[Marc Kadella 04.0] Certain Justice Page 8

  Two blocks down Franklin, he pulled to the curb, buzzed down the passenger side window and said, “Eddie, got a minute?”

  The best undercover cop in Minneapolis stuck his head in the window, smiled and said, “Hey, Tony. How the hell are you?”

  “Get in Eddie, I need to talk.”

  Eddie Davis got in the passenger side and as Tony punched the gas and the powerful car jumped forward, Eddie said, “God I love this car. How are you doing, dude?”

  Tony looked him over and said, “Jesus Christ, Eddie, you need to get off undercover. Aren’t you tired of looking like this?”

  “Hey, I save more lives busting dope dealing assholes and help put away more scumbags than any of you desk jockey detectives.”

  Tony thought about it and said, “You know, you’re probably right. When you retire, the city should put up a statue.”

  “Damn straight,” Eddie said laughing.

  Tony took a minute to tell Eddie who he was looking for and gave Eddie a brief description. As soon as Tony described him, Eddie stopped him.

  “You got a picture?”

  “Yeah, here,” Carvelli said pulling a copy of Traynor’s photo from his pocket.

  Eddie looked it over then said, “He was at the East End earlier today. He’s older and hair a little longer?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said.

  “That’s him. He was in asking about a safe cracker named Jimmy Oliver.”

  “You know Oliver?”

  “Sure, I know Jimmy. He’s supposed to be straight. Tends bar up Northeast,” he continued referring to a district of Minneapolis. “Tooley’s I think. I’m pretty sure.”

  With one hand on the wheel Tony slipped the picture back in his coat pocket. “If you see Traynor again, call Owen Jefferson and tell him to call me.”

  “Okay, will do,” Eddie said.

  “I’ll run up to Tooley’s. Where do you want me to drop you?”

  “Anyplace along here is fine,” Eddie answered.

  Tony pulled the car to the curb and more completely explained to the detective what he was up to and why. “If you come across anything, let me know. You can always call Jefferson and he’ll get in touch with me.”

  “Will do. Good to see you again, man,” Eddie said. The two men shook hands, Eddie got out and Tony drove off.

  Fifteen minutes later Tony found a parking space on the street between two cars fifty yards down from the front door of Tooley’s. Tooley’s was a neighborhood saloon in a working class part of Northeast Minneapolis. It had been here for over seventy years and the bar and its clientele had barely changed a bit during the entire time.

  Tony put the transmission in park and unbuckled the shoulder harness to leave the car. As he was about to open his door he looked at the bar’s front door and saw Howie Traynor turn the corner and go inside the bar.

  “Well there you are,” Tony muttered to himself.

  Instead of getting out of the car and afraid of being recognized, Carvelli slid down in the seat and waited. It was almost a half hour before Traynor came out. When he did, he looked around then walked back from where he came.

  Tony waited about a minute then started the Camaro to pursue him. As he was pulling away from the curb, Traynor drove around the corner right in front of him. He was driving a ten-year-old gray Buick and he turned right to head straight away from Tony.

  Keeping his distance while following Traynor on Central Avenue toward downtown, Tony easily followed him right to his front door. A half mile north of downtown on Sixteenth Street, he turned east off Central. Three blocks later, Traynor pulled to the curb and parked his sedan on the street. Tony pulled over, took a small pair of binoculars from the Camaro’s console and watched Traynor enter an apartment building.

  The building was one of four identical brick three story apartment buildings sitting side-by-side on Sixteenth Street and Clark Avenue NE. Built before the war, each building housed twelve apartments, four on each floor. The basement of each building was used for a laundry room and storage space. Each apartment was assigned one of the small rooms for storage.

  Carvelli decided to stake the place out and waited until after eleven to see if Traynor would go anywhere. While he waited he made two calls. The first was to Maddy Rivers to let her know he had found Traynor. The second was to Owen Jefferson to give him the same news. He also got Jefferson to agree to go to Tooley’s and question Jimmy Oliver about his visit from Howie.

