Ironically, the man to the right of Brookins ended up being the biggest problem. Instead of engaging me physically, he started throwing tools at my head. A socket wrench. A screwdriver. Channel-lock pliers. A hammer. Whatever he could get his hands on. At one point, I had to turn my head to avoid injury. Mr. 225 soon joined him. I couldn’t dodge every metal tool thrown at me but was managing to avoid the larger, more dangerous ones. I began to retreat again toward the lobby entryway. One of the larger metal missiles finally landed hard directly above my brow. Immediately, the blood began to flow.
“You son of a bitch!” I yelled. I had been holding back because these men were probably friends of Boyd. The time for being nice was over.
My impending attack on the four men was interrupted by the loud, shrill report of a .357 Magnum exploding inside the shop. Each man stopped, their eyes wide and mouths open as they stared past me.
“Drop everything, boys. And turn off that torch, asshole,” Jessica demanded from over my shoulder. She walked up beside me. “Are you okay?” I turned to face her. “You’re bleeding.”
The sight of my blood seemed to infuriate her. “Sit down. Now!” She had the .357 revolver I lifted off of Genovese aimed in their direction. It looked massive in her hands. The men immediately obeyed by sitting wherever they were standing. “Not like that. Move over next to each other. Now!” They hastily complied.
While my wife took charge of the situation, I reached up to feel my forehead. Blood oozed over my hand as I assessed the damage — a small cut. One I could probably fix with a butterfly stitch. I pinched the wound together with my fingers, and the blood flow immediately stopped.
“Let me look at it, Legend.” Jessica turned to look at me as I removed my hand for a split second. “You’ll need stitches.”
My response was interrupted by Brookins. “Did you say Legend? Are you Lieutenant McCain?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, crap. Boyd told me about you. You saved his ass years ago. Aw, man, I’m sorry for all the trouble. Shit, really.”
I looked over at Jessica and motioned for her to lower her weapon. “It’s okay. He’s a friend of Boyd’s.” Jessica lowered the .357 but didn’t put it away. I gave her my best what-the-hell look.
“He had a blowtorch, Legend! So pardon me, but he can sit there on the damn floor until I say it’s okay.”
I decided not to argue with her.
Jessica said, “If you have a first aid kit, send someone to go get it.”
Brookins motioned for Mr. 225 to retrieve the first aid kit while the other three men remained seated. Jessica turned her body to watch him as he walked over to the back wall of the shop, opened up a first aid cabinet, and walked back to hand me a small plastic box.
Jessica motioned for him to sit down, then changed her mind. “Wait,” she said.
“Legend, hold the gun, please.” I took it from her wondering what she had planned for Mr. 225. “Thank you.”
She turned to Mr. 225, who was standing there looking as confused as I was. What did Jessica want from him?
Neither of us had to wait long to find out. Without warning, Jessica’s right fist flew out and struck Mr. 225 hard in the face. An impressive blow. One that knocked Mr. 225 back a step.
“I got in here just in time to see you throw the tool that hit my husband. Now sit the hell down.”
He wasted no time complying with her demand.
Jessica turned to me and asked for the gun back. I looked at her, mouth slightly open in awe. “What?” she said. “Explode from nothingness. Isn’t that what you always say?”
I smiled.
Jessica tucked the revolver in her waistband before placing the adhesive bandage I handed her on my brow.
“You still need stitches,” she said with a tone that let everyone in the room know she was not a happy woman. She turned to the four men seated on the floor and said, “Now, tell my husband everything he wants to know about Boyd Dallas.”
Brookins spoke immediately. “Yes, ma’am. There’s not much to tell. A few days ago, Boyd showed up and asked to borrow my van. Something to do with a case he was working on. Two days ago, he returned it along with three thousand in cash to fix it. I asked him what happened, but all he’d say was I’ll tell you later. Three thousand for that van; I took the money and asked no more questions. I know he’s a private eye, so naturally, I figured he was helping the woman outside in the BMW. That’s it.”
I examined his face for several seconds. He was either the best liar I’d ever seen, or he was telling the truth. “You saw Shelley Baxter?”
“Sir, I don’t know any Shelley Baxter. I told you what I know. Boyd wrecked my van, he paid for my van, then he left in a black BMW. The woman was driving.”
“A black BMW, huh? Could you tell me any more about the car?”
“It was a newer model, probably last year’s. Black. Tinted windows. A big car.”
“A 7 Series?”
“Yeah, a BMW 7 Series. Nice looking car. Oh, and it had Wisconsin plates.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell us where to find Boyd.”
“No.”
“Because you won’t or you can’t?”
“He didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”
“Fair enough. I’m giving you a heads up, Brookins. Boyd has stirred up a shit storm of epic proportions. If I haven’t found him by Monday, you should expect the FBI to come knocking on your door. Your van was involved in a hit and run accident with a federal officer. I can tell by the look on your face Boyd didn’t tell you that.”
I reached into my pocket and retrieved a business card from my wallet, which I handed to Brookins. “My pager number is on there. If you hear from him, contact me. You’d be doing Boyd and yourself a huge favor.”
