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  “White, I want you to talk to Musselman. Give him the lowdown on the repercussions should he bail. Mail fraud and money laundering convictions will put him away for quite a while. Give him a friendly reminder of what life in prison might mean for a wee man like him.” Oldfield’s ebony eyes glinted.

  Cam leaned forward. “I can definitely convince Mister Musselman of the wisdom of his full cooperation. I’m very persuasive.”

  “Good.” Oldfield focused his attention on MC. “I want you to work on the receptionist.”

  “Taylor Pederson,” MC said. “According to my information, a young woman, a few years out of high school. No college degree. My guess is Stennard hired her for front desk eye candy. Of course, I could be completely wrong. She could be a conduit to the big boss, but it seems unlikely.”

  Oldfield leaned back in his rickety chair and folded his hands over his midsection. “I like when my team is thinking ahead. Makes my job easier.”

  “We’re definitely team players.” Thoroughness and tenacity weren’t qualities exclusive to FBI agents, MC thought.

  “Speak with Ms. Pederson. See what she might know or might have seen, without letting her know anything is wrong. Think up something postal-related. The mail wasn’t getting delivered or whatever. White needs time alone with Musselman in the second floor Accounting office, to work his magic. And remember the fewer people who see you, the better. Got me?”

  “Yes,” MC said.

  “Good, head on out.” Oldfield rose. “Report back here afterward.”

  They were headed toward the rear exit when Agent Steve Braun, one of the FBI surveillance equipment specialists they’d met the previous week, hollered, “Hey, McCall. White. Hope you get Musselman nailed down. We installed some sweet equipment in Stennard’s office for the meeting.”

  MC said. “What’d you guys rig up?”

  “You’ll love this.” Agent Braun scooted his chair closer to the two inspectors. “We sent Bill in disguised as a contractor to check out the smoke detectors in the building. Blondie at the reception desk bought it and gave him the run of the building.”

  MC said, “And?”

  “He swapped the ceiling-mounted smoke detector in Stennard’s office for a fake with a video recorder in it. We downloaded software from the computers.” He pointed toward the bank of PCs where he and three other agents sat working. “All we do is click on a web link, and we can watch it live stream and record it, too.”

  Cam said, “No shit.”

  “Check it out.” He rolled his chair over to the long table where four PCs and a couple of printers sat in a nest of cables. He navigated to a web site, and the image of an everyday household item filled the screen.

  MC said, “It’s a smoke detector.”

  Agent Braun used the mouse to flip to another image. “Outside it’s your basic plastic smoke detector. But abra cadabra—open it up and inside is a camcorder the size of a deck of cards. There’s a slot for a one-hundred-and-twenty-eight gigabyte SD card and the option to watch live. The recorders allow for voice activated recording, scheduled, or continuous recording. It’s set on a schedule so we won’t have a lot of dead air to wade through or have to swap out SD cards.”

  “Impressive,” MC said.

  Cam stepped closer to the computer. “Amazing what they’ve done with recording equipment.”

  Braun picked up something from the table. “We also have this little beauty.”

  Cam gazed at the object. “I assume this isn’t a typical flash drive.”

  Steve laughed. “This baby is a sixteen-gigabyte voice-activated recorder, too.”

  MC picked up the small black USB drive and rolled it over to show them an on/off switch. “James Bond is drooling.”

  “We’ve given Arty a similar USB drive so that he can record phone conversations with Stennard and Thomson. High quality audio. The more the better.” Braun retrieved the device from MC. “So, you guys need to make sure our boy gets himself to Stennard’s office for the meeting and leave the rest to us.”

  Cam said, “You can count on us.”

  Back in the car, Cam checked his watch. “All the spy stuff made me hungry. I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning. Had to drop off the kids at daycare.”

  MC scribbled some notes in her ever-present notebook. “Let’s grab a bite to eat. I think there’s a Perkins a half mile from the Stennard building.”

  Cam put the car in gear. “Sounds like a grand plan.”

