Smoke & Mirrors (13 page)

41

AS JACOB GARDNER RODE DOWN IN THE SMALLER
private elevator, he blamed his hangover for the fact that he was sweating, his hands were trembling, and he felt oddly disconnected from reality. The tape recorder had been a risky move, but he had wanted to have evidence of Mulvane taking credit for the girl’s murder on tape to give him an edge, if necessary. Mulvane hadn’t admitted to the killing, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have it done. It was good that he hadn’t taken the recorder personally, though.

It infuriated Jacob that his spoiled bitch of an ex-wife would get any of the money. It was all rightfully his since she had stolen the land from him when he was down-and-out, but at the moment he could see no choice. Despite Mulvane’s Monday deadline, he probably still had time to try to figure out something. Without buying the land, there was no way Mulvane could get his hands on it unless Jacob got the kids to agree to sell it. If Leigh were out of the picture, getting the children to agree would be simple, if he could get power of attorney. With every foot the elevator descended, Jacob was more certain that Leigh was the only obstacle to his financial well-being.

He knew Mulvane had sent the shooter, who had delivered the message that it was a simple matter to kill whomever they chose, whenever they liked. Lucky thing for Leigh that it was the black gal that was targeted, but too bad for him. With enough cash Jacob could start over, buy a successful business, and live like a king without a worry in the world. He couldn’t do that on the pittance Mulvane had offered him—not by a long shot.

As Jacob exited the elevator he almost ran into Albert White and another man who fit the image of what Jacob imagined professional killers looked like. He wondered if that was the man who’d shot Sherry Adams.

Just after Jacob got into his Cadillac, his cell phone buzzed. Checking the ID, he answered it.

“So what the hell are you pulling now, Cyn?”

“Listen carefully, Mr. Gardner. I won’t repeat myself.” The unfamiliar voice sounded almost mechanical. “I have your daughter. She is fine and will stay that way unless Mrs. Gardner holds on to that land. Make that sale happen. Let’s keep this just between the two of us. Any cops get involved…well, you know what.”

The phone went dead.

42

ALEXA’S CELL PHONE RANG, AND WHEN SHE LOOKED
at the readout her heart almost stopped. The display read
H. HATCHER
. Waving to Winter, she stepped into the sheriff’s conference room to take the call. Assistant FBI Director Hayden Hatcher, who ran the Counterterrorism Division, was calling from his office.

“Alexa Keen,” she said.

“Alexa, Hayden Hatcher. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all, sir. Can I help you with something?”

She pictured the sandy-haired Hatcher, a Bureau golden boy in his late thirties, a few inches over six feet tall, trim as a boxer, and handsome in a corn-fed Midwestern kind of way. He had worked his way up from the Omaha field office due to successful outcomes, an appealing personality, a head for political gamesmanship, and—most of all—a talent for clasping the right coattails. He had been promoted after 9/11 to the growing anti-terrorism arena—the department with the biggest budget, which was therefore where the sex appeal stayed these days. His and Alexa’s offices were on opposite sides of the building, and their paths seldom crossed.

“I understand you have made inquiries into RRI. May I ask what this request for intelligence relates to?”

“A casino operation in Mississippi. The Roundtable. I made an inquiry to assist an investigation by Tunica County, Mississippi, authorities.” Alexa couldn’t imagine why casinos would be of interest to Hatcher, unless they were somehow being used to funnel money to terrorist cells, which seemed unlikely.

“I see. And how is it that the Tunica County authorities went through you? The sheriff called you for it?” he asked.

“Yes.” Alexa felt a heat deep in her stomach and managed to keep her voice neutral. “Actually, one of his deputies asked on his behalf.”

“I assume this somehow involves an abduction, if you were called?”

“No, sir. A murder. The sheriff suspects there may be a connection to the casino because the victim worked for casino security.”

“And do you mind telling me why a deputy sheriff contacted you to make the request?”

“He called me because we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. And we worked together on a case.”

“Who is this deputy?”

The heat in her stomach suddenly felt like a forest fire. “Massey.” She suspected that the deputy director already knew that Winter had made the request, which seemed impossible.

“You worked with Winter Massey on the kidnapping of Judge Fondren’s daughter and grandson in Charlotte.” His lack of hesitation signaled that, sure enough, Hatcher had already known. “Naturally I’m familiar with the case and with Winter Massey. I wasn’t aware that he was a deputy sheriff in Tunica County.”

“He’s working with the sheriff there as a personal favor. Does his inquiry intersect with another investigation under way that involves Counterterrorism?”