Brookins accepted the card and placed it on the ground next to him but otherwise looked unimpressed or worried.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I need to borrow a little grease and leave.”
I walked over to the red Impala, reached inside the engine compartment, rubbed my hands on some engine grease, and smiled as Jessica stared at me. “For the emergency room. I’ll say I hurt my head when a tool slipped as I was working on a car. You know, so they don’t ask questions.”
CHAPTER 28
After getting directions to the nearest emergency room, Jessica stared hard at Bill Brookins. He might have been a Marine, but he crumbled under Jessica’s intense glare, looking down to avoid her obvious unspoken rebuke. “Are you sure about the BMW?” she asked in a firm tone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You better be,” she responded before ushering me out of the shop.
Jessica waited until we were sitting in our vehicle before commenting on what happened inside.“First, let me say hitting that guy in the face, although emotionally satisfying, hurt my hand much more than hitting a punching bag with gloves on. It was all I could do in there to avoid saying ouch.”
I laughed.
“Oh, that’s funny to you? I balled up my fist just like you taught me. It still hurt. How do you do it?”
“I don’t feel it at the moment. But now you know why my knuckles are so gnarled up. Jessica, was there a second thing?”
“Yes, complaining about my hand almost made me forget. I was going to say I’ll bet Boyd went to every BMW dealership within 500 miles until he found someone who recognized Shelley Baxter.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“We don’t have that kind of time. Do you think your intelligence friends can help us again?”
“Probably. I don’t know. All we have is a BMW with Wisconsin plates, probably owned by a woman whose name we don’t know.”
“It’s worth a try, though.”
Even though it was a long-shot, there was no way I could say no to Jessica’s request.
I had more than one friend within the intelligence community. Two of my handlers within the Office of Naval Intelligence joined the CIA after their stint
in the Navy. One friend stayed in Naval Intelligence. But retired Admiral Winston Buie was the one I always called.
Admiral Winston Buie was my immediate supervisor when I worked for the Office of Naval Intelligence. A captain when we first met, his work, his connections, his patriotic zeal made his promotion to the rank of Admiral a sure-fire bet. Being a life-long intelligence officer with dirt on practically everybody, politicians included, also helped. His Naval career came to an abrupt end following a helicopter crash in the Cambodian jungle on a beautiful Sunday in March of 1982. I was on the same helicopter. So was Boyd Dallas. That flight was when Boyd and I first met.
Admiral Buie’s career did not end due to injury on that flight. His career ended due to his poor judgment for being on the clandestine flight into Cambodia in the first place. Someone with his experience, especially an intelligence officer, should have never been behind enemy lines. It wasn’t done, and he knew it. Admirals sent underlings like me to deliver messages where men like him weren’t allowed to go.
One dumb move and he was forced out. But Admiral Buie wasn’t the kind of man you could put out to pasture. There was too much information in that head of his and too many good years left in him. Plus, the connections. One could not forget the connections. Few were surprised when the National Security Agency offered him a position within their organization.
I called Admiral Buie from the emergency room as I waited for a doctor to give me the stitches Jessica said I needed.
“What will you do when I retire?” he asked after I told him what information I needed.
“I refuse to accept that as a possibility, Admiral.”
“Well, accept it. I think this is my last year, L.T. Twelve years with the NSA is long enough.”
“I guess I’ll have to call my guys at the CIA,” I said.
“The CIA, what a joke. They’re as worthless as tits on a boar.”
“Still, they’re better than the FBI.”
I laughed, and Buie laughed with me. Making fun of the other intelligence agencies was much like making fun of the different branches of the military — it was something you did.
“But before you go, can you do it? I know I didn’t give you much to go on. Just a woman with red hear in her thirties driving a BMW 7 Series in Wisconsin. Correction, a black BMW. We mustn’t forget that it was black. I’m sure that will make all the difference.”
“Ah, your famous sarcastic wit. I always thought it would hold you back in life.”
“And yet, it got me to the Sarcasm World Championship in Peru last year.”
“Really? Wait, stop it. You had me for a second.”
“Seriously, Admiral, I can understand if you can’t help me this time.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. The search algorithms these guys come up with; they’ll have you an answer before you go to bed tonight.”
“That fast? Really? How?”
“Computers, my boy. They are the future.”
I huffed, not sharing Buie’s faith in computers. “Thanks, Admiral.”
“Don’t mention it. You saved my ass in that jungle, Lieutenant. I owe you one.”
I had saved his butt in the jungle. Boyd’s too, for that matter. And the pilot’s. The Navy awarded me the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, the highest non-combat medal awarded, for my actions during our 11-day trek through Cambodia to safety in neighboring Thailand. Nevertheless, I was tired of people feeling like they owed me one. I was the least injured survivor following the helicopter crash and was doing my job.
“Admiral, I thought we decided we were even the last time you helped me.”
“L.T., I once told that your uncompromising moral clarity would have made you a horrible spy, but it has made you one hell of a man. I admire you, Lieutenant, and it is an honor to help one of the good guys.”
Jessica was right about the stitches; I needed four. Another scar. One of many, and nowhere near my worst. That distinction had to go to the bullet scars on my right thigh, the ones I had to self cauterize in the middle of a Cambodian jungle. The good news was the ER staff never once questioned my story of hitting my head with a tool while working on a car.
