Rigged

by D P Lyle

  “Remember the pictures Pancake and Ray took? At the Macks’ house? The two guys?”

  Oh. Those guys.

  “Yeah, I remember,” I said.

  “There they are.”

  “Where?”

  “Red truck. Half a block ahead.”

  Sure enough. A bright red pickup with a camper shell loped through the traffic ahead of us. “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  “Why are we following them?”

  “Pursuing.” She smiled. “Hotly pursuing.”

  “We’re only doing ten miles an hour.”

  “Semantics.”

  “But I must admit, everything you do is hot.”

  “You complaining?” she asked.

  “Not even close.”

  She maneuvered around a car that had stopped, blinker on, prepping for a shot at parallel parking. As we slid by, I didn’t see much confidence on the driver’s face.

  “Why are we following, sorry, pursuing, them?” I asked.

  “To see what they’re up to.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Isn’t that what killed the cat?”

  We eased out of the commercial area. Traffic thinned.

  “This isn’t exactly the best car for stealth.”

  “Around here? Are you kidding?”

  True. Fairhope was one of the wealthiest communities along the Gulf Coast. Mercedes were everywhere. Like the one that separated us from the pickup. It turned off, leaving us a hundred feet or so behind the truck.

  “They’re going to see us,” I said.

  “So? They don’t know us. We’re just tourists out for a drive.”

  She slowed, letting them get farther ahead.

  “What were their names?” she asked.

  “Reed and Whitt.”

  “See? You do pay attention.” She patted my arm. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Do I get a treat?”

  “Later you can have all the treats you want.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “I know.”

  The truck turned onto Highway 104. Nicole slowed then followed.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  “Fletcher’s Farm is down this way.”

  “So is Emily’s house.”

  Which is where they turned. Into the drive, stopping just behind Sean’s Chevy.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  “Curious,” Nicole said. She continued a hundred yards past the house and turned onto a gravel road. Stopped. “Why would those two be visiting Sean?”

  “Maybe they were just turning around.”

  “Didn’t look that way.”

  She reversed onto the road, and we retraced our path. The pickup sat behind Sean’s car. No sign of activity. House closed up. Nicole rolled on by.

  “Maybe making a delivery,” I said.

  “If so, it puts Sean right in the middle of the drug world.”

  “We already know he uses. At least somewhat. And these guys are the major neighborhood candymen.”

  We backtracked to the intersection of Highway 104 and Section Road. Nicole continued across, then turned left into a dirt driveway. It sloped down toward a house, its roof barely visible through a collection of trees. She jerked to a stop.

  “Let’s hang here for a few minutes,” she said. “See if they come back by.”

  “We could get shot.”

  “By them?”

  “The homeowner. He might take offense to us being in his drive.”

  “You worry too much,” she said.

  “Only about things like bullets.”

  “Just watch the intersection. I’ll take care of the homeowner if he shows up.”

  “How?”

  “Same way I do cops. Smile. Now pay attention.”

  The intersection wasn’t very busy so there wasn’t much to pay attention to. Except Nicole.

  “Quit staring at me,” she said.

  “Not staring. Admiring.”

  “Oh. In that case, okay.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “DON’T YOU THINK you’re overreacting?”

  Jack Reed considered that for a few seconds. “No. I don’t.”

  “Me neither,” Reavis Whitt added.

  The two sat on wooden stools facing Sean across the kitchen breakfast bar. They were in Emily’s old house. Now Sean’s. Reed and Whitt had first gone by Sean’s apartment, and when he wasn’t there, came out this way. Found him packing things up, saying he’d finally decided to sell the place but needed to clean it up beforehand.

  Sean flattened his palms against the counter’s tiled surface, weight forward, shoulder hunched. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Reba called. All pissed off. Said two P.I.s came by to talk to them. Asked Clive a bunch of questions. She threw them out.”

  Sean straightened, gave a half shrug. “I’ve talked to them, too.”

  “You did?” Reed asked. “When?”

  “Couple of days ago. They seemed pretty harmless.”

  “That’s not what Reba said. She told us they were tough-looking guys. One as big as a house.”

  A puzzled look spread across Sean’s face. “Not the ones I talked to. It was a tall guy and really good-looking chick. Named Jake and Nicole.”

  Reed looked at him. “Them ain’t the ones then.”

  “Maybe there’re two sets of folks poking around?” Whitt said.

  “Or maybe they’re a whole team,” Reed said.

  “I need a beer.” Sean walked to the the fridge, yanked it open. “You guys?”

  “Sure,” they said almost in unison.

  Beers open, slugs taken by each. Sean placed his bottle on the counter.

  “Back to Reba,” Sean continued. “What’d they ask her?”

  “They mostly talked to Clive, I think,” Reed said. “Reba showed up and ran them off. But they knew what Reba and Clive did. The odd thing was they didn’t seem to care none about their dealing. Wanted to know if they sold anything to Emily or Jason.”

  “They knew about us, too,” Whitt said. “Me and Jack. Knew we worked with Clive and Reba. Reba said they might come talk to us. If they did, we should deny even knowing them.”

  Sean took a gulp of beer. “Makes sense.”

