Sting (22 page)

“He did.” Hickam stepped forward and opened up an e-mail attachment, holding it where she could see it. “One week before Josh agreed to cooperate with us, he opened an account for Billy Panella with half a million dollars.”

She looked at him, but didn't say anything, unsure of what he expected from her. Wiley said, “The thing is, Ms. Bennett… Show her, Hick.”

He scrolled to another page.

“That's the amount in the account as of this morning. Half a million and change, the change being the interest that's accrued in the past six months.” He leaned farther forward. “Panella hasn't touched it. No withdrawals.”

Both he and Hickam were still looking at her expectantly. She raised her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “He must've changed his mind about San Jose. He went someplace else.”

“And left this money there? Does that sound like him to you? Doesn't sound like him to me. To us. To Josh, who told us while sitting in that chair you're sitting in now that, although Panella made a show of spending to enhance his reputation as a brilliant moneyman, he kept track of every single cent. Squeezed the copper off every penny. He'd made a science of having his money multiply while he slept. Why would he leave five hundred thou in an account that earns less than one percent interest?”

They waited. She felt the walls closing in and was powerless to stop them. “I have no idea.”

Wiley said, “Only thing we can guess? He plans on keeping it there till he can retrieve it or move it, and the timing just hasn't been right.”

“I don't know what he plans,” she said. “I never did.”

“Who called you to that honky tonk last Friday night?”

Again, the switch in tone and subjects momentarily threw her. “I've told you repeatedly that I didn't recognize the voice.”

Wiley leaned toward her. “And all he said was—”

“I quoted it to you exactly. You wrote it down.” She gestured to the iPad now lying on the table.

Hickam picked up. “You're an intelligent woman, Ms. Bennett. You've got common sense. You're rational. A savvy businesswoman. Yet you expect us to believe that when a man you can't identify called and told you to rush to a seedy bar out in the sticks, you dropped everything and went tearing out there?”

Adrian Dover intervened. “This is becoming harassment, gentlemen. My client has affirmed several times that she doesn't know who that caller was.”

“Was it Panella?” Wiley asked.

“No.”

“How do you know it wasn't?” That from Hickam. “You said you didn't recognize his voice.”

“I didn't! He only said a few words and then he was gone.”

“Has Panella been cooling his heels somewhere until you and he could sneak off to—”

“Oh, good God, no!”

Adrian was urging her not to say another word.

Unmindful of her lawyer's advice she said, “I wouldn't go anywhere with him.”

“You went to Costa Rica.”

“If I had it to do over, I wouldn't.”

“Why? What happened down there?”

“Don't answer,” Adrian said.

“I hated Billy Panella then, and I utterly loathe him now. And the feeling is mutual,” she said, stressing it. “He sent two men to kill me. Have you forgotten that?”

Hickam patted the air between them. “Okay. Right. He had Bolden and Kinnard waiting there for you. He laid a trap.”

She negated that with a shake of her head. “Shaw Kinnard told me that it came as a shock to them when I walked in.”

Hickam scoffed at that. “You believe
Kinnard
?”

She thought back to all the times he had tricked her with a lie or semitruth, and she'd been gullible enough to believe him. Maybe plan A had been to kill her at that bar.

Hickam didn't let up. “Panella called you—”

Shaw had said otherwise.

“—and invoked Josh's name to get you there.”

She put her fingertips to her temples and massaged them. “I don't think it was Panella, but I suppose it's possible.”

“If you loathe him, why would you heed his summons?”

“I didn't. I…I…”

“My client is declining to answer,” Adrian said.

Hickam persisted. “If it wasn't Panella, it was your brother.”

“I don't
believe
it was Josh, but I can't be certain.”

“You went there to aid and abet one of them, Ms. Bennett.”

Adrian Dover said, “Do not respond.”

“Who did you expect to be there waiting for you?” Hickam asked. “Panella?”

“No.”

“Then your brother.”

“No.” She shook her head in confusion. “Possibly. I don't know.”

Adrian was pressing her arm, demanding that she say nothing more.

Hickam leaned across the table again and thumped it with his fist. “Not Panella. Not Josh. Then who? Tell us. Who called you?”

