The Sam Prichard Series - Books 9-12 (Sam Prichard Boxed Set 3)

by David Archer

  “What if,” Michael had said to him, “there was a way you could provide for them that would last the rest of their lives?”

  24

  Lawton leapt to his feet. “Do what?” he demanded. “What kind of crap are you trying to pull? We ran his prints, there’s no doubt that’s him.”

  “Lawton, I sat face-to-face with that man while he held a gun pointed at me not three hours before he was supposedly killed. I got a good look at him, and as a former police detective, I have a tendency to carefully examine and just about memorize someone I’m having a weapon-involved confrontation with. The clothing on this body looks to be the same, but whoever did it missed something. Lawton’s fingernails were freshly trimmed; it looked like he’d just had a professional manicure. Look at the fingernails on this body.” He took the photograph he was holding and spun it around, shoving it in front of Lawton’s face.

  The right hand was in clear view in the photo, and it was easy to see that the nails had not been trimmed in some time. Each fingernail bore a white half-moon at its tip, about an eighth of an inch long. Lawton stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Sam with a sneer.

  “What, you expect me to take your word for it? I told you, Prichard, we ran his fingerprints. They confirmed that the deceased is Michael Reed.”

  “Have you forgotten everything Harry told you? This is a man who can change identities the way most of us change our underwear. On top of that, we happen to know that he was still doing clandestine work for the NSA and CIA, so it probably wouldn’t be very hard for him to get his fingerprint records altered. I don’t know who this dead man really was, but he wasn’t Michael Reed.”

  “So now you want me to believe that Reed is faking his own death? Now, considering this fantastic deal you all supposedly made with him yesterday morning, why would he want to do that? That would mean he had to walk away from all his money and his yachts and all that other crap he was so determined to hang onto.”

  “That must have only been a smokescreen,” Sam said. “Whatever he’s up to, there’s no doubt in my mind he had this planned out. He admitted to us that he planted that envelope in Harry’s apartment, as a way to draw Harry down here; we thought he originally wanted to kill Harry, but it’s obvious now that what he was really after was someone to take the fall for his own faked murder. He went out of his way to reel in the best possible suspect, a man with as clear a motive as you could ever hope for, then arranged it to look like he’d been murdered and set Harry up to take the fall. Remember that lady said she saw a white-haired man go in, but never saw anyone leave? I can tell you why. It’s because that white-haired man she saw was probably Michael in disguise. He wanted to be seen, he wanted a witness to say they saw Harry go in the house just before the gunshots were fired. Whoever the real victim was, he was undoubtedly already in the house and dressed in Michael’s clothes at that point.”

  “But that’s crazy,” Lawton yelled. “If he killed somebody to make it look like he’d been murdered, how did the fingerprints match up?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Sam said. “Reed had this all planned out. Whoever that poor schmuck was, he was somebody who looked like Michael Reed enough that, as long as you didn’t see his face, you’d think it was him. Well, the face got taken care of, didn’t it? Reed had to have picked this guy some time ago, far enough back to give him time to get those fingerprints switched. Somehow, this guy had the same tattoo and scars, but those can be arranged. He might have paid this guy a fortune to let himself be marked that way.”

  “Yeah, you can put a tattoo and a scar on somebody, but you can’t change their fingerprints. This is stupid!”

  “You don’t have to change the prints on the body, you simply substitute that guy’s fingerprints for your own in the appropriate databases. Witness protection does it all the time for people they need to hide. Trust me, there are people working for the government who can do that sort of thing, and some of them will for the right incentive. Reed would know them, and he would know how to get them to do it for him. Once Harry showed up and we all left, he probably called the guy over and found some excuse to get him into his own clothes, then made himself up as Harry and went outside, let Mrs. Stoddard see him, then went straight back inside and shot the poor man through the face.”

  Lawton was staring at him, and Sam could see the beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead. “I—man, this is crazy. Even if it was true, do you know what would happen if I went to the prosecutor with this? I’d end up in the loony bin, that’s what. Nobody would ever believe anything like this, it’s too crazy.”

  Sam scowled at him. “You think I don’t know how crazy it sounds? Unfortunately, I’ve had to deal with these kinds of people before, so I don’t get the luxury of pretending things like this don’t happen. Trust me, they do, and that’s what we’re dealing with now. Michael Reed is not dead, he’s your killer. He probably had a tracer on my rental car, so after he killed this poor guy, he checked out where Harry had gone. If Harry was at the tobacco shop around the time the victim was killed, that would be an alibi. That’s why that kid at the tobacco shop had to die.”

  Lawton was staring at him. “Just assuming for the moment this makes any sense,” he said, “how the hell do we find him? I’ll tell you now, there’s no way the State Attorney is going to buy this; if you’re right, the only way to get the charges dismissed against your buddy is if we can produce this guy in court and prove this whole crackpot theory.”

  Sam sucked in his cheek for a moment. “It’s not gonna be easy,” he said. “This man is a master of disguise, and he can become just about anyone. I need to get back to Harry and see what kind of help we can get from the feds. I’d keep this under your hat, for now, but I’ll be back in touch shortly.”

