The Buck Stops Here

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “You said you’ve got him calmed down for now. How?”

  “I told him you were FBI.”

  “FBI?” I asked.

  “He said he wanted to call the FBI. So I told him, ‘She is the FBI, man. It’s an internal affairs investigation, which is why she needed to use an outside source.’”

  I closed my eyes, feeling myself sinking deeper and deeper into deceit. Still, what choice did I have? Paul had already laid the groundwork. I just needed to keep my mouth shut, pick up the inhaler, and get out of there.

  “You’ll take care of this?”

  “I’m on it, Paul.”

  My call to the kid I knew as Hydro was tense and brief. I said I had heard from our mutual friend and that I would come to town now and retrieve the inhaler, but that it would take me about an hour and a half to get there. He told me to meet him under the Friendship Oak again, so I agreed, even though my plan was to call him back once I got to Hammond to give him a new place to meet—just in case I was being set up.

  I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and put my hair in a small ponytail. I needed to look different than I had the last time I had gone there, not to mention younger. I also grabbed some clothes just in case I wouldn’t have time to come back to the hotel before my appointments with the board members.

  The drive there felt as though it took forever. As I went, I kept going over different scenarios in my mind for how to make this exchange. The kid had seen my car at our first encounter—a careless mistake I shouldn’t have made. Now I could only pray that he hadn’t memorized my license plate and turned it over to the FBI.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t think I deserved some sort of punishment for stealing the inhaler in the first place. I knew that I had been wrong to do that, and I was willing to pay the consequences once this investigation was over. My bigger fear now was that I might be arrested as a terrorist or a potential murderer myself for being in possession of this particular substance.

  And though I had no doubt that if I were arrested I would be able to sort things out and prove my innocence of any malicious intent, I also could not spare the time, the trouble, nor the hindrance of an arrest. Now that I knew the inhaler contained a deadly chemical, I had incredible leverage with James Sparks. This new knowledge might be the key to get him to talk to me and tell me what I wanted to know. The last thing I needed was to be waylaid by some college kid’s overexuberance.

  When I got to Hammond, I took a different exit than the one before. This time I made a wide circle and came in from the other direction. That way, if any agents were posted at the expected exit, watching for me, they wouldn’t be cued in to my appearance. After I took the second Hammond exit, I stopped off at a thrift store and bought a cheap backpack, hoping I looked young enough to pass as a college student.

  Driving slowly through the lovely, very Southern-looking town, I made my way to the campus. I entered it from a different side than before and found a parking spot near a women’s dormitory. Once there, I loaded my cell phone and my binoculars into the backpack, slung it over my shoulders, and then jogged down the sidewalk toward the meeting point, passing other students who didn’t even give me a second glance. So far, so good. As soon as I saw the Friendship Oak ahead, I jogged toward a nearby building and went inside.

  From the sounds in the hall and the signs on the wall, I realized I was in a music building. On the second floor were rooms along the front where I might be able to peek out of the window and look toward the rendezvous point. Unfortunately, all of those rooms were occupied, and from the sounds I heard as I walked by, I had a feeling they were individual practice rooms. Inside were soloists, pianists, and one very talented flute player.

  What I really needed was to get to the roof, if there was indoor access to it. From there I would be able to look downward in every direction and see what was really going on. I tried to think logically about where I might find roof access, and I quickly tried several different doors and hallways inside the building, to no avail. Finally, I happened upon an auditorium. It was empty, and my heart raced as I ran down the aisle and up onto the stage. Many theaters had roof access from backstage. Sure enough, it didn’t take long to find the metal rungs of a ladder protruding from the wall. Looking up, it was dark, but I gave it a shot anyway, knowing the ladder most likely ended at the roof.

  Of course, it was a long climb. As I went I looked neither up nor down but simply straight ahead. When I realized that I was about three stories above the stage and still climbing, I started to get the creeps. But then I used some of the rock climbing techniques Tom had taught me to keep my head clear and my heart rate in line.

  I reached the top at last. Squinting in the darkness, I could make out a white square up over my head. I reached up and pushed, and it easily swung free, bathing me in sunlight so bright I had to close my eyes for a minute. I was there. The only problem was that the ladder actually dipped backward in a sort of curve for the last few rungs. If I lost my grip or my footing, I would plummet four stories to the ground!

  Still, these were metal rungs. I had done much worse on a sheer rock wall with nothing but tiny crevices for a grip. I felt certain I could handle this.

  Focusing on the task at hand, I did it, finally pulling myself through the roof hole and then collapsing backward onto the tar-and-gravel surface, catching my breath. After a few seconds I sat up and looked around, stunned to see that all of my effort had been in vain. The roof was lined on all four sides with a cement wall that must have been seven feet high. I stood and went to the front wall, but there was no way I could see over it, not even if I jumped.

  I couldn’t believe I had made that climb for no reason!

  Desperate, I walked the perimeter and felt a flash of hope when I discovered a small pile of discarded paint cans in a back corner. I carried them to the front, stacked them, and climbed on top of them. It was a bit precarious, but at least I could see over the wall to the Friendship Oak across the street and far below.

