“White, I think,” the old man answered. “I think he had a baseball cap on, but other than that, I didn’t really notice anything.”
“And you were sitting on the park bench across the street?”
“That’s right young man, right over there. We come through here just about every night at this time.”
“Let’s walk over there, okay? You can bring Reggie along.”
“Okey dokey,” Henry replied and with his slow gait he followed Mac across the street and away from the abandoned gas station. At the bench, Mac stopped.
“Henry, right?”
The old man nodded, “Henry Finkey.”
“My name’s McRyan, I’m a detective from St. Paul.”
“You’re a Minnesota boy, eh?” Henry replied, mischief in his voice. “I can’t stand them Vikings. You a Vikings fan?”
“I am Henry, I am. They’re going to kick the Pack’s tail this year,” Mac replied, sitting down next to the old man and petting Reggie’s snout.
“We’ll see about that,” Henry answered. “So what’s this all about?”
“I can’t really tell you why this is important, or least not yet sir,” Mac answered.
“Does this have something to do with those girls being kidnapped? I figure that must be it. No other reason for a St. Paul cop to be here in little ol’ Ellsworth.”
Mac remained neutral.
“Like I said, I can’t say. What I need though is for you to walk me through it again, what you saw. Take a minute if you need, close your eyes, whatever, but I need to know everything.
Henry set himself on the park bench, leaned back, and thought for a minute.
“I was out taking my nightly walk with Reggie. We go for a good hour or two walk every night in the summer.”
“Okay.”
“We usually walk through the park each night, and I like to sit on this bench. This used to be a nice park when I was a kid. I like to just sit and remember good times here.”
“So you’re on your walk and you come to the park and sit down?” Mac asked, moving him along.
“That’s right, son. I let Reggie off his leash, and he was walking around, doing a little business on some trees, when I noticed the car pull in off the street and up to the phone.”
“Then what?”
“Well,” Henry stroked his chin and squinted. “Well nothing happened for a minute or two, maybe more. He just sat there idling, which I thought was little odd, I suppose. It caused me to look a little closer I guess. I noticed the car, the plate – you know C-A-T and Minnesota – and then I looked away and back to Reggie. He was getting a little far away, so I called to him. He didn’t come right away, so I had to yell after him a couple of times before he minded and came back to me.”
“Then what?”
“I put Reggie’s leash back on.”
“How long did all that take?”
“A minute or two I suppose.”
“And the car was still there?”
“Sure was, but now the guy in the car was using the phone. I could see the cord from the phone running into the car.”
“How long was he on the phone?”
“Not long. I didn’t time it or anything, but it wasn’t real long. Then he hung up and pulled on out and he was gone.”
“Henry, did you notice anything about the driver? Anything about him?
Henry closed his eyes for thirty seconds but shook his head.
“I’m sorry but I just didn’t get a look or notice anything, son. I just didn’t.” The old man look disappointed.
Mac patted him on the knee.
“Good job, Henry. You’ve helped us out.”
Lich and Kleist came running across the street, Lich smiling.
“We got a hit!” he called.
“Stolen vehicle, right? Mac asked.
“No,” Lich replied, pulling Mac away from Henry. “No report of it being stolen. There’s one navy blue Impala with the tag letters of CAT.”
“And you’re telling me there’s a connection,” Mac said.
“Yes.” Lich said. “Dead on the money.”
A 2006 Chevy Impala with license tag CAT was a fleet vehicle belonging to Drew Wiskowski Construction in Cottage Grove. The connection was Drew Wiskowski, Sr.
Wiskowski had come to St. Paul thirty years ago from the south side of Chicago, and he brought with him the sort of no-hold-barred approach to business characteristic of that notorious neighborhood. Wiskowski made his fortune in construction, but it wasn’t always pretty. There were disputes with competitors, and Wiskowski wasn’t shy about using a little force, corruption, and intimidation to get ahead. He had more than one run-in with the authorities and building inspectors in his early days. However, once he made his pile and could afford his estate on the river down by Hastings, he went low-profile and let his money pile up while quietly building reputable homes and commercial buildings in Minnesota and the rest of the Upper Midwest.
Unfortunately, four years ago the long-dormant Wiskowski name came alive again. This time it was Drew Jr. who turned up in St. Paul running a home-improvement business. He was using the old man’s name, but Drew Sr. was not involved in the business; it was owned solely by his son. And the son appeared to be taking a page from the early years of his old man’s playbook.