“No, I was just curious when I heard about your inquiry. Usually when Massey appears on our radar screen, unpleasant complications arise from his activities. I’m just wondering if the Bureau should become involved in supplying information to him. I’m calling to make an informal inquiry to get clarification on the nature of the request.”

“Does this threaten any CT investigation?” she asked pointedly.

“Not directly.”

“The director has asked us to cooperate with local and regional law enforcement. I was involved with NOPD last year under that policy, and it seems to me that this falls under that heading,” she said.

“Still, you aren’t the proper channel for requests like this one. Since you asked OC, I wondered about a suspected connection to organized crime. Often our cases do intersect.”

“They don’t suspect the casino of being involved with organized crime or terrorists, as far as I know. They just wanted to know if there was anything that pointed to one.”

“I just don’t want to get caught by surprise if any complications arise that could impact the Bureau. Due to their nature, and the money involved, casinos tend to have open case files, and maybe what Massey learns in his investigation could be helpful to us. A two-way street is always preferable to a dead end. You get the picture. You’re a team player. If you tread on anything, I’m sure someone will let you know. Massey can be trouble. I’d hate for you to be embarrassed if something goes off on this one.”

“I’ve known Winter Massey for over twenty years. He is a capable man who acts in both a legal and deliberate manner. If anything happened to me, I’d want him finding out what happened. He’s the sort of person you want to work with, given a choice.”

“Very good,” Hayden Hatcher said. “Carry on. We should have lunch when you get back.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

He hung up.

Alexa knew that unless a company or an individual was flagged by Counterterrorism, there was no reason for Organized Crime to notify Hatcher. The Bureau was eighty percent politics and, like all intelligence organizations, it was a paranoid monster that lumbered about blindly, its feet entangled in red tape and its hands bound by sibling rivalry. Sharing information between departments usually took a request from one to the other.

Alexa Keen didn’t trust many people in the Bureau, and she especially didn’t trust Hayden Hatcher because his loyalty depended on the direction of the political winds. She trusted Winter Massey without reservation, and she knew that getting in his way was a very bad idea.

43

AFTER HANGING UP, HAYDEN HATCHER LIFTED HIS
encrypted phone and dialed a number he had committed to memory.

“Yes?” the familiar voice said.

“It’s Hatcher. It appears we have another scented red toothpick left at the scene of a killing south of Memphis,” Hayden said. “This one is being handled by Bradley Barnett, the sheriff in Tunica County, Mississippi.”

“Who was the target?”

“A young black girl. Nineteen years of age. Shot from long distance with a rifle. Not like the others, is it? You said any reports of red, clove-flavored toothpicks at murder scenes. This makes four in fifteen months.”

“How did this one come in?”

“Through Alexa Keen, she’s in—”

“I know who she is,” the voice said. “You found out how?”

“Well, it was picked up via an
overheard
conversation.” He wouldn’t admit over the phone that she was under continuing internal surveillance ordered by Hayden at the behest of his benefactor. “She got a request for expedited DNA on the toothpick from a friend of hers. Are you familiar with Winter Massey? It seems he had a sample to compare it to.”

The only sound coming over the line was that of breathing.

“So the toothpick is connected to the man you’re looking for? The East German?” Hayden asked.

“We’ll deal with this. If anything else pops up, you will let me know immediately.” It wasn’t a question. The line clicked as the man hung up.

Hayden placed the phone in its receiver and rocked back in his chair.

He was excited. Pleasing his benefactor was the key to his amazing run of successful operations against terrorist cells inside the United States, its territories, and, most recently, Canada. His man had alerted Hayden to a Hamas cell that was bootlegging low-tax cigarettes from North Carolina to New York and other cities, and then to a group of amateur Canadian terrorists plotting to blow up targets across Canada, take over parliament and—as absurd as it sounded—behead the Canadian prime minister. Hayden had, as instructed, given the intelligence to the Canadian authorities, who had in turn given him personal credit for his assistance. It was this voice in the darkness that had put Hayden Hatcher this close to the throne.

Whoever this murderous East German toothpick dropper was, he was someone the shadow man’s group had been after for a long time—and he was someone his secretive friend clearly wanted very badly. Hayden certainly hoped they got him. And if all worked out as planned, he was confident that someday, as the man had insinuated on many occasions, Hayden Hatcher would be the director of the FBI.

44

SHORTLY AFTER ONE P.M., BRAD STEPPED TO THE
podium in the sheriff’s department briefing room and was instantly bathed in the floodlights used by the TV news crews that represented the Memphis, Tennessee, and Jackson, Mississippi, affiliate stations. Roy Bishop stood to one side.

