executive’s chair behind the cherry desk, while Audrey perched on a love seat below Nixon’s worn face.

‘‘So call your father on Davenport. On the board, we can
call Jimmy and Elaine,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘Elaine is very close to Dafne Bose, and Jimmy’s been trying to get into the trust department’s legal work
forever
. . .’’ Dafne Bose was on the board. ‘‘If we can get to Dafne, we’re halfway there.’’

‘‘You know who else?’’ He looked down at the legal pad. ‘‘We’re carrying two million bucks in land-andattachments paper on Shankland Chev, which they couldn’t get a half-million anywhere else. And Dave Shankland . . .’’

‘‘. . . is married to Peg Bose.’’ Peg Bose was Dafne’s daughter. ‘‘We couldn’t use that right away, it’d look too much like blackmail. But if we got in a squeak . . .’’

‘‘Here’s the list I’ve got so far,’’ Wilson said. He passed the legal pad to Audrey. ‘‘Seventeen board members, so we need nine. Four I can count on—Eirich, Goff, Brandt, and Sanderson. If we can get Dafne, we can probably get Rondeau and Bunde, ’cause they pretty much do what she suggests. Then we’d need two . . .’’

‘‘How about Young? You know he wants to get into Woodland.’’

‘‘Oh, man, I don’t know if I could swing that,’’ Wilson said doubtfully.

‘‘We need a black member anyway, because of that government thing, and who’d be better than Billy Young? His father was a minister and he’s really pretty white. And he must be worth . . .’’

They began working down strings of possible supporters, analyzing relationships, working out who knew who, who owed who, who could be bought, and with what.

Later, getting coffee, Audrey without thinking brushed her cheek, and flinched at the sudden lancing pain. The black eye: she’d forgotten about it, and Wilson had never really paid any attention to it anyway. The excitement of conspiracy, she decided: some of their tenderest moments had occurred in the study, working over legal pads . . .

• • •

MARCUS KENT WAS AN ASSISTANT VICE PRESIDENT IN
corporate operations, working for Bone; he sat on one end of Susan O’Dell’s couch. Carla Wyte, who technically worked for Robles in the currency room, lounged on the other end. Louise Compton, wearing blue jeans and a Nike sweatshirt, sat cross-legged on the floor.

‘‘. . . either Bone or me,’’ O’Dell was saying. She was on her feet, as though she were a junior exec making a presentation to the board of directors. ‘‘McDonald can’t get more than six. He’s the obvious first thought, because of his family, but twelve members would be dead set against him. When that becomes obvious, things will start to move. I can see myself with eight votes; and I can see eight for Bone, but only a couple are solid for each of us. Everything is very fluid . . . So I think we’re gonna have to start maneuvering here.’’

‘‘How about Robles?’’ Wyte asked.

‘‘No chance,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘It’s gonna be Bone or me.’’

‘‘Bone is good,’’ Wyte said. ‘‘His division makes the big bucks.’’

‘‘Most of it by me,’’ Kent said.

O’Dell looked at Kent: ‘‘But it’s his division, not yours. He gets the credit.’’

Kent said, ‘‘Before we get any further in this, let me ask . . . What do we get out of it? Carla and Louise and me? We know what you get.’’

O’Dell said, ‘‘You get Bone’s job. He won’t stay around long if I’m picked for the top spot. And Carla’s eventually going to move into Robles’s slot. But right away—and I mean right away—she gets money.’’

‘‘How much?’’ Wyte’s eyebrows went up.

‘‘Fifty more. Fifty is the number I had in mind.’’

‘‘Fifty is a nice number,’’ Wyte said.

‘‘And it’ll be twice that when Robles leaves.’’

Compton said, ‘‘How about me?’’

‘‘You’re gonna be my executive assistant. You’re gonna be my ears. My intelligence department. You’ll do real
well—in terms of clout, if not in title, you’ll be number two in the bank.’’

‘‘So how do we do this?’’ Wyte asked. ‘‘What do we do . . . assuming we’re all in.’’

O’Dell looked around the room. After a second, Kent said, ‘‘I’m in,’’ and Compton said, ‘‘Yeah.’’ Wyte nodded.

‘‘So . . .’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘I’m going to start putting together a pitch for the board. It’s got to be good, and it’ll take time. And I’ll start working the board: that’s something I have to do personally.’’

‘‘To some extent, it’s gonna be like a political campaign, but with fewer voters,’’ Compton said. She’d come to the bank from the state capitol. ‘‘One thing we can do is, we can make the point with the newspapers that you’d be the first woman ever to run a major bank in Minnesota. Or anywhere, as far as I know. Any other major bank CEOs are women?’’ She looked around, then answered herself. ‘‘No. Okay. I’ll check that out, but I can also start working the papers.’’

‘‘That’s good,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘But we’ve got to get it going. How long before we could see it on the news?’’

Compton looked at her watch: ‘‘I’ve got time today. I’ll have to talk to a couple of people, but we should see some action by tomorrow morning. When they call, you’ve got to be modest and all that . . . you know, the board has to make a decision.’’

‘‘I know,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘I can do that.’’

Kent leaned forward, took a cinnamon candy out of a bowl on the coffee table, peeled off the crinkly cellophane wrapper, and popped the candy into his mouth: ‘‘Speaking of negative campaigning . . .’’

‘‘Were we speaking of that?’’ Compton asked, with a quick, cynical smile. They would have come to it sooner or later.

‘‘We are now,’’ he said. ‘‘We all know Bone’s weakness.’’

‘‘Women.’’

O’Dell shook her head. ‘‘That won’t help. We just don’t
have the time—even if we could find somebody willing to dig into it, it’d take weeks.’’

Kent was shaking his head. ‘‘Not really. Not if the cops look into it and if somebody tips the papers that the cops are looking into it.’’

‘‘Why would they?’’ Wyte asked.

‘‘ ’Cause of the woman,’’ Kent said, sitting back, savoring his little nugget.

‘‘Marcus . . .’’ O’Dell said.

‘‘James T. Bone is fucking Marcia Kresge. And has been for a while.’’

O’Dell’s mouth had literally fallen open. ‘‘You’re kidding me.’’

Kent shook his head: ‘‘Nope. I saw her one night at Bone’s place—I was in the ramp, I’d been over at Casper Allen’s, about his idiot trusts . . .’’

‘‘Casper lives right downstairs from Bone,’’ O’Dell said to the others.

‘‘. . . and she’d been fuckin’
somebody
, believe me. And as she’s getting into her car, who should come out after her, carrying something? James T. Bone.’’

‘‘The cops need to know that,’’ Wyte said, with an effort at sincerity. ‘‘I mean, even if we weren’t trying to . . . to
. . . help Susan, they’d need to know that. Dan’s death is worth millions to her, and opens the top job for her lover.’’

‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ Kent said, leaning back on the couch, sucking on the cinnamon.

Two hours later, O’Dell ushered Compton into the elevator, the last of them to go, and stepped pensively back into her apartment. Kent was a rat: she’d have to remember that. Starting now. The other two should be okay . . .

She spotted her rifle case, dumped in the corner Saturday morning. The case was empty: the Garfield sheriff still had the rifle. She picked it up, carried it back to a storage closet, and slipped it inside. Stuck on the wall of the same closet was an instant-open gun safe. Acting on impulse, she jabbed at the number pads, rolling her hand like a piano player, and the door popped open. Inside lay an Officer’s
Model Colt. She took it out, pulled the magazine, pulled the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty, let it slam forward.