  He got up and walked out of the office without another word, leaving Lawton standing there staring after him. The detective picked up the photograph and looked at it again, then fell backward into his chair.

  Sam got to his rental car, but then froze. If Reed was actually tracking the car, it was the last thing Sam wanted to be driving. He took out his phone and googled taxicabs, then called to have one pick him up. It arrived about ten minutes later and he slid into the backseat.

  “I need the nearest car rental agency,” he said. The driver nodded once and the car took off again. The ride lasted about ten minutes more, and then the cab pulled up in front of an Enterprise office. The meter said sixteen dollars, so Sam handed the man a twenty and got out of the car.

  Fifteen minutes later, he drove out in a new Dodge Challenger and headed for the Marriott. As soon as he left the parking lot, he took out his phone and called his original rental company and told them where to pick up the Buick. Then he called Harry.

  “Sam, boy? How’s it going?” Harry drawled.

  “Crazy as ever,” Sam said. “Did you get a good look at Michael yesterday?”

  “I did,” Harry said. “Why might you be asking a question like that?”

  “Did you happen to notice his fingernails?”

  “Yep. Looked like he’d just had them done, didn’t it?”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, I’m not the only one who saw that. Well, I just got a good look at the crime scene photos of the body, and the nails haven’t been trimmed in at least a week.”

  There was silence on the line for a couple of seconds, then Sam heard Harry mutter under his breath, “Son-of-a-bitch. We’ve been completely set up, Sam.”

  “And then some. The body looks like his, it has the same tattoo and scars, the fingerprints come back as his, but I know for a fact that the dead man they found in the kitchen floor is not Michael Reed, or Michael Watkins or any other Michael that we know of. It looks to me like he wanted to disappear again, but he wanted to make sure you were charged with his murder. I’m trying like mad to figure out a motive for this, but it’s pretty much eluded me so far. Any ideas?”

  “It means he’s gone dark,” Harry s
aid. “He’s sold out, gone rogue. Remember Long? He went dark when he discovered that there were factions in the CIA that were literally out to destroy our national sovereignty. In this case, Michael has probably sold out to a foreign power. He needs everyone, especially the CIA, to think he’s dead.”

  “That’s why he wanted you to find out about Kathleen,” Sam replied. “After what he did to you, the police would naturally consider that sufficient motive for murder. All he had to do was put on a white wig and a Colonel Sanders beard and mustache, then add some looser clothes and a neighbor was happy to positively identify you as the man she saw sneaking into the house just before the gun went off. ME says the body was shot at least five times in the face, so there’s no facial identification. He must’ve chosen the victim weeks ago, then got his prints and had them substituted for his own. Fingerprint identification would hold up in court with no problem, and between the witness, your motive, your lack of alibi and some gunshot residue they found on your hands, they probably have enough to get a conviction.”

  “Sam, get rid of the car,” Harry said suddenly. “Michael must be tracking it…”

  “Already did, already did,” Sam said, talking over Harry to make him hear. “He’s probably tapping our phones, too, so now he knows we’re on to him. Damn, I should’ve thought of that!”

  “Well, don’t fret about it now. Do you have a different car?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be there in another five minutes. We need to get you and Kathleen stashed somewhere safe while I try to track him down.”

  The phone in Sam’s hand beeped, and he glanced to see that Indie was calling.. “Hold on,” he said, then switched over to the other line. “Indie? Everything okay, Babe?”

  “Well, maybe,” she said. “You told me to let you know if Beauregard had anything to say. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “He says, ‘you already lost the first hand, but there are three more to play. The dealer has stacked the deck against you, but you have an ace in the hole. The last hand will be winner take all.’ Any idea what that means, Sam?”

  “Three more hands to play, but I already lost the first one? That explains the cigar store clerk; I just have to try to keep anyone else from getting killed, so that means I can’t lose another hand. Any clue what he means by an ace in the hole?”

  “Sam, you know he doesn’t give any clear information,” Indie said. “Mom just called and said I had to give you that message.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Listen, I can’t go into it right now, but this thing has gotten strange down here. I’ll tell you when I can, but for now the less you know, the better.”

  “The less I know,” Indie repeated. “Sam, are you okay?”

  “I am for now,” he said. “The trick is to stay that way. I’ll call you when I can, Babe. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Indie said. Sam clicked the phone back over to Harry.

  “Harry? You there?”

  “Right here, Sam. I was just bringing Kathy up to date, and she thought of something. Remember he mentioned that girl, the secretary, Heather? Out of all the people who have called Kathy today to express condolences or ask what happened, she should have been one of the first. Nevertheless, she hasn’t called at all.”

  “Which could mean he either let her in on the plan, or he’s used her up and she’s quite possibly dead. Where does she live?”

  Sam heard Kathleen’s voice in the background, and then Harry said, “1371 Pine Brook Drive, in Clearwater. She lives with her mother, who was an old friend of Kathy’s.”

  “Okay, I think it might be worth checking on her. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

  “All right, but I’m taking Kathy out of here right now. Call me when you know something, and we’ll meet up.”

