Crockett and Clete got back to the bus fairly late. Crockett had a couple of phone messages, including a call from the company he’d contracted to build his cabin. They had a quick snack of tuna salad and chips and turned in for the night. The next morning, Crockett groped his way out of the bedroom to find Cletus on the phone, coffee in the pot, canned cinnamon rolls on the counter, and Nudge in the middle of the dinette table. He gave Nudge a rub, grabbed a cup, ate two rolls, and waited as Clete disconnected and laid his satellite phone on the counter. The Texican peered at him and grinned.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Gimme a break. I’m a fucking cripple.”
“The Kansas City Downtown Marriott Hotel,” Clete went on. “You know where that is?”
“Yeah. By Allis Plaza. Why?”
“Last two calls Joe Beckner made on his cell phone went there. One call shortly after we left his place in the afternoon, the other about ten yesterday morning. How long from here to the hotel?”
“About forty-five minutes if the traffic isn’t too bad.”
“Gotta be there an hour or so before lunch.”
“Why?”
“So, I’ll grab a shower and then square my blue suit away while you shower. Then we’ll get all beautiful, and head for town.”
“For the third, and I hope, final time,” Crockett said, “why?”
Clete grinned. “The game, my dear Watson, is afoot.”
“Oh, hell.”
“Carry your gun, son. We might get lucky.”
The boys arrived in the Allis Plaza underground parking complex a little before eleven and cruised the area for a few moments before finding the best available parking space. By eleven-fifteen they were sitting in the lobby of the Marriott while Cletus eyeballed the staff at the check-in counter. Crockett shifted in his seat.
“What are we doing?” he asked.
“You,” Clete said, “are waiting. I am developing an informant.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yessir. Probably that gal on the phone at the courtesy counter.”
Crockett looked to see a tall black woman with café-au-lait skin. She appeared to be in her late thirties. Her hotel uniform, an abbreviated dark blue blazer over a gray skirt, unlike the four or five other employees at the desk, was obviously tailored. She wore discreet jewelry and makeup, moved about the space with confident authority, and seemed to be in charge.
“Nice looking,” Crockett said.
“Yeah. Now we wait for lunch.”
They waited until nearly one-thirty, watching the other members of the staff come and go, before the woman in question finally gathered up her purse and left the hotel by the front door. Crockett and Clete followed her a block east where she crossed the intersection and turned south for about a half block before entering what appeared to be the tallest building in downtown Kansas City. She took the escalator to the basement and entered a food court. They watched her browse for a moment, before she chose an Italian eatery to place an order. Clete abandoned Crockett briefly to speak with the cashier. Crockett watched some money change hands, Clete walked into the center of the sparsely populated dining area, and took a seat at a table that needed bussing. Crockett joined him. As he did, he saw the woman and the cashier exchange words, and the woman look in their direction.
“Now we’ll see if she’s got any balls,” Clete said.
She watched the two of them for a moment, then walked directly to their location, put her tray on the table closest to Cletus, sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at him.
“Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice was well-modulated and held no trace of an accent or dialect.
“No, m’am,” Clete said.
“You just make it your business to buy total strangers chicken ravioli?”
Clete smiled. “I have an ulterior motive,” he said.
She studied him coolly. “Your method is a little off center. We’re not on bar stools and this isn’t white wine.”
“You strike me as more of a booth and Martini person,” Clete said. “Bombay. Up and dirty with two olives.”
The smallest of smiles graced her penciled lips. “This ain’t the time or the place,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Your help,” Clete said, laying his ID by her right elbow.
She looked at it for a moment. “Secret Service?”
“Yes, m’am. I’m Clint Marsh. This other bastion of law and order is Dan Beckett. He’s with the Department of Justice.”
Crockett lifted his ID out of a coat pocket and laid it beside Clete’s.
Her confidence began to drift a bit. “My name is Kali Brooks. Are these real?”
“Information can connect you with either of our agencies,” Clete said. “Feel free to call and check us out. Take all the time you need. We’ll wait. It is important that you trust us, Kali. We need some information and we don’t have time to go through the normal channels to get it.”
The ravioli was forgotten. “What kind of information?”
“Yesterday a retired FBI agent was brutally murdered. Twice, in the hours before he died, he called your hotel. We believe that the individual he phoned may have ordered his death. We need to determine the identity of that individual.”
“And you want me to find out what room he called, who is registered in that room, and tell you.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve been with the hotel for nearly ten years. I could lose my job for that.”
“Not unless you told someone what you did. I can get a warrant for your phone records and do all this without you, but that takes time. Time the man we’re looking for needs to check out, leave the area, and disappear into the sunset. Meanwhile, I got an ex-agent taped in a chair with his throat cut, and a lovely woman in the witness protection program that could be killed, leaving whoever may have hired the guy we believe is in your hotel free to go on hiring more killers to murder innocent people. At this point it depends, pretty much, on you.”
“You really know how to lean on a girl, doncha?”
“I get the information I need and you and I have never met. I have never been here. Beckett has never been here. You are out of it. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and you’re in the clear. I sure as hell won’t tell anybody.”