  Reed leaned his elbows on the bar. “You don’t seem overly concerned. You don’t see a problem here?”

  Sean shook his head. “I don’t. Not really.”

  “I wish I had your confidence.”

  “It was supposed to look like a drug deal. Right? Isn’t that why you planted the meth?”

  Reed shrugged.

  “And left the bodies where they’d be easily found.”

  “Yeah, and I’m thinking maybe that wasn’t too smart. Maybe me and Reavis should’ve done what we wanted to do in the first place.”

  Sean sighed. “Dumping them in a swamp over in Mississippi wouldn’t’ve been smart. For me to get the accounts, the house, she had to be dead. Not simply missing. That could’ve taken years.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So, these P.I. types, and the cops, coming around and talking to Clive and Reba seems a logical follow-up, don’t you think?” Sean asked.

  Reed said nothing.

  “They’ll talk to everyone in town who has any connection with meth, that sort of thing. Come up empty. Then move on to assuming it was some outsider. Maybe from Mobile or Biloxi.” Again, Sean braced himself on the counter. “I agree with Reba. You guys just play dumb and it’ll all pass.”

  Reed glanced at Whitt. His gaze fell to the bar top. “Seems to me that this aggravation would deserve a little more money.”

  “Aggravation?” Sean asked. “What does that mean?”

  “Just that me and Reavis are going to have to handle all this. For all of us. Take all the heat. All the questioning. Make it go away. Seems we should get paid something.”

  “You’ve been paid.”

  “
Not for this,” Whitt said. “We weren’t counting on this.”

  “Sure you were,” Sean said. “We planned it to look like a drug deal. You guys did exactly that. Why wouldn’t you think the cops, or these guys, might come around and ask questions? It’s part of the deal.”

  Reed considered that. Didn’t like it. Said so, ending with, “Maybe another ten grand would be fair.”

  “Fair? Are you crazy? First off, you’ve been paid. Second, I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “You will,” Whitt said. He waved a hand. “Soon as you sell this place.”

  CHAPTER 44

  ALEX TALLEY BENT over the trunk of a black Kia Optima, rummaging around as if looking for something. Jeans, no shirt, no shoes. Red baseball cap, turned backwards. He lifted a blanket, then a small cardboard box, dropping each back inside. He scratched his head, leaned in further, and then came out with a light-blue canvas kick bag.

  Pancake watched through a pair of binoculars. He had parked at the far end of the parking lot, next to a blue van.

  Talley slammed the trunk and walked back into the first-floor apartment he had exited only minutes earlier.

  “How you want to handle this?” Pancake asked.

  “Let’s try to play nice,” Ray said. “See if they’ll be pliable. If not, we go at them hard.”

  Pancake lowered the glasses. “They’ll be armed.”

  “I’d be surprised if they weren’t.” Ray popped open the center console and retrieved a pair of Glock nines. “We are, too.” He handed one to Pancake.

  The complex consisted of only three red-brick, two-story buildings that paralleled the tree-lined street like a trio of box cars. The sun-dappled parking lot virtually empty, most residents still at work. It was midafternoon.

  Talley answered Pancake’s knock. He had slipped on a gray tee shirt before donning his backwards cap again.

  “We ain’t buying,” he said.

  “We’re not selling,” Pancake said.

  “What do you want?”

  Pancake could see past him into a living room. Sandman sat on a sofa, cleaning a gun. Looked like a Heckler & Koch PV9. Partially disassembled. A good thing.

  “We want to ask for your help.”

  Talley craned his neck, looking past Pancake, past Ray, as if he expected to see something in the parking lot. Maybe cops, or the SWAT team. “With what?”

  “Who is it?” Sandman asked.

  “Hey, Sandman,” Pancake said. “We need a few minutes of your time.” He glanced at Talley. “You, too, Alex.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Pancake. This is Ray.”

  Pancake pushed past him and entered the living room. “Thanks for talking with us.”

  “Whoa,” Talley said. “You can’t just barge in here.”

  “We wouldn’t dare. But thanks for inviting us in.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Sure you did. You opened the door.”

  Sandman placed the disassembled weapon on the coffee table, but another gun appeared in his hand. Another PV9. He had swept it up from the sofa beside him. He leveled it at Pancake as he and Ray entered.

  Sandman waved the muzzle toward the door. “I’d suggest you guys hit the road. Pronto.”

  Pancake smiled. “Nice weapon.”

  That seemed to confuse him. Guess he wasn’t used to folks not reacting when he pointed a gun at them.

  “I know how to use it,” he said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Pancake and Ray settled in the two chairs that faced him across a low coffee table. A can of gun oil, two stained rags, and the broken-down H&K lay on its surface. Along with two baggies of meth.

  Talley remained standing but moved behind the sofa. Just to Sandman’s left.

  “Maybe I’ll show you,” Sandman said.

  Now Ray smiled. “We’d rather you simply answer a few questions.”

  More confusion. “About what?”

  “You guys do any business over in Fairhope?” Pancake asked. “What business?” Sandman still held the gun aimed in their direction.