  Traynor’s apartment was on the third floor of the second building from the corner. It was a small, one-bedroom with a kitchen, bathroom and a living room. The living room was up front facing the street and had two windows side by side. Howie was able to afford the apartment because of the lawyer he retained to sue the city. She had contacted him before he was released from prison and promised to get him big bucks in the wrongful incarceration lawsuit. Generally considered unethical, she had loaned him money for the apartment, the car and living expenses to be repaid from any settlement money. Shortly after eleven, looking out through the blinds of the window on the left, he saw the dark colored Camaro pull away from the curb and drive past his building. Howie had spotted the car on the street at Tooley’s and had deliberately allowed the man, whom Howie assumed was a cop, to follow him home.

  While Tony sat in his car down the street from Traynor’s apartment, Marc was enjoying a quiet evening at Margaret’s Edina home. After dinner, Marc flopped on the couch while Margaret worked on several case files she had brought home. Shortly before nine, she stopped and joined him on the couch to watch one of their favorite shows. It was about a cowboy Deputy US Marshall and the Hillbilly Mafia in Kentucky.

  During the 10:00 newscast they watched a one minute story of a press conference held by an infamous lawyer from California. A high profile self promoter named Glenda Albright was railing about the egregious injustice done to her clients. She had been retained to represent the victims of the intentionally altered DNA tests of the men recently released from prison. She named all four of the men who she claimed to represent including Howie Traynor.

  “So the Wicked Witch of the West has arrived on her jet-powered broom to teach us ignorant folks out here in fly-over country about justice,” Margaret irreverently said.

  “Looks like,” Marc agreed. “Except I’m not sure she has much of a case, at least with Traynor.”

  “You know Minneapolis,” Margaret added. “They are probably already writing the checks.”

  Maddy Rivers parked her car in the only spot available on Howie’s street close enough to watch both his apartment and his car. She was in the shade of a large Elm tree to her right on the street’s boulevard. She thought about the tree and having spent twenty-five dollars for a thorough car wash the day before, hoped the tree was not full of birds.

  It was just past noon on a sunny, warm Saturday and Howie Traynor had been at church until noon. He had a job at St. Andrews Catholic Church helping with custodial duties. St. Andrews was in Northeast Minneapolis, a couple of miles from Howie’s apartment. It was also the parish of Howie’s priest, Father John Brinkley, the one who had appeared in court with him.

  Maddy had discreetly followed him home from a safe distance and was taking another turn at a stakeout of him. She had seen him get a parking spot in front of his building then watched as he went inside.

  She settled in for what was likely to be a dull afternoon until another of Carvelli’s friends took over later. He would stay until 10:00 or 11:00 that evening if Howie didn’t go out and Maddy would be back in the morning.

  The team of P.I.’s and ex-cops had been doing a rotation surveillance of Traynor for a couple of weeks. So far, there was nothing to report. Spending Vivian’s money to pay everyone, Tony wanted to give it at least another week or two. It was boring work but paid well and Maddy liked and admired Vivian Donahue enough so that she would likely do it without pay.

  Maddy picked up a hardcover book from the passenger seat and opened it to the page marked with a bookma
rk. As long as she had to sit here, she would indulge herself in her secret passion; a steamy romance novel.

  While Madeline was enjoying her book, Howie Traynor used the index and middle finger of his right hand to slightly part the vertical blinds of a window in the front room of his apartment. He peeked through the opening and watched the beautiful brunette sitting in the front seat of her black late model Audi sedan. He watched for almost a full minute then turned and walked into his bedroom.

  At 5:15 that afternoon, Maddy’s phone went off. She checked the screen, pressed the talk button and said, “Hey, Dan, don’t tell me you can’t make it.”

  “No, no, sweetheart. I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Anything going on?” asked Dan Sorenson, a retired cop who was Maddy’s relief.