  MC and Cam arrived at Stennard’s Lake Minnetonka offices at eleven a.m. They’d taken their time over breakfast in order to go over their action plan. The Stennard compound sat tucked into a cul-de-sac at the end of a three-quarter-mile-long section of commercial buildings. The windows in the brown brick four-story building were dark tinted. The surrounding grounds were parklike, all picnic benches and lush green grass turning a winter yellow-brown.

  The section of the parking lot to the left of the building was labeled “Employee Parking” and provided a glimpse of how much money sat in the CEO spot. The shiny obsidian black Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon had to be Michael Stennard’s ride. Stennard was known to flaunt his wealth. Several other high-end vehicles were on display as well. Cam parked their shabby Impala in a visitor parking space, and they entered a plush lobby, skirted around a zen rock water fountain set in the center of the entryway, and made a beeline for a reception desk that looked made for the likes of Paul Bunyan.

  “Nice digs,” Cam said as they crossed the cushy merlot-colored carpet. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘roll out the red carpet,’ eh?”

  “Too true,” MC said as they arrived at the desk. Three hallways branched out from the desk; one leading toward the back of the building behind the desk; and one to the right; the last to the left.

  A blond-haired, blue-eyed receptionist perched behind the desk. “May I help you?” A blazing white smile followed her greeting. Taylor Pederson’s name was stamped on a plastic faux gold nameplate displayed prominently front and center on the desk.

  “I’m Postal Inspector MC McCall, and this is Inspector Cameron White.” MC gestured toward Cam.

  “What can I do for you?” Taylor’s eyebrows drew together over a nose that may have been cute at one time, but now slanted right and sported a bump on the bridge.

  “We need to speak to Arthur Musselman,” MC said. “I believe he’s expecting us.”

  “One sec and I’ll buzz him.” Taylor pressed a couple buttons on a black phone system, which ate up about a third of her desk space. “Mister Musselman, there are a couple of Postal Inspectors here to see you? Uh-huh. Okay.” She hung up the handset. “You can go ahead. Take the elevator to the second floor. His office is the first one on the left.” She swiveled her chair slightly and pointed out the elevator alcove behind the reception area.

  MC said quietly to Cam, “I’ll hang here and chat with Taylor.” She dug out her notebook and pen.

  “Sure thing.” He made for the elevator.

  MC set her bag on the floor and leaned against the reception desk, forearms resting on top, and smiled. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” She didn’t want to freak out the young woman.

  “Me? Questions about what?” Taylor’s eyebrows drew together again, and she began repetitively clicking a ballpoint pen.

  “My partner and I are investigating a complaint of mail theft in the area. We’re talking with as many businesses as we can to determine if it’s a widespread problem.”

  “Really?” Taylor visibly relaxed, though she continued to click the pen. “I don’t think we’ve had any problems.”

  “Are you the one who handles the mail? Is there a mailroom?”

  “I handle the mail. We don’t have a mailroom. The mailman drops off the mail here and if there is any outgoing I give it to him, or if I’m not here, one of the accountants will give it to him.”

  “Good. That way there’s less chance anything would be missing. I’d be more concerned if the carrier was delivering the mail
to a box curbside.”

  MC wrote Taylor’s answers and reactions on her note pad. She unobtrusively scanned the surroundings as the receptionist continued with her click-click-clicking. MC wanted to rip the pen from Taylor’s hand and jam it into the young woman’s eye. Instead she asked, “Have you noticed anyone behaving unusually around the place? It could be employees or anyone coming into the building who you think doesn’t belong.”

  Taylor frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

  MC hoped Cam wouldn’t have to spend too much time with Arty because she was running out of questions to keep Taylor occupied.

  “Nothing unusual lately, then?”

  “Nope. Nothing weird at all.” Taylor finally set down the pen. What a relief. “Why would anyone want to steal the mail, anyway?”

  “Believe me, there are a multitude of reasons. Money and fraud are at the top of the list.” MC met the younger woman’s gaze, wondering if the word fraud would draw a reaction.