“I’m Brad Barnett, sheriff of Tunica County, and I’m going to make a statement. Yesterday morning, Sherry Adams, a nineteen-year-old resident of Tunica, Mississippi, was killed as she walked from a county residence to her car. Yesterday afternoon, Jack Beals, a resident of Tunica County, was killed in a room at the Gold Key Motel, while he was in the commission of an armed assault and attempted robbery. We believe that whoever killed Mr. Beals may have seen the attack in progress and acted in the urgency of the moment to rescue the man Mr. Beals was assaulting. We urge anyone who has any information on this incident to contact our office. At this time we have no suspect in that crime.

“Upon investigating these two deaths, we came upon what appears to be conclusive evidence that it was in fact Mr. Beals who fired the shot that killed Sherry Adams. We have recovered from Mr. Beals’s residence what we believe to be the murder weapon, along with other evidence, and are continuing to investigate these cases. As of yet we do not have a motive in the Adams murder, and it appears that it may have been a random act of violence.”

“Was it a hate crime?” a reporter yelled out.

Hands went up and almost every newsperson shouted a question.

“Since these are ongoing investigations, I will not answer any questions beyond what I have already told you. As there are new developments, and as we have verified them, my office will release that information.”

Brad left the room with his chief deputy following him. The reporters shouted questions behind them, but the sheriff neither responded nor slowed. Winter and Alexa, who had waited in the hallway, followed Brad to his office.

The press conference was part of Winter’s plan to get the media off the streets and away from the investigation. He hoped the press would report the few details they’d gathered, file their stories, and, without more information immediately forthcoming, lose interest by rapid degrees. And he hoped Albert White would sweat some and maybe do something dumb. The murder of a poor black girl in a rural Mississippi county—one that had been solved—was, when it came to the bottomless stomach of Americans for graphic violence, less filling than an airline snack.

45

“
HERE’S WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN,” THE MAN
who’d kidnapped Cynthia told her when she came around. She was tied up and blindfolded but no longer in the barn. The place smelled of disinfectant and she was sure she’d been dressed in new clothes. They felt cheap and stiff and smelled like they had never been washed.

“Please, my stomach hurts really bad. Like worse than cramps. It’s what happens if I don’t get my insulin. I feel like I’m starving.”

“But you aren’t going to starve,” he said.

“It feels like I am. Even if I eat, it won’t help.”

“How about candy?” the man asked her.

“Sugar would make it much worse. I feel so sick. Please let me have a shot.”

“Well, that’s interesting. You feel like you are starving, but when you eat you won’t feel any different for it, even though you’d be full?”

“Yes. It’s diabetes. If I don’t get a shot, soon, I’ll have other symptoms.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve never gone without insulin since I was diagnosed, so I’m not really sure what all can happen. When I realize I’m really thirsty, I check my blood sugar and give myself a shot. If it’s, like, under two hundred fifty I’m feeling tired or my stomach hurts. If it goes to, like, three hundred fifty, I could go into a coma and have to be on an IV. I could die. So I need to do a check with my testing monitor. Look, I have two loaded syringes in my purse. You do have my purse, don’t you? My kit’s in there.”

“It’s in the van,” he said.

“Could you go and get it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I abducted you. This is not a hospital, and I’m not a physician. If you die from insulin shock, you die.”

“But I need it,” she told him. “I’m serious.”

“You can go a long time without a shot without dying.”

“I’m not sure how long that is,” she said, frightened.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I will do. I have a sandwich you can have that may be staler than you’re accustomed to. I will give you plenty of water, and I will let you pee. I will only get your purse when I don’t have anything else that I have to do. If you give me any trouble, or try to escape, my associate outside this room will cut your nipples off. If you try a second time, I will cut your throat. Do you understand me?”

She still didn’t know who this man was or how he fit in with Jack. Her father—even given the bastard he was—would not allow anything to happen to her. It had occurred to her that her father might be involved in this to get money out of her mother. The thought pained her, but she couldn’t dismiss it. But she didn’t believe he could allow this man to hurt her. But maybe Jacob wasn’t in charge. At this point, very little would surprise her.

She felt the shooting pains of hunger worsen, a bad sign. She couldn’t just die like this.

She just couldn’t.

So she nodded.

“I understand,” she told the man who’d kidnapped her. “If you have time later on.”

“That’s better. I’ll see what I can do.” The man gave her a big smile, and she suddenly felt very cold.