Kali stared into the near distance for a moment, then focused on Clete. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. Exactly what do you need?”
Clete smiled. “You’re a brave lady. I need the room number those calls went to, the name of who is registered in that room, and the make and license of the car he drives. I promise you that we will not confront this individual in your hotel or in the hotel’s parking area. You and your employer will be kept out of it.”
“Fine.”
Clete took a scrap of paper out of a pocket and wrote down the cell phone number in question and the number of his satellite phone. “When you get what I need, call me on that bottom number. We’ll take it from there.”
Kali accepted the paper, slipped it in her purse, and stood up. She glanced at Crockett. “He talk?”
“Hardly ever,” Clete said.
She nodded, turned, and hurried away.
Clete watched her go, moved her plate to his table, picked up her unused fork, took a bite of the pasta, made a face, and pushed the plate away.
“What kind of dumbass puts chicken in ravioli?” he said.
Crockett shrugged, shook his head, and didn’t say a word.
On the way back to the Marriott, Cletus detoured across the street to a Holiday Inn. In the lobby he grabbed some hotel stationary, wrote a short note, put it and five one-hundred dollar bills in an envelope, and proceeded on to the Marriott entrance drive-through, Crockett slugging along behind him. An airport shuttle arrived and began disgorging passengers. Clete moved through the throng and approached one of the kids that handled the valet parking.
“Excuse me.”
“Yessir?” the young man answered.
Clete held out the envelope. Reflexively, the lad took it. “Take that into Kali at the front desk,” Clete said. “When you come back, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
“Just for that?” the kid said.
“Just for that.”
The lad grinned. “Sure!” he said, and trotted toward the door.
As he left, Clete’s phone rang. Crockett moved away and into the shade of the overhang while Clete took the call. As Clete disconnected, the kid arrived back at his side. They talked for a moment before Clete handed him a bill and walked over to Crockett.
“Room seven-oh-four,” he said. “Bill Freeman. White male, five-ten, mid-forties, hair graying at the temples. Driving a Chevy rental, Missouri plates, EBS 110. Valet parking is down at the bottom of that ramp over there and back under the street. You head down there and locate the car. I’ll hustle over and bring back our ride. Then we’ll set up on the rental and wait for Mister Freeman.”
Crockett grimaced. “How come you get to do all the cool stuff?” he asked.
Clete grinned. “’Cause you’re a fuckin’ cripple.”
Crockett walked down the ramp to underground parking, sweat trickling down his temple, thinking how it was too goddamn hot to be wearing a suit. The thought of going underground gave him hope. Underground should be cooler. And it was. It was also more humid and without any breeze. Jesus. He found the valet parking area and walked it, looking for the Avis Chevy with EBS 110 plates, sweat now coursing down his ribs in a flow second only to the Snake River in early spring. He could take off his coat, but then the 686 in the shoulder holster would be as obvious as a kitten in a Jell-o salad and, sure as hell, some idiot would drive by, see the weapon, and in eight seconds he’d be surrounded by four stalwart representatives of the Kansas City Police Department, all of them pissed off and trigger-happy because they had to vacate their air conditioned squad cars to deal with some asshole wearing a gun in the oppressive, breezeless humidity of the Marriot Hotel’s underground parking garage.
He was just about to abandon both his suit jacket and his revolver when Clete’s rented Escalade came purring down the ramp and headed in his direction. Crockett clambered in, turned up the air and fans, and sprawled in the seat.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Clete asked.
“I’m fucking hot! Maybe you two-legged fucking Texicans can withstand the fires of hell, but us Nordic types are a little more sensitive to unreasonable conditions.”
Clete grinned. “I didn’t know you were so delicate. Find the car?”
“No, I didn’t find the car. Drive around a little. I’ll be able to see better without all those mirages popping up.”
Clete was in the middle of a laugh when his phone went off. He answered, listened for a moment, said thanks, hung up, and turned to Crockett.
“What’s the quickest way to the airport?” he asked.
“Get back up the ramp, turn left, and we’ll get on I-35,” Crockett said. “What’s up?”
“That was Kali. Freeman took off on the airport shuttle. He’s booked on a United flight to the east coast. UA4354. It leaves in a couple of hours. We gotta get our asses in gear.”
Crockett grinned. “Fear not, oh good and faithful servant,” he said. “All will be well. Hand me your phone.”
Clete, obviously puzzled, did as he was asked. Crockett went through information and contacted the office at Kansas City International Airport. An operator put him through to the security department. A young man named Brady took his call.
“Mister Brady, is Diane Foster still in command out there?”
“Yes she is, sir.”
“I need to speak with her, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. She’s not in the office at the moment.”
“That’s fine. Page her. It’s important.”
“What’s this in reference to, sir?”
“It’s probably above your pay grade, Mister Brady. I am Special Investigator for the United States Department of Justice, Daniel Beckett, and I need to speak with Miss Foster just as quickly as you can get her to a phone. Be a good boy and do as I ask, and she will think you are wonderful. Gimme a bunch of airport red tape bullshit, and I will personally bring so much crap down on your head, it’ll take ‘em two weeks to get enough of you exposed to daylight to fire.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Thank you, son. I’ve always liked you.”