  A loud male voice bellowed from behind one of the office doors, “Because I said so!”

  “Oh, geez.” Taylor jumped, hand to her chest.

  “Trouble?” MC asked.

  “I dunno. That’s Len. Len Klein—the head of security.” Taylor leaned forward. “To be honest, he gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  A door halfway down the hall, just past the elevators, flew open and a man with a cell phone clamped against his ear strode out. He stopped and glared at the reception area and then the opposite way toward the rear exit before deciding to head toward MC and Taylor.

  “I’ll deal with you later.” He pulled the phone away from his face and dropped it into a pocket of his black cargo pants. Black was apparently his color since he was dressed in all black, right down to his combat boots.

  “Taylor?” Klein barked. He appeared to be a couple inches taller than MC, barrel-chested, and sported the standard military buzz cut. Black eyes blazed at MC, even though he was speaking to Taylor.

  “Yes, Mister Klein.” Taylor’s voice quivered.

  “Who do we have here? A new client? You sound nervous, Taylor. Is there a problem?”

  “Uh, no. No problem.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?” He ignored Taylor’s response and came around the desk toward MC.

  “I’m speaking with Ms. Pederson about a matter.” MC pulled aside her coat enough to display the badge clipped to her belt.

  His eyes widened slightly. “Postal Inspector, huh? What brings you here?”

  MC wanted this guy gone before Cam returned. “We’ve had a report of stolen mail in the area so we’re checking with all the businesses to see how widespread the problem may be.”

  After she uttered the word mail, he lost interest, kind of like a balloon deflating. “I don’t know nothin’ about no mail being stolen. Taylor’s the best one to answer questions about the mail.” The air was less charged with friction as he hustled back down the hall from which he’d come.

  MC watched him disappear. “Nice guy.”

  “I guess you can see why he kinda scares me.” Taylor began clicking the pen again.

  Before MC could respond, a soft ping sounded and Cam exited the elevator with another man, who MC recognized as Arty. They chatted in hushed tones as they made their way toward the front desk.

  “We’re done here for now,” MC said to Taylor. She stowed her notebook and pen and buttoned up her coat, thanking her lucky stars Cam’s timing was right on. If Klein had seen him coming out of the elevator with Arty, he may have become suspicious and their cover story about mail theft would’ve been blown.

  “Okay.” Taylor shuffled papers around the desk. She’d definitely relaxed after Klein was out of sight.

  “Thanks for your help.” MC handed her a business card. “If we have any more questions we’ll call or come back. And please let us know if you have any problems with your mail.”

  “Will do.” Taylor took the card and pushed back from the desk. “I’ve got some filing to do. Have a nice day.” She wandered down the hallway where Cam and Arty had come from.

  “I think you’re all set.” Cam clapped a hand on Arty’s shoulder. “Right?”

  Arty nodded. “I’m fine. All set.” He peered around nervously. “I’ll be glad when it’s all done.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Mike, Gavin and I have been friends for a lot of years.”

  Cam said, “I know it’s rough, but hang in there. Remember, you need this or your deal with the US Attorney falls through.”

  Arty fidgeted and glanced around again. “You’re right. I’m tired is all.”

  “You’ll be okay.” Cam cast him a last glance as he and MC left.

  “Damn. You sure he can handle this?” MC checked back over her own shoulder at Arty, who was retreating toward the elevator.

  “He’s nervous as hell. Something or someone spooked him, but I believe he’s determined to do the right thing. And to save himself from a harsher sentence.”

  “Partner, you have impeccable timing.”

  “How so?” Cam pushed the door open and motioned for MC to precede him out.

  “While you were with Arty I had the pleasure of meeting Len Klein, head of security. A Rambo wannabe. He was interested in who I was and why I was talking with Taylor. She was freaked out by his mere presence.”

  “Shit. Could’ve thrown a wrench in things, if he’d seen me and Arty together.” Cam fished the keys out of his pocket. “Let’s get the hell outta here before anyone else sees us.”

