Read Online Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries) by Tom Hilpert - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Hilpert
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something,” I said.
“Jonah,” said Jensen, “this is police work, detective work. I know you are the police chaplain, but that doesn't make you a detective.”
“My dad was a detective,” I said mildly.
“That doesn't make you a detective either.”
“But my dad – the detective ? – did some detective work on our bank robbers.”
“Just 'robbers,'” he said absently. “I thought your dad was dead.”
“He is. But I think he came across the same gang about two years ago, shortly before he died.”
Jensen sipped his coffee. Just to be sociable, I sipped mine. “How do you know it's the same gang?” he said at last.
“Gang of robbers in northern Washington,” I said. “Police figured there was maybe five or seven altogether. They went into bank lobbies, usually four at a time. Dressed in black with ski-masks. They made the customers lie down, and then robbed them, leaving the bank itself alone. Usually came in on paydays or big deposit days for cash businesses.”
“Ours could be copycatters,” he said.
“They hit only small towns, remote counties, so the police manpower would be limited. And because they left the banks themselves alone, no FBI.”
“Still no reason they aren't copycats.”
“One of them was smaller than the other three. After a few jobs, the small guy got trigger happy, started shooting at security guards. No one else, just the guards. Couple people got killed.”
Jensen's blue eyes became very still. “Anything else?”
“Not much,” I said. “They were operating in the far north, like here. Could have run for Canada when they were done.”
“What happened to them?”
“The s tate police got involved. Started staking out likely targets at likely times. They got lucky, and the gang did a bank while they were there.” I sipped some more coffee. God's gift to Lutheran pastors, and to anyone else who saw the light.
“Jonah,” said Jensen, “you don't have to make a big production out of it. Tell me what happened.”
“There was a firefight. One of the robbers was killed. They figure after that , the gang kind of broke up, like the James gang did after the failed raid down in Northfield , way back when.”
“You're rotten at this,” said Jensen. “I can see there's more. Come on, I thought you wanted my help.”
“The guy who shot the perp was my dad.”
Dan was silent for a bit. “That is truly weird,” he said at last. “They get anything on the dead guy?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “He was from Duluth.”
CHAPTER 14
On Friday night I went to the WW. 'WW' stood for Wally's Walleye Bar & Grill. It was an old establishment in downtown Grand Lake. They s erve d walleye fingers, which were good, and hamburgers, which were also good. They also served alcohol, which was good, in my opinion, if taken in moderation, but it was rarely consumed in moderation at the WW.
I slid into my regular high-backed booth, and Ally, a petite, blond waitress in her thirties, came over.
“Hi , Jonah,” she said, smiling devastatingly. “Want anything tonight?”
“I'm working,” I said. “Coke on the rocks, and a cup of seafood chowder.”
“You got it,” she said, turning away and drawing the eyes of about a third of the male occupants of the room.
Before she could get back with my drink, Bud Richards slid into the booth across from me. Bud was big and burly with a pot belly, but still a manly, strong-looking man.
We talked about the Vikings for a few minutes, and he gave me some pointers on catching fall crappie. There was a lull in the conversation.
“Jonah,” said Bud at last, “you ever wonder if it's all just a cr ap shoot?”
Across the room , I saw Ally raise a glass of coke and look at me , and then Bud . I shook my head slightly.
“What do you mean?” I asked Bud.
He waved his hands. “You know, life. Everything. I mean, maybe it's all just random, and there's no point to anything we do.”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
He stared at
“Jonah,” said Jensen, “this is police work, detective work. I know you are the police chaplain, but that doesn't make you a detective.”
“My dad was a detective,” I said mildly.
“That doesn't make you a detective either.”
“But my dad – the detective ? – did some detective work on our bank robbers.”
“Just 'robbers,'” he said absently. “I thought your dad was dead.”
“He is. But I think he came across the same gang about two years ago, shortly before he died.”
Jensen sipped his coffee. Just to be sociable, I sipped mine. “How do you know it's the same gang?” he said at last.
“Gang of robbers in northern Washington,” I said. “Police figured there was maybe five or seven altogether. They went into bank lobbies, usually four at a time. Dressed in black with ski-masks. They made the customers lie down, and then robbed them, leaving the bank itself alone. Usually came in on paydays or big deposit days for cash businesses.”
“Ours could be copycatters,” he said.
“They hit only small towns, remote counties, so the police manpower would be limited. And because they left the banks themselves alone, no FBI.”
“Still no reason they aren't copycats.”
“One of them was smaller than the other three. After a few jobs, the small guy got trigger happy, started shooting at security guards. No one else, just the guards. Couple people got killed.”
Jensen's blue eyes became very still. “Anything else?”
“Not much,” I said. “They were operating in the far north, like here. Could have run for Canada when they were done.”
“What happened to them?”
“The s tate police got involved. Started staking out likely targets at likely times. They got lucky, and the gang did a bank while they were there.” I sipped some more coffee. God's gift to Lutheran pastors, and to anyone else who saw the light.
“Jonah,” said Jensen, “you don't have to make a big production out of it. Tell me what happened.”
“There was a firefight. One of the robbers was killed. They figure after that , the gang kind of broke up, like the James gang did after the failed raid down in Northfield , way back when.”
“You're rotten at this,” said Jensen. “I can see there's more. Come on, I thought you wanted my help.”
“The guy who shot the perp was my dad.”
Dan was silent for a bit. “That is truly weird,” he said at last. “They get anything on the dead guy?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “He was from Duluth.”
CHAPTER 14
On Friday night I went to the WW. 'WW' stood for Wally's Walleye Bar & Grill. It was an old establishment in downtown Grand Lake. They s erve d walleye fingers, which were good, and hamburgers, which were also good. They also served alcohol, which was good, in my opinion, if taken in moderation, but it was rarely consumed in moderation at the WW.
I slid into my regular high-backed booth, and Ally, a petite, blond waitress in her thirties, came over.
“Hi , Jonah,” she said, smiling devastatingly. “Want anything tonight?”
“I'm working,” I said. “Coke on the rocks, and a cup of seafood chowder.”
“You got it,” she said, turning away and drawing the eyes of about a third of the male occupants of the room.
Before she could get back with my drink, Bud Richards slid into the booth across from me. Bud was big and burly with a pot belly, but still a manly, strong-looking man.
We talked about the Vikings for a few minutes, and he gave me some pointers on catching fall crappie. There was a lull in the conversation.
“Jonah,” said Bud at last, “you ever wonder if it's all just a cr ap shoot?”
Across the room , I saw Ally raise a glass of coke and look at me , and then Bud . I shook my head slightly.
“What do you mean?” I asked Bud.
He waved his hands. “You know, life. Everything. I mean, maybe it's all just random, and there's no point to anything we do.”
“Why do you care?” I asked.
He stared at
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