“I did.”

At the sound of the new voice in the room, four pairs of eyes swung toward the door. There stood Shaw Kinnard.

J
ordie and Joe Wiley lurched out of their chairs. Jordie's tipped over backward.

But Wiley's partner moved faster than anyone. In under a second his pistol was drawn and aimed at the bridge of Shaw's nose, his finger on the trigger.

Behind Shaw, Xavier Dupaw shouted, “Don't shoot! He's one of you. FBI. Special Agent Shaw Kinnard.”

Shaw's focus remained on Jordie's wide, incredulous gaze, but in his peripheral vision he saw that the woman sitting in the chair next to her was blinking rapidly. Joe Wiley mouthed several profanities and looked like he wanted to drive his fist through a wall.

The guy with the nine-millimeter acted like he hadn't heard the disclaimer. He still had a bead on Shaw's forehead.

Shaw didn't move except to cut his eyes over to him. “Want to lower that?”

“Not really.”

The prosecutor edged around Shaw and entered the room, chortling, “You should see your faces. I guess we pulled it off.”

Shaw watched Jordie's lips part in disbelief. Or disillusionment, maybe. In a barely audible voice, she said, “You're an FBI agent?”

“Guilty.”

With obvious reluctance the black agent lowered his pistol. “You son of a bitch. I almost shot you.”

Shaw turned his head and sized him up. “I don't like you all that much, either.”

“Gentlemen, no need for hostility,” Dupaw said. He turned to Shaw and added under his breath, “I told you that I should come in first to neutralize the situation, but did you listen?”

Joe Wiley stepped around the table. Shaw could practically see smoke coming from his ears, and, frankly, he didn't blame him. “If you're FBI, I'm a Chinaman.”

“I caught 'em on a slow day.” If Shaw had felt better, he might have grinned. But he couldn't muster the energy.

The woman beside Jordie had righted her chair and took her elbow in an attempt to guide her back into it. Jordie shook her off and remained standing. Shaw had only ever seen her in the jeans and top she'd worn into the bar. Today she was dressed for business in a navy pants suit with a pink scooped-neck top underneath the jacket.

But he was less interested in her wardrobe than in her facial expressions, which had evolved from dismay upon seeing him, to absolute fury upon learning how he had misled her, big-time.

He didn't blame her, either.

Wiley propped his hands on his hips. “Badge?”

“Can't carry one. But if you want to call Atlanta and check me out, I can give you a password.”

“Do that.”

Shaw gave him his code, the number to call, and the individual to ask for. The super-stud agent pecked the phone number into his cell and stepped out of the room to make the call.

Joe Wiley still regarded Shaw with blatant mistrust. “You work out of the Atlanta office?”

“When I work out of an office at all.”

“I can vouch for him,” Xavier Dupaw said with overblown self-importance. “I was about to indict him for that double murder. NOPD, you and Agent Hickam, everybody in Orleans Parish was pressuring me to do so.”

“I was wasting time in jail,” Shaw said to Wiley. “I had to tell him.” He nodded toward the prosecutor.

Dupaw said, “Mr. Kinnard revealed himself to be a covert operative.” The last two words were spoken in a stage whisper.

Wiley, frowning, grumbled, “We were sure you'd killed those two guys.”

“I did,” Shaw said. “They got wise to a DEA officer who was working the same case. To protect him…” He raised a shoulder.

Dupaw placed his right hand over his heart and said to Wiley, “I would have liked to share all this with you, but only I and the DA were entrusted with the classified information.”

Wiley gave a snort of distaste over the prosecutor's condescension.

The other agent reentered the room. “He checks out.” He looked none too happy about it.

Shaw turned to Xavier Dupaw. “You can go now.”

The prosecutor blustered. “This is the thanks I get for coming to your rescue? If it weren't for me, you would still be chained to your hospital bed.”

“Thanks. But you've served your purpose.”

“This case is far from over.”

“But it's not your show. It's federal. Crimes against the state were committed in another parish and outside your jurisdiction.” Shaw motioned him toward the door.

Dupaw sputtered, but eventually shot his cuffs and stalked out, peevishly banging the door shut behind himself.