  “Nope. He hasn’t moved all day. The street is pretty crowded. I’ll watch for you and pull out as you’re coming up the street so you can have my parking spot. And Dan,” she continued, “hurry up. I gotta pee. Bad.”

  Sorenson laughed and said, “On the way.”

  FOURTEEN

  The two old friends cruised across Balm Lake in Northern Minnesota heading toward a favorite fishing spot. The sun was just about down and the men, longtime neighbors on the relatively small lake, were going to get in some night walleye fishing.

  Sitting in the stern and steering the twenty-year-old Alumacraft was Robert Smith, a retired judge of the Minnesota Court of Appeals. The judge’s fishing partner, probably the best friend he ever had, was seated in the bow silently acting as the guide to their spot. He too was retired from a medical practice in Bemidji, Minnesota. His name was Jay Patterson and the two men had been friends for almost twenty-five years, ever since Bob Smith and his wife Gloria had purchased forty acres adjacent to the doctor’s lake home. The Smiths had built a nice four-bedroom two-story a quarter mile from the Patterson’s. Over the years the two men and their wives had become the best of friends.

  Three years ago, upon reaching the mandatory retirement age of seventy, Smith retired with the intention of living at the lake home full-time. Unknown to the Pattersons, this had been a source of contention between Bob and Gloria. Two days after his official retirement date, Gloria filed for divorce.

  Once the initial shock wore off, the judge realized he didn’t really care. The divorce was amicable; the property and monetary settlement was reasonable and the couple parted but remained, if not friends, at least friendly.

  “This is it,” Patterson said.

  “No, not quite,” the judge disagreed. “A little farther.”

  The little disagreement was a normal routine part of their friendship. If one said up the other would automatically say down. Despite this petty little quirk, the two men made the friendship work.

  The judge throttled down the twenty horse Johnson outboard and the eighteen-foot aluminum fishing boat slowed and stopped.

  “You went too far,” the doctor said as he dropped the anchor into twenty feet of water.

  “I know,” the judge smiled to himself. “I just wanted to annoy you.”

  That day had been sunny and warmer than usual for mid-September. The two friends had played eighteen holes at a course near Black Duck. Now, with the sun down and out in the open water on the lake, the air temperature was rapidly cooling. Because of the coolness of the evening, both men decided to use lures rather than leeches to catch the fish they were after. They each attached a Rattlin’ Rapala and began casting for walleyes. An hour into their fishing, the entire time having passed in silence between them, the wind began to pick up a bit.

  “Getting a little cool,” Patterson said as he put down his rod and reel and pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pocket.

  “Not bad yet,” the judge muttered. “It’s getting there, though.”

  Another hour went by and the fishing had not been good. They each landed a couple of walleyes and several crappies, none worth keeping. Shortly after nine P.M. the two men decided to call it a night. They packed up their gear and ten minutes later the judge throttled down the motor and the boat gently bumped into the Patterson’s dock.

  The doctor gathered up his fishing equipment and stepped onto the dock. He stood under the light on the dock’s end, looked at his old friend and said, “Good night, you old fart. See you in the morning.”

  “We’re going to the Bemidji Country Club first thing in the morning, aren’t we?” the judge asked.

  “You bet. So I can kick your ass in golf again.”

  “That’ll be the day,” the judge grumbled. “Good night, Jay. Pick me up about seven,” he said as he fired up the boat’s motor to pull away from the dock.

  “Good night, Bob,” the doctor said then turned around to walk to his house.

  After docking his boat, the judge trudged the two hundred feet up from the lake to his house. He entered through the back door and stepped into the mud room. He flicked the light switch, removed his coat and boots, propped his fishing pole in the corner and set his tackle box on the floor. Feeling a little hungry, he decided a snack would be a good idea. He went up the half-flight of stairs, through the living room and turned into the kitchen. He flicked on the light and heard a man say, “Hello, Judge Smith. I’m delighted to finally meet you.”