  I climbed down from the paint cans, got out my binoculars and my cell phone, and then climbed back up. Using the binoculars, I slowly studied all of the cars that were parked around the perimeter, as well as all of the pedestrians in the area. I didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I dialed the number for Hydro, and when he answered I told him I was so sorry, but I had gotten a flat tire out near the shopping center. Help was on the way, I said, but was there any way he could come and meet me there in the meantime? He reluctantly agreed, so, speaking from memory, I said I was on the left side of the stores, right near the road. He said I was lucky he had brought his car today and not his skateboard.

  Once I hung up, I trained the binoculars on the massive tree. After a moment, I saw my purple-haired friend walk out from under it, go to a car, get inside, and drive away.

  Now was the moment of truth.

  I watched and waited and watched some more, but no one else seemed to spring into action. No cars pulled out and followed him. No people left where they were sitting or standing. The quiet, peaceful campus stayed exactly as it was. He hadn’t turned me in.

  As quickly as I could, I climbed down from the paint cans, threw my stuff into my backpack, and ran to the hole. Getting started going down was even more terrifying than coming out had been, but I dried my hands on my shirt, gripped the handles, and simply went. Before long, I was back at the level of the stage. I dropped down onto the plank floor and then jogged from the building. I had just burst out into the sunshine when my cell phone rang.

  “Pink Panther?” Hydro said. “Where are you?”

  “I am so sorry,” I said again. “Triple A got there just as I was hanging up the phone, and they changed the tire so quickly I thought I could catch you at the tree. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at the mall,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Out in front of the shopping center.”

  “I’ll be there in just a minute.”

  After I hung up, I let out a lo
ng, slow breath. Then I ran as quickly as I could back across the campus to my car. From there I easily found the road to the shopping center, where we made the exchange without any trouble. To prevent accidental exposure, he had put the inhaler in a Tupperware container along with a printout about its chemical composition. I took it from him and thanked him for a job well done.

  Hydro was sweating, but then, so was I! He seemed both frightened and excited by the whole thing, and as we talked, I felt bad, for he had bought—hook, line, and sinker—Paul’s story about me being an FBI internal affairs officer. I let him keep that notion.

  He even asked me how to go about applying for an FBI job himself. I took my best guess while trying to sound as though I knew what I was talking about. I suggested that he go to the FBI’s website and said that all of the information he might need would be right there.

  “Can I use you as a reference?” he asked as I climbed into my car.

  I looked back at him grimly.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just tell them the Pink Panther sent you.”

  Forty-One

  By the time I got back on the interstate, I knew I would be late for my appointments with the Family HEARTS board members that Phillip had set up for me. As I drove I dug out their information and called, rescheduling two of the meetings for Friday. I didn’t cancel the third one, because I thought I could still make it. It was at 8:00 P.M. with a woman named Sandy Norris. I seemed to recall Veronica talking about her. She was a friend whose daughter had a rare disorder of some kind.

  I dialed Tom’s number next, but I was disappointed to get his voice mail. I left a fairly cryptic message, that “the substance had been verified” and that someone had, indeed, been intended for the “pearly gates” just as I had suspected. I hoped that message would lend gravity to the situation on his end, and that Sparks would be kept safe—at least until I could talk to him.

  Finally, I called Gordo in Georgia. He didn’t answer, so I left a message. While I waited for him to call me back, I thought about what I needed to do. Though I hated the thought of being in possession of the deadly ricin, I was also extremely excited, because the knowledge I had about the contents of the inhaler gave me some incredible leverage with James Sparks. The bottom line was that it was time for Sparks and me to have a confidential conversation, free of the possible electronic surveillance of the federal prison telephone system.

  There were only two ways I could accomplish that, however. One was to fly to Georgia and see Sparks in person. The other was to somehow get Gordo into a meeting with Sparks in a private room and have the conversation over a scrambled telephone. I thought the second idea was worth a try.

  Gordo called me back 15 minutes later. Before I told him what I needed for him to do, I asked what had happened on his end so far. He said he had managed to sneak a peek at Les Watts’ telephone records for the past few months, but there were no long-distance calls on them to Louisiana. He also got a bit more information from Watts about his side job. Apparently, the guard really was just a paid go-between for James Sparks and someone on the outside. Watts delivered messages back and forth and got paid once a month, the amount dependent on how many messages had been exchanged.

  Gordo had not been able to get Watts to tell him who the person on the outside was, how he got the messages to this person, or how, where, or when he was paid. I had a feeling that we had already pushed our luck in this matter, and I told Gordo that he didn’t need to deal with Watts anymore.

  “Good. He was nice at first, but we’ve run out of things to talk about. Now he’s just about the most boring mark I’ve ever worked. If I have to sit in his living room and listen to his long drawn-out fishing stories one more time, I’ll go nuts.”

  “Well, you may not be so happy when you hear what I need for you to do next.”

  “Oh, boy. Lay it on me.”

  I told him I needed for him to have a meeting in the prison with Sparks. “The only way you’ll be able to get in to see him is as an attorney,” I said. “I’ll say you’re working for me, which is true, and set it up with the warden. What I need for you to do is get a scrambled cell phone and a nice suit. You’re going to have to look the part.”

