Page 15 of Precise Justice

Mickey had finished his supper and now sipped his beer. He was in O’Gara’s, practically a landmark saloon on Snelling and Selby in St. Paul. Right on time, Mickey saw them come in. Knowing where Mickey’s booth was, the two men walked right at him.

Parker Mills, St. Paul P.D. detective knew Mickey well. Mills had his testimony in trials turned upside down by the old lawyer more times than he cared to remember.

“Hey, Mickey,” Mills said sliding into the booth while shaking Mickey’s hand. “You know my partner, Nathan Hough.”

“We have had the pleasure a couple of times,” Mickey said.

“It may have been a pleasure for you, not so much for me,” Hough said shaking Mickey’s hand.

Thewaitress arrived and they each ordered a glass of beer. Mickey told her to put it on his tab.

“I understand you two were lead investigators in the overdose death of that young girl. Tell me about it,” Mickey said.

Mills leaned forward and whispered, “Something’s wrong here, Mick. We’re pretty sure that girl’s body was moved, postmortem. The M.E. thinks so, too.”

“Who’s the M.E.?” Mickey asked.

“Anand Bhatt,” Mills said.

“Carver’s top guy, his bodyguard or gofer or whatever, we think he lied to us,” Hough said. “He told us Carver slept with his wife in her room. But the bed itself has no evidence of two people in it.”

“But the maids are certain someone slept in Carver’s room. Two people,” Mills said.

“And we found out Tom Carver is a complete hound. Will bang anything female with tits.

“When we went back to interview the maids again, both were gone. Quit and no one knows where they are,” Mills said.

“That’s when the case was pulled from us,” Hough added. “The maids told us when we first talked to them there was a sheet missing from Carver’s room. Exactly something you would use to cover a body.”

“DNA?” Mickey asked.

“Carver’s room was cleaned as was the missus,” Mills said. “There was the girl’s DNA in Stover’s bed, but nowhere else.”

“That kid, Stover, he took one for the team,” Hough said.

“Plenty of money around to take care of him,” Mickey said.

The next day Mickey told Marc what he had learned.

“We should do something,” Marc said. “The whole thing is a corrupt mess.”

“Marc, a piece of advice from an old warrior to a young one. You’ll get nowhere in this business tilting at windmills the size of the Carvers. Besides, what do we have? The belief of a couple of detectives from flyover country.”

“It still sucks,” Marc said.

“Amen, but then much of what we do does,” Mickey reminded him.

SEVEN

The election of Thomas Jefferson Carver had been declared six days ago. Carver had defeated a one-term incumbent, a decent, honorable, lifetime member of the D.C. political class. Unfortunately, a bit past his sell-by-date. The election, both the popular vote and the Electoral College Vote, had not been close. With the Carvers’ (plural) photogenic looks, charm and their boot-licking media, their election was a foregone conclusion.

Marc Kadella, knowing what he knew about the Carvers, had been in a funk since the polls closed. Today, the Monday after the first Tuesday in November, he was at his desk as early as usual. Mickey was representing a murder one case and Marc was going to second chair it. The file was open on his desk. The trial date was coming up.

Their client was a career criminal with the name Howard ‘Howie’ Traynor. Howie was also a pure sociopath. No conscience, no empathy, no feelings either for or against any other human. Howie was accused of murdering a wealthy, older, widow. Howie was also, because of his lack of nerves or feelings, a first-rate burglar. Howie and another man, believing the woman was not home, were in the act of burglarizing her home when it happened.

Howie went into her bedroom only to find the woman in bed. In a flash, Howie was on her and smothered her to death with a pillow. Or, so it was alleged. Marc knew he was guilty. Mickey knew he was guilty because Howie’s partner made a deal that did not include a homicide charge. Scared to death of Howie; to avoid prison with Howie, his partner sang like a canary. The corroboration was found on Howie when he was arrested. He was holding an expensive, antique cigarette lighter that was part of the loot. To make matters a bit worse, the victim was the aunt of the wealthiest woman in Minnesota. Vivian Corwin Donahue had platinum level clout. When she called the governor or a U.S. senator, she was not even put on hold. Howie was not going to get a deal.

Marc set aside his case file, picked up his coffee cup and headed toward the break room. It was still early, a few minutes before eight o’clock. He could hear staff members chatting around the coffee maker.

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