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  Cal reviewed his phone number directory, found the one he wanted and pressed the dial button.

  “Brody Knutson,” he heard a voice on the other end answer his call.

  “Brody, it’s Cal Simpson,” Cal said.

  Brody Knutson was the managing partner of Everson, Reed. A mediocre lawyer, Brody was a shrewd office politician. At sixty-four years old, he had been managing partner for nine years. It was Brody who held the keys to the Kingdom. Partner pay and bonuses came from Brody’s office. Of course, the management committee could overrule him, but the committee members were all selected by Brody. Brody Knutson was without peer, the first among equals at Everson, Reed.

  “Cal, always a pleasure. What can I do for you?” Brody said.

  “You remember that thing we talked about yesterday, just the two of us?”

  “Certainly,” Brody answered.

  “I think it’s in his office. Can you check on it?”

  “Of course. I’ll see to it right away.”

  “He just left, and he has to make a stop in Foster. Then he’ll be back. You have no more than maybe two and a half hours.”

  “No problem. I’ll call back right away. A thin, tan, hard shell Louis Vuitton with locking clasps?” Brody asked.

  “That’s it,” Cal answered. “Call me as soon as you know something.”

  Two hours later Cal’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered the call.

  “Did you find it?”

  “Sorry, Cal, no. I went in while the staff was at lunch. I checked everywhere, even his desk which was not locked. I have the combination to his safe, and it wasn’t there either.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get it. Thanks,” Cal said then ended the call.

  ELEVEN

  Within twenty-four hours, every county within a hundred-mile radius of Foster, which overlapped into Wisconsin, was on high alert. Every sheriff’s office and police department authorized overtime for additional patrols. In addition, the word had spread throughout the civilian population. Carry permit requests and approvals took a dramatic spike. Gun stores reported a significant jump in sales, especially for ammunition. Rural Minnesota was filled with hunters; people who are quite comfortable with firearms. If a stranger was caught wandering around with a rifle, he could be in serious trouble.

  The news had been picked up by the media, state, local and even some national news because of the presence of several prominent politicians at Cal’s party. It barely lasted 48 hours before a silly political squabble broke out in Washington. With this occurrence and nothing much happening in the investigation, or at least nothing being leaked, now that the story was a week old, even the media in the Cities started to ignore Lynn McDaniel’s murder.

  The investigation itself was moving along, albeit slowly. True to his word, Cal Simpson had provided the sheriff’s office with a guest list. At least a partial guest list. He made it clear he was going to call the more prominent invitees and give them a heads up. Sheriff Goode was infuriated by this, but he let it slide. Cal gave him his word he would only tell them to expect a phone call. He would have no substantive discussion with anyone about the case. Goode was forced to accept that.

  “Thanks for your time,” Abby Bliss said into her phone. “I appreciate your cooperation. If you think of anything else, please call the sheriff’s office.”

  Chris Newkirk and Abby Bliss had been working on Cal’s guest list for a couple of days. With so many names and only the two of them, it was decided they would call everyone first and do a phone interview. Any who might merit a personal visit would be seen later.

  “All right,” Abby said to Newkirk. “That’s the third one. Another lawyer from that firm who says rumor has it that Zach Evans was involved with the victim.”

  “Apparently, it’s time we had a little chat with Cal Simpson’s son-in-law,” Newkirk replied.

  Newkirk’s direct line rang on his office phone. He looked at the caller ID and said, “The BCA. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

  Newkirk picked up the phone, identified himself and then silently listened for almost a minute.

  “What? Say that again, please,” Newkirk urgently said. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “What?” Abby said, her curiosity piqued.

  “Well, that’s damn interesting,” Newkirk said while holding up his right index finger to Abby.

  He listened some more than said, “That would be great. Thanks, Sherry. Hey, you did good, kid. I owe you.”

  Newkirk hung up the phone, turned to Abby and sat silently for ten seconds thinking about their next step.

  “What!?” Abby practically yelled.