  “Who are…” the judge started to say but stopped when the fifty thousand volts hit him in the chest and he dropped straight to the floor.

  The next morning, Jay Patterson was having a second cup of coffee while Sharon, his wife of over forty years finished clearing the table. The television was on and tuned to a cable news channel. Sharon returned to the table, poured herself more coffee, looked out through the large, plate glass kitchen and said, “What was that?”

  It was barely past six and still fairly dark. For a brief moment, Sharon had seen something moving through the trees.

  Her husband turned in his chair to look through the same window and said, “What was what?”

  “I thought I saw an animal moving through the trees heading toward Bob’s place,” she said quietly while she sipped her coffee. “There!” she exclaimed pointing.

  “A wolf,” Jay said having seen the predator himself. “Wait, no, there’s another one. No, two more…”

  “Three more,” Sharon said.

  “What the hell are they up to?” Jay rhetorically asked.

  There were wolves throughout northern Minnesota. Seeing one occasionally was no longer as rare as it had been when the animals first began making a comeback. Seeing several of them in a pack this close to the house was extremely unusual.

  “There’s another one…” they both said almost simultaneously as they stood in front of the window to watch.

  “They’re headed toward Bob’s,” Sharon repeated. “You think they might have a deer there?”

  “I don’t know,” her husband replied. “I don’t like it, though.”

  He set his coffee cup on the table and went to the gun case. He opened the glass door and looked over the weapons deciding what to take.

  “Jay, what are you thinking?” Sharon sternly asked as she walked up behind him. “You’re not going out there with five wolves…”

  “Something’s wrong over at Bob’s,” he said as he removed the AR-15 from the case. He leaned over, opened a drawer on the case and removed two twenty shot magazines filled with 5.56mm cartridges. He also strapped a belt around his waist with a .44 caliber Ruger Blackhawk in the holster.

  “Get your coat please, and the flashlight off the refrigerator. I want you to come with me.”

  “Shouldn’t you take the Remington 700 for more power?” she asked. Being a northern Minnesota girl, Sharon knew as much about guns as most men. “That AR-15 is a toy compared to the 700.”

  “True but I just want to scare them off not blow a hole through them. Besides, if I miss the bullets won’t travel far. With the 700 they could go across the lake and go through someone’s cabin.”

  The two of them put on coats and boots then Sharon went back to
the gun case. She took out the double barrel Citori, loaded it with double ought buckshot and the two of them went out.

  They walked past their garage and the motion light on a pole alongside the gravel driveway lit up. Something in the back of the doctor’s mind told him there was a serious problem at his friend’s home. When he reached the road that serviced the houses and cabins on this side of the lake, his pace quickened until he was almost jogging. The doctor’s seventy-year-old wife was struggling to keep up while carrying the shotgun and flashlight and repeatedly whispered at him to slow down.

  The couple reached the driveway of the judge’s property when there was a low, ominous, unmistakable growl coming from the woods to their right. Jay stopped to allow Sharon to catch up. It was a mostly cloudy morning and the sunrise was just beginning.

  “Did you hear that?” the doctor whispered.

  “Hear what?” Sharon said, standing so close to her husband their shoulders were touching. She was pointing the flashlight at their feet while they looked into the trees. Suddenly they heard it again.

  “Shine the light at that spot,” he said, pointing the rifle at where the noise came from.

  Sharon held the light in her left hand pointed into the trees and the beam of light hit two pairs of eyes glowing menacingly back at them. She slowly moved her hand back and forth looking for more of them. As she did this, the doctor took one step forward as he raised the AR-15 to his shoulder.

  Aiming at the ground directly in front of the sinister looking eyes, he quickly pulled the trigger five times. The five shots sounded like a cannon going off in the stillness of the morning. The bullets hit in front of the wolf pack leader who yelped, turned and ran off.