  Sam cut off the call and punched the address into his phone’s GPS system. A moment later, a woman’s voice began giving him directions. He took the next right turn and made his way back toward Pine Brook Drive.

  It took him almost 10 minutes to get there, and he pulled up in front of a small, pink stucco house. There was one car in the driveway, a small Nissan, and he parked behind it. Several dogs in the backyard began barking as he slid out of the car and limped toward the front door, then knocked on it when he got there.

  There was a TV playing inside the house, but he heard no signs of movement so he knocked again, louder. When there was still no response, he tried to look through the small window on the door, but there was a curtain covering it. He made his way across the front of the house to a big picture window and looked inside, then leaned on the windowsill as his shoulders slumped.

  There were two women sitting on a sofa, one of them obviously much younger than the other. The younger woman, whom Sam assumed to be Heather, looked like she’d been crying. He tapped on the window and the older woman turned and looked at him. She nodded when he pointed toward the front door and he made his way back to it.

  The door opened and the older woman looked out. “What are you,” she asked, “some kind of peeping Tom?”

  Sam showed his ID. “I’m a private investigator, Ma’am,” he said, “My name is Sam Prichard. Is Heather here?”

  “Heather’s not doing too well today, I’m afraid. She just found out her boss was murdered, and apparently they were a lot closer than I thought they were. I’m Annie, her mother, can I help you in some way?”

  “It’s actually Michael Reed’s murder that brings me here. Mrs. Reed was concerned about Heather when she didn’t call to offer condolences or ask what happened. The circumstances surrounding this case are very strange, and it’s possible that Heather could be in some danger.”

  Annie looked at him for a moment then turned and called to her daughter. “Heather? There’s somebody here who needs to speak to you.” She stepped back and motioned for Sam to enter, then led him into the living room. He sat down in a chair across from Heather and looked at the girl, and it was obvious that she was grieving.

  “Heather, my name is Sam Prichard and I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look into the death of Michael Reed, and I understand you worked for him.”

  25

  “What have you got in mind?” Ron asked. “I don’t want to get involved in anything nefarious…”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Michael had told him. “Look, Ron, I’m a man who’s simply unhappy in his life. I’m very wealthy, but that isn’t making it any better, and if anything, it makes it worse. What kind of challenges are there in life if a man can afford anything he could possibly want? I need a challenge, but that means I need to just start over completely, with no ties to my past at all. The only way I could possibly do that is if everyone thinks I’m dead.”

  Ron looked him over for a moment, then grinned. “I think I know where you’re going,” he said. “You and me, we look a lot alike. You’re thinking of me taking your place when I die?” He shook his head. “It’s a pretty wild idea, but it would never work. Even if they are pretty sure they know who a body is, they still go through all kinds of identification procedures. Your family would have to come and identify your body, they’d run my fingerprints, all that kind of stuff.”

  Michael held up a hand to stop him. “Strangely enough, I can handle those things. I have contacts that could put your fingerprints into all the big databases in place of mine, so that would confirm that it was my body. I also have some scars and a tattoo, and we could duplicate those on you pretty well. The only thing is, your face wouldn’t match up, so—I’m afraid I’d have to destroy your face.”

  Ron simply stared at him for a few seconds, as if thinking it over. “And what would be in it for me?”

  “I’m thinking 10 million dollars,” Michael said. “That ought to let your family live quite well for the rest of their lives, especially if you set it up in a trust and let them live on the interest, probably 300,000 dollars or more per year.”

  Ron’s eyes had gone wide, and he swallowed hard. “How
soon are we talking about? The doctor says I’ve got maybe four months left…”

  “I’m going to be honest,” Michael said. “We’d probably have to do it a little earlier, but not for at least a couple of months. I know a plastic surgeon who can do the scars, and getting a tattoo is no big deal. Look, Ron, the fact is that you’re going to die anyway. I’m trying to give you a way to use it to make sure your family will be okay when you’re gone. The only thing is, they cannot know anything about our arrangement. No one can.”

  It took Ron less than an hour to think it all over and decide to agree. The doctor had warned him that his last few weeks would be very painful, so the thought of checking out early wasn’t necessarily frightening. As a sign of good faith, Michael transferred one million dollars from one of his hidden accounts to a new account he hurriedly set up in Ron’s name, and gave him all of the access codes.

  Ron would only tell his family that he had once made a very lucrative investment, something he had kept secret because he was saving it for a rainy day.

  * * * * *

  Michael finished his drink and slipped out the back door, then into the boathouse a moment later. He knew from past experience that none of his immediate neighbors were likely to be out in the back, so he didn’t worry much about being seen taking the boat out. To keep noise down, he used the electric trolling motor until he was far enough away from his own home, then started the Johnson outboard and gave it throttle.

  It was almost four miles to the Gator House, but the Johnson made short work of it. It was only as Michael was preparing to ease into a slip at the docks that he began to wonder if Ron would actually show, but his fears were unfounded. Ron was wearing the suit Michael had brought him and sitting on a bench not far from where he tied up the boat, and Michael climbed out to walk over to him.