“What do you think it means?”
“You’re going to call me crazy, but I think the feds already had a tap on the guy.”
“Nothing the feds do would surprise me.”
“You got that right,” Gordon said. “But that’s not all. I think their tap was illegal.”
“What makes you say that?”
Gordon responded with a look that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “I got my sources.”
Horse resumed slowly chewing his pickle as he considered Gordon’s revelation. Finally, he swallowed and said, “And it was right after that when everything came to a stop?”
“Pretty much. What do you think happened?”
“Maybe he was warned that you were getting close.”
“Anything’s possible,” Gordon said. “Whatever happened, I’d dearly love to know how much the feds knew.”
“Just one last thing,” Horse said. “Why was your task force focusing on the heroin trade. I’d think the cocaine would have been more appropriate.”
“I wondered about that too. But this was a couple of years ago, and cocaine was mostly the drug of choice for the rich. I guess the bosses didn’t want to go after them, or their dealers. Heroin was still a big-time street drug, so that’s where they had us looking.”
“But things are different now,” Horse said.
“Yeah. In some ways. Coke is still the drug of choice among the idle rich, but crack cocaine is the scourge of the lower classes. That’s where the cops are putting their manpower now.”
“Whatever happened to the Cambodian, the who worked for Barlow.”
“I thought he might have had something to do with the heroin trafficking. But like I said, he sort of disappeared.”
“Did you ever think that he may have just moved from heroin to cocaine?”
“No. I can’t say that the idea ever occurred to me. But that was about the time I retired from the force.” Gordon swept the remaining dishes away from in front of him and leaned on the table. “Is that what you think happened?”
“It was just a thought,” Horse said.
23.
From West Palm Beach, Horse drove south on Interstate 95 to Fort Lauderdale. At the first Fort Lauderdale exit, he turned off the interstate and headed east toward the county courthouse. As in West Palm Beach, downtown traffic was light, and Horse easily found a parking spot within a block of his destination.
As he entered the offices of Gereghty and Martin, Bail Bondsmen, a woman Horse guessed to be in her mid-thirties waved him to a chair while she chatted on the phone. Getting the final details on how some friend got dumped by her boyfriend was more important than tending to business. Horse used the time to examine the office.
Behind the low divider that defined the waiting area was a clutter of mismatched filing cabinets and cheap steel desks. The clients of bail bondsmen don’t tend to be concerned with office accouterments, but the new Mercedes parked in the reserve spot outside the door suggested that business was good. Gereghty and/or Martin understood their fiscal priorities.
In the rear of the office room were two offices, separated from the front room by windows with vertical blinds. One of the offices was dark. In the other room, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, an open-necked sports shirt and a serious aversion to exercise was talking on the phone. A thick cigar with a long ash protruded from his mouth. Each time he spoke, the cigar jerked up and down.
Horse’s attention was focused on the ash, waiting for it to fall, when his concentration was interrupted by the woman in the front room. “Can I help you?”
Horse handed her his business card. “I’d like to speak to someone about a bond you posted for Thomas Jackson over in Fort Myers.”
The woman studied at the card suspiciously before turning and glancing toward the office where the man was just ending his call. She picked up the telephone, held the receiver close to her mouth and pressed a button. Horse watched as the man listened to her whisper a message. The man looked up from his desk, inspected Horse with a look of disdain and nodded.
“Mr. Martin will see you in a moment.”
A minute later, the heaving bulk of Robert Martin crossed the office. He scowled as he examined Horse’s card. “You want to know about Tom Jackson?” he said, without the benefit of an introduction. Personality isn’t an essential quality in the bail bond business.
“Yes. I was wondering—”
Martin waived a hand dismissively. “He’s dead, you know.”
“Yes. I know. But I was hoping you could tell me who paid for his bail bond.”
“He had an attorney over in Fort Myers. Why don’t you ask her?”
“I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop in.”
The man wasn’t buying it. “Since when is Fort Lauderdale ‘in the neighborhood’ for a private investigator from Fort Myers?”
“I had some other business over here.”
“Something connected to Jackson?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
The man continued to inspect Horse. “What was it you wanted to know??
“Who paid for Tom Jackson’s bail bond.”
“His attorney.”
“Who was that?”
“You’re the investigator. Check the court records?”
“They only show the attorney who represented him at his bail hearing; the one you sent the bond to.”
“Then I can’t help you. The attorney’s I work with don’t want their names given out.”
“Well, can you tell me if you write bail bonds for an attorney in named Richard Barlow in West Palm Beach.”
“Yeah. I done some other business with him and his clients. So it that’s all…” Before Horse could ask another question, Martin had turned and was walking toward his office.
Horse was about to accept defeat when he had one last inspiration. “Have you ever had clients referred to you by Franklin St. James.”