  Pancake nodded toward the baggies. “You know. Meth, Oxy, coke. That sort of thing.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “We’re private investigators,” Ray said. “Looking into a couple of murders over in Fairhope.”

  “We don’t know anything about any murders,” Sandman said. “Not in Fairhope. Not anywhere.”

  “Then you won’t mind answering our questions,” Pancake said.

  “The hell we will.” He raised the gun, waved it from Pancake to Ray, centering it on his chest. “I suggest you get up and walk the fuck out that door. Before something bad happens.”

  Neither Ray nor Pancake moved. Or even flinched.

  “I don’t mean to dampen your enthusiasm,” Ray said, “but this isn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.”

  Sandman seemed unsure what to do next. Probably weighing his options. Wondering why they weren’t intimidated.

  “Just talk with us,” Pancake said. “Then we’ll leave and your life can go on.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “You like your business?” Ray asked. “Want to keep it up and running? Stay out of jail?”

  Sandman’s eyes narrowed; his chin came up. Trying to act all macho. Gun in his hand. Probably feeling in charge. But Pancake saw the stress lines around his mouth, the micro-ticks in his facial muscles. Barely perceptible, but there.

  “Don’t get freaky,” Ray said. “I’m going to get my phone.” He eased it from his pocket. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

  “What the fuck you talking about?”

  Ray raised a hand. He dialed a number, the phone on speaker. The answer came quickly. Bruce Markham.

  “Ray, great to hear from you.”

  Markham was smooth. Knew what was what.

  “I want to introduce you to a couple of folks. Alex Talley and Santiago ‘Sandman’ Cortez.”

  “I know them both. Quite well, actually. I’ve followed their careers for years.”

  Sandman and Talley each visibly recoiled. Pancake could almost hear the questions that rattled around inside their heads. Who are these guys? How do they know so much? Who’s the dude on the phone and how does he know them?

  “Bruce, why don’t you introduce yourself,” Ray said.

  A soft chuckle. “Gladly. Hey, boys. This is Special Agent in Charge Bruce Markham. Division Director for the DEA.”

  Silence.

  “Not much to say? No problem. I’ll spell it out for you. I know who you are. I know who your suppliers are. I know everyone in your distribution network. I know where you live. I know where your money is hidden. I know every time you take a piss.” Another chuckle. “The only reason I haven’t already come down on your sorry asses is that you’re small potatoes. Not worth my time and effort. So, answer Ray’s questions. Don’t lie or make up any shit. Cooperate. If not, I might move you to the top of my priority list. And that wouldn’t go well for you. Any questions?”

  More silence. Sandman paled. Tally wavered. Pancake feared he might faint and fall.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Thanks, Bruce,” Ray said. “We’ll chat later.” He disconnected the call. He looked at Sandman. “Now, a couple of questions.”

  “Who the fuck are you guys?” Sandman asked.

  “We might be your best friends,” Ray said.

  “Or your worst nightmare,” Pancake added. “We could be that creature that hides under your bed, making sleep difficult.”

  “It’s up to you which we are,” Ray said.

  “So put the fucking gun down and open your ears,” Pancake said.

  Sandman hesitated.

  “Do as he says,” Ray said.

  Sandman looked his way. His eyes widened as he saw the gun Ray now held.

  “Now,” Ray added.

  Sandman placed the gun on the table.

  “And you,” Pancake
said to Talley. “Sit down. You make me nervous standing back there.”

  “You don’t want him nervous,” Ray said. “Makes him break things.”

  Talley sat next the Sandman.

  “See,” Ray said. “We can all sit and chat like adults.”

  “Back to the original question,” Pancake said. “Do you guys deal in Fairhope?”

  “Some,” Sandman said. “Not much.”

  “Did you know Jason Collins?”

  He shook his head.

  “Emily Patterson?”

  Another headshake.

  “Who are they?” Talley asked.

  “The two that got themselves killed,” Ray said. “Executed might be a better word.”

  Talley looked at his partner, then back to Pancake. “We don’t know anything about that.”

  “What about Clive and Reba Mack?” Ray asked. “You know them?”

  Sandman’s back stiffened. “I’m not comfortable talking about this.”

  Ray held up his phone. “Want to feel seriously uncomfortable?”

  Sandman nodded. “Yeah. We know them.”

  “Thought you might. Tell us your relationship with them.”

  “We’re competitors, I guess you’d say. But not really. We don’t do much over there so we’ve never had any trouble with them.”

  “You don’t supply them with anything?” Pancake asked.

  “They have their own sources from what I understand.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you? Losing all that business?”

  “We do okay.” He shrugged. “Why start a war over a small market.” He actually smiled.

  “What about a couple of guys who seem to work for them?” Pancake asked. “Jack Reed and Reavis Whitt?”

  Now Sandman actually laughed. “Those two? They’re losers. Too stupid to be in the business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ever met them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, when you do, you’ll see. A couple of redneck mother-fuckers.”

  “They actually came to us,” Talley said. “When was that?” He glanced at Sandman. “Six, eight months ago?” Sandman gave him a hard look. Tally apparently missed it and went on. “Wanted to work with us. Be our guys in that area.”