After leaving the hospital, Jessica drove me to a hotel in downtown D.C. Larry’s offer to stay with him still stood, but Jessica told me she’d had enough of being polite house guests who couldn’t act like newlyweds anytime we pleased. Once again, who was I to argue? Besides, I would have lost anyway.
Admiral Buie paged me while I was in the shower. I recognized his home number and called him immediately after getting dressed.
“What did I tell you, L.T.? I’d have an answer before you went to bed tonight. I can’t prove it, but my guess is Shelley Baxter now goes by Mollie Chrisman. Ms. Chrisman lives just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. She drives a black 1993 BMW 7 Series she purchased in Des Moines, Iowa. She is self-employed as a Forex trader.”
“A foreign exchange currency trader?” My question was rhetorical. “Interesting. Why do you suspect Mollie Chrisman?”
“The experts tell me their search algorithms point to Mollie Chrisman as the only person matching the criteria you provided.”
“All I told you was she was a woman in her mid-thirties who drove a BMW 7 Series.”
“Yes, but Mollie Chrisman woman did not exist before seven years ago, at least, not in the same capacity as she does now.”
“I understand that, but how does a computer tell you that so fast?”
“Our computers tell us that information because we hire the best and the brightest. After that, I have no damn idea how they do it.”
“I have to ask, Admiral, are you risking getting in any trouble for this?”
“Running the search, no. The official report is the NSA believes it might have found a spy living in our country under the name Mollie Chrisman. Job well done on our part. We will forward that information to the FBI tomorrow morning as we are required. You know, because the NSA is a foreign intelligence agency. As such, we’re not allowed to collect, retain, or disseminate information about U.S. persons except pursuant to procedures established by the head of the agency and approved by the Attorney General.”
I half-expected him to say “wink, wink” at the end of his sentence.
“I trust you’re smart enough, L.T., to come up with your own story on how you got the name Mollie Chrisman if it comes up.”
“Hey, Boyd found her, so it’s only natural I can as well.”
“You should know Ms. Chrisman has done well for herself. I don’t have tax returns on her yet, but a few calls to people the NSA know within the industry has revealed she has profited nearly seven million dollars in trading over the last seven years.”
“Holy cow, she’s good at it.”
“Our industry insiders told us she is much better than most.”
“How do you get information from people like that after normal business hours? And how do you get them to volunteer what must be confidential information?”
“First off, the forex market is a global market, so it’s open 24 hours a day during the week. And secondly, we are leaders in cybersecurity, so we have connections in all types of businesses using computers to make transactions, meaning when we make calls, people answer. That leads me to my third point. Ms. Mollie Chrisman ordered 10,000 dollars to be transferred to a Western Union in a small town in Virginia. The money is scheduled for pick up on Saturday. It opens at 6 a.m. I thought you might want to be there.”
***
Admiral Buie’s news wasn’t as good as it first seemed. To cover his ass, Buie did have to report to the FBI everything he had discovered so far. Meaning if the FBI was interested in why someone named Mollie Chrisman suddenly appeared out of the blue seven years ago, then they might be at the Western Union as well. Buie’s hands were tied on that one.
Buie admitted he had no way of knowing if the FBI would be interested. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was not exactly an intelligence organization. They investigated, and without more to
go on, such as why Mollie Chrisman might be a threat, their interest was hard to determine beforehand.
Personally, Jessica and I could not see the FBI staking out the Western Union for 15 hours from 6 a.m. to 9 p.m. on a Saturday for a person of unknown importance, but we decided it was best to plan for the worst either way. We also decided to call in help. Special Agent Larry Armour and Special Agent Ann Marshall were not on that list. They gave us until Monday and Monday was what we were going to take.
Our call for help went out to the two people we knew we could trust the most, two people who knew Boyd personally. Our first call went to Virgil Johnson, my best friend since junior high. Virgil lived in Huntsville, Alabama and was a personal friend of Boyd’s, even though the two were polar opposites in nearly every way. Our second call went out to LeClair. Virgil was planning to drive up on Friday, and LeClair would arrive by plane Friday night.
“Now that we’ve got Virgil and LeClair, what do you think about asking Rutherford for additional help?” Jessica asked as we were climbing into bed Thursday night.
“Not gonna happen.”
“You trust him to look after your mother but not to help us with Boyd.”
“It’s not that. I don’t trust Boyd. Maybe he wasn’t the one driving the van that endangered you and injured Larry, but as I said before, either way, he should have called us by now to say he was sorry. So, the last thing I want to do is get some of Rutherford’s men hurt, or worse, because Boyd doesn’t know them and doesn’t mind doing God only knows what to them because they are in his way.”
“You’re opinion of Boyd is not very high right now.”
“No, I guess it isn’t. I still love him like a brother, though, and want more than anything to get to him before the FBI does. That means you and I are getting up early tomorrow to recon the Western Union.”
“One thing,” Jessica said.
“Yes, I’d be more than happy to stay awake a little longer with you, since you missed me so much.”
Deadly Promise Page 34