The man stopped short and hesitated before turning around. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just looking for information.”
“Why do you care about St. James?”
Horse ignored the question. “I knew him when he was a detective for the Miami Police Department.”
Martin leaned against a file cabinet and cocked his head. “Yeah? What division was he in?”
“Narcotics. Fifteenth precinct.”
“Okay. So you know St. James. So what?”
“He was always after the dealers. Never cared much about recreational users.”
“Yeah. That was St. James.”
“He said he had a bail bondsman he referred a lot of business to. Was that you?”
“Yeah, sure. He sent me some business from time to time. What’s that got to do with the price of coffee?”
“I was just curious. St. James is a Miami cop. Why was he referring business to a bail bondsman in Fort Lauderdale?”
Martin’s nostrils flared. “That’s none of your business?”
“In fact, why would a narcotics detective have any reason for helping anyone he had just arrested.”
“Ask him?”
“And why are you writing bail bonds for an attorney in West Palm Beach?”
Martin glared at Horse. “Mister. Ain’t none of that any of your business?” Martin again turned and started toward his office. “And I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
“Did it ever strike you as odd that half the people Mr. Barlow bailed out ended up dead?”
Martin didn’t bother turning. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“How about conspiracy to commit murder?”
Marten abruptly stopped and turned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“If you knew what was going to happen to your clients when they got out of jail, you’re just as guilty as the person who killed them.”
The man glared at Horse for a moment before responding, “Get the fuck out of here,�
�� and returned to his office.
#
Thwump. The side of Leslie’s foot slammed into the side of the heavy punching bag in the gym on the first floor of White’s warehouse.
“One more,” White urged her.
Leslie spun and threw the side of her foot against the bag. Her gray sweatshirt was dark with perspiration.
White released the bag and came to where Leslie was standing. His own sweatshirt was also dark, and sweat was dripping off his chin.
“Good workout.”
“What’s the matter, big boy?” Leslie said as she danced around the bag throwing feigned punches. “Getting too old for a little work-out?”
“I think two hours is enough.”
“You just want to save your energy in case you get lucky later.”
“You caught me.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the chirping of White’s cell phone. “It’s Horse,” he whispered to Leslie as he answered. “What do you have?”
For five minutes White listened, nodding occasionally as Horse summarized his meetings with Detective Gordon and the bail bondsman. Finally, White said, “We need to dig into that,” and hung up.
“Dig into what?” Leslie asked.
White lowered himself to the bench beside Leslie and gazed thoughtfully at the floor. “The Congressman’s name has come up again.”
“As in the Congressman who seems to be interested in Graham’s nomination?”
“The same.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” White said as he pulled a towel off the rack and began drying his face.
“Graham needs your help,” Leslie said as they entered the elevator that would take them to their apartment.
“I’m not sure he wants it.”
“That’s irrelevant. You’re going to help him whether he asks you or not.”
“Probably,” White said.
“And you think there’s a connection between David’s case and whatever Congressman St. James is doing?”
“If it weren’t for David’s case, and David’s connection to Graham, there wouldn’t be any reason for the Congressman to be interested in Graham’s nomination.”
“That’s not the same as saying that David’s case is connected to the Congressman.”
White pursed his lips and nodded. “Someone has to figure out what the Congressman is up to, and why he’s trying to block Graham’s appointment.”
“Jack Lancaster didn’t say St. James was the one who was blocking the nomination.”
“No. But St. James is the logical suspect.”
“And Graham can’t very well investigate the Congressman himself. You’re the only one who can investigate the Congressman.”
“And you don’t think I can handle two investigations at the same time?”
“You could be looking for two different things with contradictory consequences. What helps David might hurt Graham… and visa versa.”
“But only David is our client.”
“That’s not going to stop you from looking into anything connected to Graham’s nomination.”
White smiled. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you have a solution in mind.”
“Me?” Leslie said in mock surprise. “You’re the boss.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“Why do I have the feeling you want to take over David’s case?”
Leslie returned his smile. “You finally concluded that I’m a damned good attorney.”
“And a fine lover.”
Leslie snapped her towel at him and ducked off the elevator before he could respond. “If you promise to be a good boy, you can join me in the shower.”
#
An hour later White and Leslie lay together on their bed, naked and spent.
“That was nice,” Leslie murmured into his ear. “And you didn’t even have to buy me dinner.”
“But now I have to cook.”
“It’s a small price to pay for great sex.”
“What makes you think it was all that great?”
“What makes you think you’ll be getting more any time soon?”
“This is one of those times I should keep my mouth shut, isn’t it?”
“You learn fast for a country boy.”
24.