  “That was Sherry Watkins at the BCA. She says Cal Simpson’s .223 varmint gun is a match. No doubt about it.”

  Abby sat up straight, wide-eyed taking in the news, and quietly said, “No shit?”

  “That’s not all. The prints they got off of it belong to a certain Zachary Evans. Several good quality prints and only his. His prints are in the database from a while back, probably college. Busted for a little dope possession. The BCA is going to messenger all of the evidence up to us today including the rifle. We’ll have an email with the formal report in an hour or so.”

  Newkirk picked up his phone and dialed an intraoffice number. “We need to see you, right away.”

  A minute later Newkirk and Abby were seated in front of Sheriff Goode’s desk. Newkirk quickly brought him up-to-date.

  Without responding Goode dialed a number he knew by heart and waited.

  “Demarcus, its Warren Goode. I’m fine. Yourself? Great. Listen, I’m sending Newkirk and Bliss across the street to see you.”

  “Is it about the McDaniel case?” Goode heard Demarcus Tice ask.

  “Yeah, it is. Listen, I’ll let them tell you what we’ve got, but in my opinion, I think it’s enough for an arrest.”

  “No, not yet,” Newkirk jumped in.

  “Hang on,” Goode said into the phone. “Why?” he asked Newkirk.

  “I want to talk to him, first,” said Newkirk. “See if we can’t get him to admit to the affair. So far, all we have for motive is rumors.”

  Goode nodded his head in agreement then said okay to Newkirk’s proposal.

  “But I still want the two of you to go see Demarcus and bring him up to date.”

  “Okay,” both investigators said.

  “Did you hear that?” Goode said into the phone.

  “Yeah, I did,” the Foster County Attorney said. “Send them over now.”

  A short while later while sitting in the office of Demarcus Tice, Newkirk made a phone call to Minneapolis. It was answered by a receptionist with a sultry British accent, and less than a minute later Zach Evans was on the phone.

  “Mr. Evans, this is Detective Newkirk of Foster County. I’m investigating the death of Lynn McDaniel.”

  “Okay, what can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Well, sir, my partner and I are in the Cities right now,” he lied, “and I’d like to drop by and get your statement. We’re interviewing everyone who was at the Simpson party that night.”

  “Oh? I’d heard you were doing the interviews by phone.”

  “We’ve been told that Ms. McDaniel worked for you so we’d like to meet with you in person. Could you find time this afternoon?”

  “Let me check my schedule,” Zach said. A moment later he was back and said, “How about 1:30? I could give you fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “That should be fine, sir. We’ll see you then.”

  Newkirk ended the call and looked at Tice.

  “Nail down the affair. He probably won’t admit it but get your impression,” Tice said.

  “We’ll also get the names of every secretary who works anywhere near him. If anyone knows what’s going on in that office…” Abby started to say.

  “They will,” Tice finished for her.

  Zach Evans realized it was decision time. He had been hiding the Cannon Brothers’ engineer’
s memo for almost three weeks and he needed to do something with it. Zach knew Cal Simpson, and by extension Samantha, must have a serious stake in Cannon Brothers Toys. Cal had asked him about the memo and its contents at least a half a dozen times. Samantha had also inquired. And when he got home after the party at the lake he had checked his den at home and knew it had been searched. As had his office at work.

  Without bothering to put on his suit coat, Zach left his office. Passing his personal assistant, Marjorie Griebler, without looking at her he muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

  Zach returned in less than ten minutes carrying his expensive tan briefcase. Marjorie silently watched him go into his office with the small piece of luggage. Apparently, he had gone down to the parking garage and retrieved the briefcase. As soon as he closed his door, Marjorie made a call to another office in the firm.

  “Yes?” she heard a man say.

  “It’s Marjorie, Mr. Knutson. He’s in his office with the briefcase.”

  The managing partner of Everson, Reed silently thought about what he had just been told. He was silent long enough for Marjorie to ask if he was still there.