Clete chuckled. “Finesse just ain’t your thing, is it, Crockett?”
“You wine ‘em and dine ’em, Texican,” Crockett said. “I prefer to kick ‘em in the uglies.”
“Gotta go with what works for ya, I guess.”
Diane Foster came on the line.
“Dan? Dan Beckett?”
“Diane! Just the sound of your voice makes me wish this were a social call. I’m afraid, however, that such is not the case.”
“My loss. What’s up?”
“Got a guy leaving on UA4354. Name is Freeman. White male about forty-five. He’s en route to you now on an airport shuttle from downtown Kaycee. I need to talk with him before he’s allowed to get on that airplane.”
“That’s terminal A,” Diane said. “I’m in terminal C right now. Let me get down there and set up. Can I call you back?”
Crockett gave her the number. “Thanks, Diane. I appreciate you. We’re on I-35 now. Should be there in a half hour or less. We’ll try and get past the shuttle if possible.”
“Call you soon. Bye, Dan.”
“Bye, Diane. Looking forward to working with you again.”
“Who the hell was that?” Clete asked.
“Security gal at the airport. Met her a couple of times when I had to go to L.A. back with the Amazing Disappearing Woman thing.”
“Oh,” Clete said, obviously not eager to discuss their prior involvement with haints and spooks.
“Ruby didn’t like her.”
“Probably not,” Clete said.
They drove in silence for a while, trying to locate the hotel shuttle, until the quiet was interrupted by a second call from Diane Foster.
“Shuttle’s here,” she said. “Where are you?”
“On I-29 less than ten minutes out.”
“If the description was right, your guy is in the terminal. He hasn’t gone through any security yet. What do you want me to do?”
“Just watch him. Tell your people to be careful. I have no idea how good or connected this guy is. He might be dangerous.”
“Okay. Pull up in front of the UA gates and park in the loading zone at terminal A. I’ll meet you there.”
Moments later, Crockett and Clete left the Escalade parked in the loading area and walked into terminal A. Diane Foster was just inside the entrance.
“We lost him,” she said, taking Crockett’s hand and accepting a brief hug.
Introductions were made and she continued with her story.
“He didn’t get away. He’s still in the terminal, but there was a fight between two exiting passengers and while my guys were dealing with that, your boy slipped off somewhere. I’m real short staffed and three of my people are downstairs with the cops and the combatants right now. He’s here. I just don’t know where. I’m sure we have him on camera, too. Everybody going in and coming out is recorded.”
“That includes us?” Clete asked.
“Sure.”
“Gonna need you to erase any taped content with me or Beckett in it. We were never here.”
“I can do that. I also have a list of names from the shuttle. Only seven adult males made the trip. Nobody named Freeman on the list.” Diane consulted a note she removed from a pocket. “We have a Duane Ratliff, a Jerome Blake, a Wilford Johnston, a Charles Boster, a…”
“Charles Boster?” Crockett said
“Yes.”
“Oh, hell. Clete, that’s the guy that tried to shut me down. Now we got the late Joe Beckner making calls to this guy just before he was killed. We got the two hitters coming to visit me after
Boster tried to intimidate my ass. We got the car bomb. All of this shit is connected through Boster, and I’ll bet your life savings that Boster is connected to Metzger.”
“And Boster is loose out here someplace,” Clete said.
“Fucker is heavily built, salt and pepper hair, and looks like a cop,” Crockett said. “He won’t be stupid and he probably won’t make any mistakes. You take the snack bars and shops. I’ll hit the johns, supply closets and stuff. Diane, stay out of the way and watch for him. He’s got FBI ID and is damn sure armed. This is a very dangerous guy. Don’t take him on. When you can get help from your staff, tell ‘em the same thing. Observe, don’t contact.”
“Okay.”
Crockett turned to Clete, but the Texican was already gone, moving through a crowd of unloading passengers with deceptive speed. Crockett headed toward the nearest men’s room. He stepped in quietly. One elderly man at a urinal, no feet visible under any of the stalls. A look around revealed all the doors to be open. Nothing. It was the same for two other restrooms. He found two locked supply closets and an employee’s locker room empty with one locker standing open. Reversing his path, Crockett headed back for the main concourse. On a whim, he went into the first men’s room again. Empty except for a uniformed janitor, head down and humming, diligently swabbing out the second stall with a mop. Crockett turned away to leave. The fact that janitors rarely wear Italian loafers at work registered on him just as he heard the handle of the mop whistle toward his back.
Crockett dropped to one knee as the mop handle, originally directed at his kidney, caught him below the right shoulder. He sprawled sideways on the floor, covering his face with his forearms, deflecting the kick that darted toward his throat. The second kick found its mark, striking him just below the breastbone. Immediately his diaphragm went into spasm and his body locked up. In the fetal position, unable to breathe, Crockett was dimly aware of someone opening his coat and removing his Smith & Wesson 686 from his shoulder holster. A voice growled from somewhere above him.
“Shoulda done you myself, instead of trusting those assholes to take care of things. How mean you feel now? How tough you feel now, motherfucker? You were candy, asshole. No trouble at all.”
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