“Mac, these guys have been awful careful,” Lich said. “You really think they would bury the girls on family property?”
“I don’t know,” Mac answered, “But it’s worth a look.” His cell phone went off, Sally again.
“What do you got?”
“This access to the FBI system is something,” Sally said. “Anita Russell must be a more distant relative or something, because we didn’t find her earlier. Anyway, she has a place maybe a mile or two north of Marine on St. Croix. It’s on eighty acres.” She gave him the address and general directions from Wyoming. “Here’s an interesting thing about the property.” Sally added.
“What’s that?”
“It backs up to William O’Brien State Park.”
“That is interesting. See what else you can find out about it,” he directed and then hung up. He looked at his watch – 5:45 PM – and stormed out the front door saying, “We gotta hustle and right now.” Lich chased him.
“Mac?” Lich asked, “What are you thinking? Clue me in, eh?”
“Anita Russell has eighty acres over by Marine on St. Croix. The land backs up to William O’Brien State Park. I’m thinking it’s worth a look.”
“A look for what?”
“The girls.”
5:44 PM
Riley and Rock walked into the conference room. The shades were pulled and the television turned off. Cups of cold coffee and half-eaten donuts littered the table. Burton, Duffy, and an FBI technician wearing a headset stood around a phone and laptop computer at the far end of the conference table. Peters, the chief, and Lyman milled around the other end. The room was quiet as they waited for the call. Sitting unattended in the middle of the conference table were two large nylon bags, one black and one navy, with five million dollars split evenly between them.
Riles and Rock immediately went to the chief, who, under cover of a hug, asked Riley, “Anything?” The chief and now Lyman both knew about Brown and the Muellers. It had gone no further.
“Mac’s working it, Chief,” Riles replied, equally quiet, having just got off the phone with McRyan.
“ What’s he working?”
“Something up around Marine on St. Croix,” Riles answered cryptically, his voice just a whisper.
“What’s up there?’ Lyman pressed quietly, his lips barely moving. I’m familiar with the area. I could make a phone call or two.”
“The Muellers have land up there,” Rock answered, turning his back. The FBI men at the other end of the room had started looking down toward the conversation. “Mac and Lich can’t get back in time, so they’re going to check it out, that’s all.”
“It’s a long shot,” Riles whispered, unwrapping a piece of Big Red gum and shoving it into his mouth. “But you know Mac,” he added.
The chief nodded. If Mac had a hunch, good luck getting him off it until he was satisfied, no matter what anyone else said.
Burton broke away from the group and walked down to the men from St. Paul. “We’re set here,” he said, and then looked to Riley. “Where’s McRyan and his partner?”
“They’re in the neighborhood,” Riley answered neutrally. “He tends to draw attention when he’s around, so he wants to be on the street when the call comes in.”
Burton nodded and then looked at his watch. “Should be any minute now.”
“Tracking in the bags?” Rock asked Burton.
“Sewn into the fabric. Very small, Can’t be seen or felt. Where it goes, we’ll be able to follow.”
Rock walked over to the window, moved the drapes back, and noted the mass of media coalescing out front. There might have been two hundred people milling about. “How do we get out of here without the media being all over this?” Rock asked. “They’re hovering like flies out there. Riles and I were practically strip searched on the way in and it seems like more people are coming by the minute.”
Duffy nodded. “We’ve got three sets of plain white vehicles ready to go in the parking ramp, which the media can’t get to. When the call comes, and we have to leave, three sets leave. If, after we leave, the main vehicle still picks up a tail, we’ll take care of it before we get to wherever we’re going.”
“Any idea where we’re going?” Riley asked.
“No,” Duffy replied, taking a sip from his Styrofoam coffee cup.
Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small beige-and-brown-brick strip mall along Highway 95 in Lakeland, one of many small towns that dotted the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River, south of Interstate 94. The strip mall held a hair salon, an insurance agency, an accounting office, a law practice, and a pay phone. A flat canopy hung over the sidewalk in front of the businesses. Given the holiday, the parking lot was empty. There were no surveillance cameras, sparse traffic on the highway, and zero foot traffic. The nearest houses were on the other side of the highway, at least a couple hundred yards away.