  “Yes, of course,” Knutson said. “Okay, let me know if he leaves with the briefcase. If he mails anything, be sure to bring it to me. Thank you, Marjorie. I won’t forget this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the woman said into an empty phone. Knutson did not wait for anyone.

  At 1:15 that same afternoon, Marjorie’s desk phone rang. It was Christine, the British tart receptionist that Marjorie loathed but was also secretly jealous of. Every man in the place, including the janitors, was totally smitten by her.

  “Marjorie, there are two police detectives here. They say they have an appointment with Mr. Evans.”

  “I don’t see anything on his schedule,” Marjorie icily replied. “I’ll check with him.”

  She went to Zach’s door, softly knocked then opened it. She could see through the floor to ceiling window alongside the door that he was at his desk working.

  “Mr. Evans? There are two police detectives here to see you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Um, bring them back, will you please?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Evans.”

  As she left, Zach once again shook his head wondering why she refused to call him Zach. He gathered up the paperwork on his desk, placed them in a folder and put it in a drawer. A minute later there was a knock on his door and Marjorie opened it for Newkirk and Abby Bliss.

  After introductions, Newkirk took the lead. Both detectives took notes. Most of the questions, at least initially, were about the party. What was Zach doing? Did he notice anything out of the ordinary? Where was he at the approximate time of death?

  Gradually Newkirk moved into Zach’s professional relationship with McDaniel. A few minutes of this then some softball questions about any personal relationship.

  The entire time, as the two of them had previously decided, Abby Bliss remained silent, letting Newkirk, the older man, do the interview. Then seemingly out of nowhere with no warning whatever, Abby interrupted.

  “Does your wife know you were having an affair with Lynn McDaniel?” she blurted out.

  This had also been set up. They had decided to hit him with this question when he least expected it. The detectives wanted to get an unprepared response.

  “What? What are you talking about? I, ah, I, um, have no idea… How dare you? Where did you get this?”

  While Zach effectively admitted it by stammering around, Newkirk and Abby simply watched.

  Getting control of himself and remembering he was a lawyer, he finally defiantly said, “That’s it. This interview is over. We’re done. Get out.”

  Without a word, the two cops stood and casually walked out. As they walked down the hallway toward the exit sign, Abby quietly muttered, “He’s our guy.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Newkirk just as quietly replied.

  Marjorie heard Zach yell at the detectives to get out. She waited a few minutes for the dust to settle after they walked past her then placed another in-house call to Brody Knutson.

  Five minutes later, a still shaken Zach Evans emerged from his office. He was wearing his suit coat, carrying his briefcase in one hand and had a large mailing envelope in the other.

  “Marjorie, I need you to see to it this gets mailed today,” Zach said as he handed her the envelope.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Are you leaving? Will you be back?”

  “Yes, I’m going to get some lunch. I’ll be back in half an hour,” Zach said as he walked off.

  Marjorie waited ten minutes to be sure Zach was gone then called Knutson again.

  “He gave me an envelope to mail,” Marjorie told Knutson.

  “To whom?” Knutson asked.

  “A lawyer, a Marc Kadella.”

  “Does he have a case that Kadella is involved with?”

  “No, sir. Not that I know of. I’ve heard of Kadella. He’s a criminal lawyer,” Marjorie said.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve heard of him, too. Bring it up right away,” Knutson ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  TWELVE

  Newkirk was second in line to exit the parking ramp of Zach’s building in Minneapolis. He watched the driver in front of him as she used a credit card to pay the cost of parking. When he saw this, he began frantically searching himself for his wallet.

  “Oh, shit,” he grumbled. Newkirk looked at Abby and started to say, “Um, I, ah, misplaced my wallet…”

  “Here,” she said giving him a disapproving look as she handed him a credit card. “Use this, but now you owe me lunch.”

  “Deal. Wait a minute,” he continued as he pulled up to the automated payment kiosk, “you’ll get reimbursed.”