Leslie and Horse were hunched over the conference table in the War Room when White knocked on the door and wandered in. Something didn’t feel right. It was the first time they had met in the War Room since Harris’s stroke. The empty spot by the side of the conference table where Harry always parked his wheelchair left a void White could feel. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, lost in his own thoughts, before entering.
“I wondered where my top investigator had disappeared to.”
Leslie looked up and smiled innocently. “I sort of borrowed Horse.”
“So I see. What are you two doing?”
“We’re going over the lab reports from the crime scene.”
“Have you come up with anything?”
“We’re sure Jackson wasn’t killed where the body was found,” Leslie said, handing White the report she and Horse had been studying. “There was grass caught in his shoes. But there wasn’t any grass in the field where the body was discovered. We think the grass is from where he was killed. Probably when he was dragged to whatever vehicle took them to the dump site.”
“Any leads on the vehicle?”
“Nothing that seems very promising. The sheriff’s people made casts of the tire marks, but there were just too many. Same with shoe prints. The fresh prints all seem to be from the police and the police cars. The others had been pretty much destroyed as useful evidence.”
“What else do you have?”
“There’s something else in the crime scene report for the Matlacha house. In addition to cocaine residue in Jackson’s bedroom, they found traces of marijuana everywhere, and a couple of marijuana roaches in the living room.”
“David admitted that he used marijuana,” White said.
“There’s another thing that may help,” Horse said. “If nothing else, it may be a connection between the Matlacha house and the murder.”
“What?”
“The crime scene report for the Matlacha house says that they found butts from a French brand of cigarettes. A butt from the same brand of cigarettes was recovered from the field where the bodies were found. It’s not likely that Jackson was given a last smoke before he was shot.”
“So the killer had been at the Matlacha house sometime.”
“It’s a good bet.”
“Is the grass from Jackson’s shoe consistent with grass near the house?”
“Do you think Jackson was killed in Matlacha?”
“It wouldn’t be my choice. But you better check on the grass.”
Horse nodded and made a note on his pad. “It may also be important that this brand of cigarettes isn’t sold anywhere in the Fort Myers area. The nearest place they’re sold is Miami.”
White nodded.
“There’s one other thing,” Horse continued. “The cigarette is a brand that’s popular with the Vietnamese. Probably something left over from the French occupation of Vietnam.”
“Or it might also be the brand of choice of a Cambodian.”
“It could be. Anything else?”
“Any leads to who Shepard and Jackson were working for… or who else might have a motive for killing Jackson?”
“Not yet.”
“So we’re nowhere.”
Horse shrugged.
“Maybe we’re just looking at it wrong,” Leslie said.
White and Horse returned the crime scene reports to the table and turned to Leslie.
“So far we’ve been trying to find a cause and effect connection between events. ‘X’ happens because of ‘Y’”
White and Horse nodded. They had no idea what Leslie had in mind, but nothing else was getting them anywhere.
“Maybe the eve
nts aren’t connected… not to each other. Maybe the only thing they have in common is their connection to some scheme we haven’t discovered.
“The point is,” Leslie continued, “a motive might help explain what we know.” Leslie twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she struggled for words to explain what she was thinking. “I know motive isn’t an element of a crime, but everyone knows that motive is important to juries. Without a motive, a close case can become a not guilty, and with a motive, the same case goes the other way.”
“That’s true enough,” White agreed. “But we’re nowhere near trial.”
“We’re nowhere near anything,” Leslie said. “The facts we have aren’t enough to explain all the events. We know about more crimes than we have suspects, and we don’t even know which of the crimes are connected. We’re obviously missing something. If we can figure out why these things are happening, maybe we can figure out where to look for the missing facts.”
“She’s right, you know,” Horse said. “Whatever else may be going on, the only things we have to be concerned with is David Shepard. If he isn’t being set up, all the rest of this is irrelevant.”
“And if he is being set up,” Leslie interrupted, “There has to be a reason for it. By himself, David just isn’t important enough for anyone to want to frame him.”
White chewed absently on his lip. “But we’re really looking at two set-ups, the original drug bust and the murder.”
“You don’t think they’re connected?” Horse asked.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re connected,” White said. “But I also think Leslie is right. They may not be part of a single plan.”
White leaned back. The chair creaked as he rocked slowly and rubbed his chin. “Let’s start with the drug arrest… and let’s assume it was a set-up. The only ones who get hurt are Shepard and Jackson. Somebody wanted them thrown in jail. That was the original plan.”
“But why?”
“I still don’t know. All I’m sure of is that somebody wanted leverage over them.”
“But,” Horse said, “if Jackson was in jail, he couldn’t have been killed. And if Shepard was still in jail after Jackson was bailed out, he wouldn’t have been able to kill Jackson.”
“Okay. Then let’s assume that Jackson’s murder wasn’t part of the original plan.”
The Nominee Page 18