As the van took I-35E south into downtown St. Paul, an FBI tech taped body mics to the chests of the chief and Lyman. “Just speak normally,” Burton said. “These are very sensitive microphones. They’ll pick up any conversation you have, even if you whisper.”
Lyman and the chief both nodded, tucking their shirts back into their pants.
“Downtown’s pretty quiet today. Won’t be anyone around,” the chief said. “It’ll be hard for you to be close.”
“We’ve got you wired, and we’ve got the tracker in the bags,” Duffy said.
“We won’t be far, and your boys will be around and they know the streets,” Burton said calmly. “Just concentrate on getting your girls back, and we’ll worry about the rest.”
The chief sat down next to Peters and asked in a whisper, “What do you think?”
“Watch your back,” Peters replied quietly.
“Two blocks,” the driver yelled.
Burton and Duffy each handed bags to the chief and Lyman.
Foxx pulled up to the curb just short of the corner of Main Street and West Fifth Street. She was parked a block back from Riley and Rockford, who’d taken a left on West Fifth Street and parked their white Chevy S-10 along the side, just short of the end of the street. The reporter could see Rockford, who had a set of binoculars put up to his eyes.
“What are they watching?” the cameraman asked, filming across Heather from the passenger side.
“Well find out soon enough,” Heather answered.
The truck pulled up to the corner, and the chief and Lyman jumped out. Without a word, Burton slid the door closed. The truck pulled away down Washington Street and turned right on Kellogg Boulevard, heading out of sight.
Lyman and the chief walked up onto the corner. The chief scanned Rice Park, a park shaded by mature trees. The park took up the entire block, with benches lining walkways running diagonally from the outside of the block to the large marble fountain in the middle. The park was empty.
“What next?” Lyman asked.
Just then a ringing sound came from the garbage can sitting on the corner.
“That,” Flanagan answered as he looked down and then reached into the can, pulling out a duffel bag. A cell phone with a traditional telephone ring tone was inside. The chief answered.
“Flanagan.”
Paddy McRyan stood in the empty St. Paul Grill restaurant, inside the St. Paul Hotel, peering out the large picture window that looked out across market Street and into Rice Park. He watched the chief grab a bag out of the garbage can, pull the cell phone out, and start walking toward the water fountain in the center of the park. “Captain, they’re getting into the fountain, they’re going underwater,” Paddy said as calmly as he could, knowing what would happen to the body mics.
“Copy that,” Peters replied into Paddy’s earpiece. And then, his captain confirmed his worst fears. “We’ve lost audio contact.”
“We need to keep an eyeball,” Paddy said urgently into his radio, moving to his right to improve his viewing angle.
“Copy that,” Peters answered, taking charge. “What are they doing now?”
“They’re out of the fountain.” Paddy put his binoculars to his eyes, focusing the view. “The chief is on a cell phone. Do we have audio back?”
“Negative. We are not getting that feed.”
Paddy watched as Hisle and the chief knelt down to the ground, just out of his view. He couldn’t see what they were doing. After a minute, they slung the nylon bags over their shoulders. “They’re on the move, south, hold on…” The detective moved to his left, to the far edge of the picture window. “The chief and Hisle are walking out of Rice Park, south, back along Washington Street over to Kellogg.”
“Are you sure?” Peters asked. “The tracking devices in the bags show them stationary.”
That explained why they had knelt down. “They transferred the ransom into different bags. They are now out of my line of sight.”
I’m on the west side of the Xcel Center,” Riles said into a radio. “They’ll have to come out onto Kellogg Boulevard, and we have a good viewpoint.”
“Copy that,” Burton replied. “But keep your distance. Hang on… I’m looking at the map…”
“We’ll hold along West Seventh and Kellogg,” Riley responded. “We should have an eyeball if they walk our way.”
“Do that, but hold to the corner,” Burton ordered.
Rock pulled his truck up to the corner of West Seventh and Kellogg, holding in the left hand turn lane, his hazard lights on in case anyone pulled up from behind. Riley was looking east as Kellogg gently curved away like a half-moon. Flanagan and Hisle came into view, walking across the street to the sidewalk on the south side of Kellogg. They turned west, walking toward Riles and Rock. Three hundred yards away, a half-dozen people waited at a bus stop in front of the pedestrian tunnel entrance to the RiverCentre parking ramp, an underground ramp built into the bluff over the Mississippi River. You could enter the ramp with your car from Kellogg Boulevard on top or from Eagle Street, which ran eighty feet below Kellogg at the bottom of the bluff.