Shaw looked at Wiley. “Mind if I sit?”

He was woozy and didn't want to ruin his dramatic entrance by falling flat on his face in a dead faint. Wiley pointed him into a chair across the table from Jordie. Live coals didn't smolder as hot as she was. Her rigid posture, the stern set of her lips, her glare, all attested to her barely controlled wrath as she sat down.

Shaw expelled a long breath. “Look. Jordie. I know I put you through a meat grinder. But I was—”

“‘Son of a bitch' doesn't come close to characterizing you.” She practically spat the words at him, then turned her head aside as if the very sight of him sickened her.

The fraught silence that followed was broken by the woman beside her, who quietly introduced herself as Jordie's lawyer. Shaw acknowledged the introduction, but they didn't shake hands. He had much more to say to Jordie, but there was business to attend to, she wasn't in the mood to listen, and the real spoiler was that they were on opposing sides of a criminal investigation.

Wiley said, “Was Morrow in on this charade?”

Shaw nodded. “Couldn't have done it without him. He's a good man. Once Dupaw and I brought him into the loop, he facilitated everything. Ordered an ambulance, recruited a couple of guys from his department who he could trust to drive it. Got his dispatch operator to call the hospital administrator in Houma to inform him of the near-fatal shooting.”

“He bought it,” Wiley said.

“Good to know. The dispatcher told him it was a delicate police matter, some cock-and-bull like that, and ordered him not to put the media wise to it. Which he wouldn't have anyway, because it might set him in the hot seat for green-lighting my premature release and making his hospital look bad.”

It had been necessary to take the surgeon into their confidence. He'd reluctantly removed the staples from Shaw's incision and given him a supply of oral medications and extra bandages to take with him. Morrow had them in his squad car.

Thinking of that, Shaw said, “Morrow remembered to retrieve my boots from the hospital room closet before we left. I was rolled out, bare-assed in a hospital gown and handcuffed to a stretcher. Morrow went into a Walmart and bought me a change of clothes. Here I am.”

“Cover still protected,” Wiley said.

“Hopefully. For the time being anyway.”

“Why isn't Morrow with you now?” Wiley asked.

“On the way here, he got an emergency call from his office. Couldn't delegate. Had to turn back. He dismissed the ambulance and drivers. Dupaw brought me the rest of the way in his car. Morrow said to tell you that he'd check in with you as soon as he could.”

“Would have been nice for y'all to let us in on this,” Wiley said.

“Morrow was handier. He'd left my room just a few minutes before Dupaw showed up. Morrow wanted to bring you in, but the fewer people involved in the ruse, the more likely it would work. I convinced him of that.”

“How?”

“By telling him that was how it was gonna be.” He let that settle then glanced at Jordie, who had resumed glaring at him. “Besides, Morrow knew you had your hands full here.”

Wiley's partner chimed in, “And letting us in on it would have spoiled your big entrance.”

Shaw looked up at him and decided to let the snide remark pass. “You're Hickam?”

“That's right.”

“I was denied the pleasure of meeting you yesterday during my arrest.”

The agent looked down at the spot where Shaw's shirttail was draped over his holster. “Where'd you get the piece?”

“When I asked for my weapons back, Morrow obliged.”

“‘Weapons' plural?”

“He keeps a pistol in his boot.” That from Jordie, who nastily added, “What kind of hit man carries only one gun?”

Matching her testiness, Shaw said, “A dead one.”

While the smoke was still clearing from that exchange, Joe Wiley asked, “What about the playboy and corrupt state policeman in Mexico?”

“They resisted arrest.” He said it deadpan and nobody commented. “By the way, whichever agency that girl belongs to needs to bring her in and give her some better training.”

“Girl?”

“The one who left the party with the three of us that night. She hadn't been at the villa for five minutes before I marked her as heat.”

“Only call girl to leave her clothes on?” Wiley asked.

“No, first one out of them. She's too eager. She needs to learn subtlety. The idea is to make them try to impress her, not the other way around. If she doesn't learn that, she's gonna give herself away and die bloody. Find out which agency she works for and get word to them that I said so.”

Hickam and Wiley exchanged a look with eyebrows raised, but Hickam made a note of it on his iPad.