  Klein exited the Stennard building via a rear door leading to a parking lot with barely enough space to accommodate the five security vehicles. He lit a cigarette and smoked as he paced back and forth in front of a five-gallon plastic bucket of sand which served as the butt receptacle. The postal inspector pinged his radar. She’d remained cool and alert during their encounter. Most women feared him. Not her, though. Stolen mail, he thought. He didn’t for one second believe that story.

  Klein stubbed his half-smoked cigarette in the sand and yanked his Blackberry from his pants pocket, putting his suspicions about the inspector on the backburner. He texted Nick Wooler: Do you have the goods for tonight’s party at Stennard’s house?

  Nick responded: Yep.

  Klein sighed and rubbed his chin. Communicating with Nick could be frustrating. He was a man of few words, which Klein respected, but sometimes he wished he didn’t have to drag every single word out of the guy.

  And you and Quentin will be there at nine o’clock?

  He had scheduled Nick Wooler and his shadow, Quentin Laird, to serve as security at a private party at Michael Stennard’s Lake Minnetonka home. Sex, drugs and rock-n-roll were imperative for all of Stennard’s private gatherings. Klein, as head of security for Stennard Global Enterprises, was responsible for providing the security for all job-related and personal events. Though not part of his official job description, he oversaw the booking of all entertainment. On tonight’s agenda: a local DJ, cases of booze, and an array of drugs—everything from pot to cocaine—along with several ladies of the lush and lascivious variety.

  Klein liked Nick, a local thug with connections to a fairly prosperous drug ring, and his buddy Quentin Laird. The two men were in their mid-twenties, streetwise, both having grown up in the rougher parts of Minneapolis. They held no official positions of employment with Stennard Global Enterprises. Instead Klein paid them cash, and lots of it, for their services. They provided the drugs for all parties as well as patrolling the residence and escorting rowdies out before they could make a scene, thus keeping local law enforcement from coming down on Mr. Stennard. They packed heat, and Klein never asked if they were registered or not. What he didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite him in the ass later.

  Nick texted: Chill. We got this.

  Famous last words. Nick’s agenda didn’t always coincide with the needs of the company. Quentin pretty much followed Nick’s lead in everything. Hopefully, Nick had everything under co
ntrol for tonight’s event. Mr. Stennard was depending on some quality pot, a mound of cocaine, and a colorful assortment of pills to ensure everyone partied to their hearts’ content.

  Klein stuffed the device back into his pocket and stomped around the side of the building. He rounded the front corner in time to see the woman postal inspector in the passenger seat of a dirty sedan. The sunlight obscured the driver from Klein’s view. He backpedaled around the corner of the building and poked his head around. The car exited the parking lot and sped off down the road. While that woman’s presence still bothered him, he decided he had more important things to worry about.

  Klein reentered the building through a side door and headed toward his office, his thoughts focused on the upcoming party.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Arty Musselman emerged and scurried past Klein without a glance.

  “Hey, Musselman,” Klein said, with no response from Arty, which Klein found odd. The pipsqueak was usually so polite.

  Klein followed him to the reception area to ask Taylor if she knew what was bothering Musselman, but she was nowhere in sight. He stood behind the desk and watched Arty, hunched over and mumbling to himself, as he passed through the glass front doors.

  Klein noticed a white business card on the floor near Taylor’s chair. He picked it up. Embossed in blue lettering was, MC McCall, US Postal Inspector, Twin Cities Domicile, 612-555-2200.

  He tapped the card on the desk. That feeling of unease crept in. This woman inspector was bad news, and he needed to find out why. He typed her information into his Blackberry contacts and tossed the card on the desktop.

  Chapter Two

  Friday, October 31

  Barb Wheatley sat stiffly, deliberately sipping her very full mug of hot tea with care. She wore a black felt witch’s hat, her refined version of a Halloween costume, compared to MC’s more comical Batman getup, which consisted of a black plastic mask with pointy “bat ears” and a black cloth cape tied around her neck, the yellow and black oval-shaped Batman logo ironed on the back.