“Okay. What are we doing this morning?”
“I got a call from Mitford. That guy running for office, the one Jepson mentioned?”
“The one named Stan?”
“Mitford thinks it’s a guy named Stanley O’Brien, who ran for aseat in the legislature, the state house. He actually won and served four terms. Mitford said he quit to join a lobby group and moved on to a couple more after the first one. He’s currently the director of the Minnesota Small Manufacturers and Assemblers Association.”
“Here in St. Paul?”
“Right across town. They’ve got an office on University, a couple of blocks from the capitol.”
“We should drop in,” Virgil said.
“I looked at the biggest true crime sites, they’ve all got the photos,” Lucas said. “You heard anything from the BCA about that?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“I suppose.” Lucas yawned, covered his mouth with a fist. “What happened with Brady’s camera?”
“Nothing, yet, it’s still on the back seat. I called Jon and he says he’ll get the film guy working on it. We should swing by the BCA and drop it off.”
“After Stan.”
—
The Minnesota SmallManufacturers and Assemblers Association offices were in a redbrick building among a bunch of other redbrick buildings squeezed between parking lots north of the capitol. Most of the offices were occupied by lobby groups of one kind or another. The MSMA offices were on the fourth floor behind an oaken-look door.
They pushed through and found themselves standing in front of an unoccupied receptionist’s desk. A chime had tinkled overhead as they walked in, and the receptionist showed up a few seconds later,hurrying around a privacy wall that blocked the view to a hallway of offices in the back.
The receptionist looked from Lucas to Virgil and a “cop” light went on in his eyes. He asked, “Can I help you?”
Lucas produced his marshal’s ID and said, “We’d like to speak to Mr. O’Brien.”
“We have two Mr. O’Briens…”
“Stanley O’Brien,” Virgil said.
“He’s not in his office, he’s in the back…”
“Well,” Lucas said, “show the way.”
—
The receptionist did,but not enthusiastically. “We’re actually having our morning warm-up right now. It’s an informal chat that we do every morning…”
He ushered them into a back room where four men and a woman were standing around with golf putters, one of them lining up a putt on a ten-foot-long putting carpet. The room had a lunch table, a refrigerator, a dartboard, and a couple of four-top tables with chairs. The man making the putt ignored the opening of the door, but pulled the putt to the left when the receptionist said, “Uh, Mr. O’Brien…”
O’Brien turned, irritated, but snapped his mouth shut when he saw Lucas and Virgil. The receptionist said, “These…mmm…officers would like to speak to you.”
“Officers?”
“I’m with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and my associate is a deputy U.S. Marshal,” Virgil said. “We would like to confer…privately.”
“Well, of course.” O’Brien propped his putter against the wall and said, “Come with me.”
As they followed him down the hall, Virgil said, “You have the same putting problem that I do. You’re handsy. You jerk at the ball.”
“I know that,” O’Brien said.