“I left the bodies where I knew they'd be found, along with a secret sign so our plant inside the state police would know it was me who took them out and would handle the mop-up, including all the paperwork required in Atlanta. I beat it across the border that night.”

“How'd you get across undetected?” Hickam asked.

“That's classified.” Unfazed by the other agent's resentful glower, Shaw continued, “I beat it here quick as I could. I'd waited months for a call from Mickey Bolden and didn't want to keep him waiting.”

Wiley and Hickam continued to ask about his journey from Mexico to New Orleans. Most of their inquiries he answered with, “Classified.” And mainly, it was. But it was also a convenient dodge. He didn't want to waste time on something irrelevant while Billy Panella and Josh Bennett were still at large.

Shaw tipped his head toward Jordie. “Do you have her cell phone?”

“In Wiley's office,” Hickam said.

“Would you get it?” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please?”

With a look, Hickam consulted Joe Wiley, who okayed him with a nod. Hickam left the room. The four of them sat in strained silence until he returned with Jordie's bagged cell phone.

Shaw said, “When I came in, you were grilling her about who called her to the bar. Check her call history. Friday night, there are two incoming calls from an unknown number.”

“We've called it back several times,” Hickam said. “Never got an answer.”

“Call it again.”

Hickam removed the phone from the bag, went to the log and tapped the screen. A few seconds later the phone inside Shaw's shirt pocket began to ring. He took it out and showed them Jordie's cell number in the readout. “This is a burner I bought the day I arrived in New Orleans, just before I hooked up with Mickey Bolden.”

“Okay,” Wiley said. “Friday night. What really went down? Why you'd call Ms. Bennett to the bar?”

“I'm coming to that.” Suddenly struck with a wave of dizziness, he propped his elbow on the table and tunneled his fingers through his hair. He was tempted to rest his forehead in his palm and close his eyes. But, afraid he'd be unable to reopen them, he lowered his hand, ignored the throbbing in his side, and plowed on.

“When I talked to Mickey from Mexico and he told me that Josh Bennett was on the loose, I figured he was the target we'd been contracted to hit. Then I got here. Shocker. Bennett's sister was the target. Killing a woman? Jesus.” He shook his head. “Underscored just what a cowardly scumbag Panella is.

“But I had to appear indifferent to Mickey so I could stay cheek by jowl with the asshole and learn what I could. Mickey and I spent all day Friday following Jordie around Tobias. She went home around six. We watched her house for a while. It looked like she was tucked in for the night.”

“We had a sheriff's deputy surveilling her,” Wiley said.

Shaw scoffed. “And doing a piss-poor job of it. He'd just as well have had a Maglite on his head. I spotted him right away, and I couldn't believe he didn't mark Mickey and me.” Looking at Jordie, he said, “You knew he was there, didn't you? You shook him on the way to the bar.”

“Go to hell.”

He ignored the putdown. “Doesn't matter now, I guess.” Turning back to his FBI colleagues, he continued, “Mickey and I went to a diner for supper, and that's when he laid out the plan.”

“Plan A?” Jordie said with insincere sweetness.

Shaw looked at her, but didn't respond. Wiley asked, “What was plan A?”

Shaw went back to Wiley. “To hit her early the next morning at her house. Make it look like a burglary turned deadly. Dumbest idea I'd ever heard and told Mickey so. It was rushed, rash, and breaking into her house was an engraved invitation to leave evidence.

“But Mickey said that was the plan. End of discussion. That's when I realized that I'd be left dead, too. He'd brought me in specifically to take the fall. The clock was ticking. I had to stop it.”

“By calling her?” Hickam asked. “Why didn't you tip the sheriff's office, or us?”

“I'll get to that,” Shaw said, hedging. “I went along when Mickey suggested we grab a drink at that joint before checking into a motel. Before we went inside, I excused myself and followed the arrow pointing around back to the toilet.” He looked at Jordie. “That's when I called you.”

“How'd you know how to reach her?” Wiley asked.

“Panella had given Mickey the skinny on her, everything, including her cell number. Mickey shared it all with me 'cause he thought I would be dead in a few hours, so what did it matter?”