  “But I’m not an attorney. I can’t pull that off.”

  “Well, the warden has the right to ask for proof that you are an attorney, but he’s not required to. He certainly never asked for anything from me, even though I was ready to give it to him. So chances are he won’t ask for anything from you either.”

  I went on to say that I would request a private conference room from the warden. Once Gordo and Sparks were in there alone, he was to call me on the scrambled phone so that I could talk to Sparks directly.

  “Okay, I see a couple problems here,” Gordo said. “First off, where am I supposed to get a scrambled cell phone? The Feed and Seed store? I’m in the middle of the boondocks here, Callie.”

  “Try Albany. It’s a fairly good-sized town. I bet you can find a cell phone store or two. Maybe a Radio Shack.”

  “You paying for the new suit?”

  “Of course. Put it on my bill. But no Armani, okay? Try to keep it at a couple hundred. You want to look nice, but you don’t want to look too nice.”

  “One final problem,” he said, “and it’s a big one. What about Les Watts? Nice suit or not, he’s going to recognize me.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Probably the best we can do is work around his schedule. Do you know what time he gets off tomorrow?”

  “Not a clue. I could call him and find out.”

  “Do that right now, if you don’t mind. Ask him what his hours are tomorrow because you want to know if he’d like to go fishing after work.”

  “Oh, great,” he said. “As long as I don’t really have to go.”

  We hung up and I continued driving along the elevated roadway. Five minutes later, Gordo called me back.

  “He got the noon to eight P.M. shift,” he said. “He wanted to go fishing in the morning, but I said I had to work.”

  “And you weren’t even lying,” I replied. “I’ll call the prison first thing in the morning and try to set the appointment for nine or ten. You be ready to roll. Right now, you’d better hustle on down to Albany or all the stores will be closed.”

  “All right, Callie,” he said, sounding doubtful. “I hope this works like you think it will.”

  I felt better after hanging up the phone. I would call the warden tomorrow first thing and request a morning meeting in a private conference room between one of my “associates” and James Sparks. I didn’t think there would be any problems there.

  All that remained right now was what to do with the inhaler itself. Now that I knew it was filled with a lethal poison, I was very uncomfortable having it in my possession. I tried to think of where I might be able to store it, but every idea I came up with had problems. The in-room safe at the hotel was simply too close for comfort. I needed some other secure location, a place where there was absolutely no chance that anyone else might stumble upon it. A safety deposit box would be ideal, but it was too late in the day to find an open bank. I considered getting a locker at the airport or a bus station or train station, but I was afraid that might somehow endanger others. I needed a less populated spot.

  When the elevated road ended and I dipped down onto the regular road, a billboard caught my eye. A “U-Store-It” storage facility was off of the very next exit.

  As it turned out, the place was perfect. It was located out in the middle of nowhere, rows and rows of storage rooms with plenty of vacancies. I rented the smallest one they had, a tiny three-by-five climate-controlled room, and bought a big padlock from the man at the desk to keep it secure. Following his directions, I found the room and put the Tupperware container with the inhaler into it.

  Having done that, I got back onto the interstate and raced to my appointment with Sandy Norris. I was embarrassed by my appearance, but there wasn’t much time to make a switch. I pulled into a gas
station and did the best I could, quickly changing into the outfit I had brought along and running a brush through my messy hair. I didn’t even bother trying to refresh my makeup. It had been a long day, and at this point all I really wanted was a hot shower and a comfortable bed.

  Still, this was an appointment I needed to keep. I was drawing near the end of my Family HEARTS investigation. The sooner I met with some of the board members, the sooner I could wrap it up altogether and focus exclusively on my own investigation.

  I checked my image in the mirror and then ran back out to my car. After plugging the address into my GPS, I headed over the Mississippi River Bridge to an area known as Gretna. The house was easy to find, a cute little Victorian-style home on a quiet, dead-end street. I parked out front and made my way to the door, stepping over several toys once I reached the porch.

  I rang the bell, hoping this would be a quick and easy appointment and then I could be on my way.

  Forty-Two

  Sandy Norris answered the door, an attractive but tired-looking brunette with a rag in one hand and spray bottle of cleaner in the other.

  “Perfect timing,” she said as I stepped inside. “My husband just took the kids for a walk.”

  She led me to the kitchen and suggested I sit in the chair at the end of the table.

  “We just finished dinner,” she said, “so you’ll have to excuse me if I clean while we talk.”

  “No problem.”

  I would have thought the woman a neat freak for cleaning during a meeting, were it not for the food that seemed to be splattered all over the kitchen. It looked as though a pressure cooker had exploded in there. Besides food all over the table and most of the chairs, there were splatters on the cabinets, counter, the front of the stove, and even on the ceiling.

  “Rose is a bit tough at dinnertime,” she explained as she ran the rag over the oven. “Food either goes into her mouth or across the room.”

  I offered to help, but she insisted that I relax, she was used to it. Sure enough, she wiped everything down quickly and efficiently.