  Abby laughed and said, “Yeah, around this time next year.”

  Newkirk handed her the card and receipt, then sheepishly smiled as he pulled out onto Seventh Street for the trip north.

  “Call Warren and Demarcus,” Newkirk said a few minutes later. “Tell them about the interview and our impression.”

  “We have no proof of the affair,” Abby replied.

  “Doesn’t matter. We have witness statements, and besides, the ballistics report and his prints on the rifle will be enough for an arrest and search warrant.”

  “Should be,” Abby agreed.

  “We can go through his credit cards and probably find evidence of the affair. Hotel and motel receipts, things like that. We’ll find it.”

  For the next half-hour, while Newkirk drove, Abby was on the phone. She had called Sheriff Goode first who had conferenced in Demarcus Tice. By the time the conversation was finished, it was agreed to get warrants and arrest Zach Evans for the murder of Lynn McDaniel.

  By the time the two detectives arrived back in Foster, Tice had the supporting affidavit prepared and ready for Newkirk to sign. He also had the arrest and search and seizure warrants prepared and already signed by Judge William Anderson.

  As soon as Tice had all of the documents typed and ready for the judge, Tice himself took them to Anderson’s courtroom. Technically, the supporting affidavit should have been signed first. Technically.

  Judge Anderson, a fishing and hunting buddy of both Demarcus Tice and Warren Goode had barely skimmed the documents. Before he took them to the judge for signing, Tice, on the phone, had already told his friend what was in them and assured the judge that Newkirk would sign the affidavit.

  “Okay,” Anderson said. As he signed the warrants he told Tice the originals had better be in the court’s file before they were executed.

  “When are you going to serve them?” Anderson asked.

  “Today, yet,” Tice replied. “We’re gonna turn Newkirk and Abby Bliss around and with a couple sheriff’s deputies send them down to the Cities to get this guy. Warren has a BCA crime scene unit standing by to search his home and office. They’ll impound his car and go through it. Warren also has Minneapolis in on it. They’ll meet at his home and office and seal the places.�
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  “This firm is gonna have a shit fit,” Anderson said. “Are you sure about this guy? A firm that size can raise a lot of hell.”

  “The firearm evidence and the affair are enough. We’ll keep digging. Chris Newkirk’s a very good investigator and Warren tells me Abby Bliss has learned a lot.”

  “She’ll make a great sheriff someday,” Anderson replied. “Good luck.”

  Newkirk and Abby were back in Foster just long enough to grab a burger, sign the affidavit then head back with the two deputies. This time, on the way back to Minneapolis, they went in separate vehicles.

  With lights flashing, they cut almost a full hour off of the driving time. It had been decided Abby would meet the local cops at Zach’s house in Edina and Newkirk would head downtown to arrest him. That was when the fun started.

  Newkirk and the two sheriff’s deputies met a pair of Minneapolis detectives in the building’s lobby. With the usual amount of bad attitude toward lawyers that cops have, all five men were delighted to crash a law firm. A few minutes before 5:00 they rode up to the seventeenth floor together then hurried down the hall to the firm’s entrance. Since Newkirk had been there and knew the way, he led the parade.

  “I need to know if Mr. Zachary Evans is in his office,” Newkirk politely said to the British receptionist.

  Staring at the MPD detective’s shield, she quickly dialed the phone. Receiving an affirmative answer, she started to say some gentlemen were here to see him. Before she finished, Newkirk was through the interior door with the others on his heels. While they hurried through the inner office, Newkirk and the detectives held up their shields. The two uniformed deputies were obviously recognized for what they were.

  Marjorie was standing in the walkway with a stern look trying to block their passage.

  “You can’t go in there,” Marjorie said. “He’s with a client.”

  “Get out of the way, ma’am, or I’ll put you in handcuffs,” Newkirk replied as he gently pushed her aside.

  Marjorie rushed back to her desk, and by the time Newkirk was opening Zach’s door without knocking, she was on the phone.