by Stuart Woods
“Thanks, Doctor,” she said. “Will you fingerprint them and take DNA samples?”
“Sure, that’s standard. What then?”
“Eventually, we’ll get a burial order, but first I want to try to identify them. Just keep them on ice for the time being.”
“As you wish.”
Holly left the ME’s office and drove back to the station. She collected Hurd Wallace, the tech and four other officers, and together they walked over to the garage, across the parking lot.
The three vehicles were lined up in separate service bays. Holly called the group together. “Here’s what we’ve got,” she said. “These two people were tortured, then shot to death. Unless somebody tortured them for the fun of it, which I doubt, the torturers wanted something from this couple, and they may not have gotten it. I want two people on each vehicle. I want everything removed and examined, then I want you to take the vehicles apart.”
“What are we looking for?” the tech asked.
“I don’t know, but I think I’ll know it when I see it. Let’s get started, everybody.”
The group began work, and as they began removing things from the vehicles, Holly walked back and forth from one to the other, watching their progress. The couple’s belongings were unloaded from the trailer and set aside, and Holly examined them. There were suitcases and boxes of clothes; there were small pieces of furniture and kitchen equipment; there were a couple of soggy file boxes. And there was a computer. Holly slipped on some gloves and started to go through the contents of the file boxes.
She found multiple birth certificates in different names for both people and blank letterheads from various financial institutions, none of which Holly had ever heard of and which she suspected were nonexistent. Some of the papers had melded together while wet and would probably not be sal vageable, she thought, but everything she saw in the file boxes had something to do with obtaining false identities or stealing identities from other people.
Hurd came over, and she showed him the materials. “Looks like these folks were hardworking con artists,” he said.
“Did you finish with the convertible?”
“Pretty much. We’ve taken everything off it we can unbolt and looked in every cavity without finding anything. Harvey is taking off the tires now, to have a look inside them.”
Holly walked around the convertible, which now looked as if it were at the beginning, rather than the end, of an assembly line. She looked in the trunk, which had been stripped of its spare tire, tools and lining. “Did the VIN get run yet?”
“Yes,” Hurd said. “The convertible was stolen in Fort Lauderdale on the same day that the plates were stolen from the Buick. The van was stolen a couple of weeks later. I’m not quite sure how you trace a horse trailer. It doesn’t seem to have a VIN, and it didn’t have any plates, either. I guess we can run a check to see if any horse trailers were reported stolen in the past few months, but even if we find out where it came from, I don’t know what that’s going to tell us.”
“It might tell us where they went after they left Lauderdale,” Holly said. “Call the station and send somebody over to the ME’s office to pick up the fingerprints of the corpses and their DNA samples. Run the prints first, on both the state and federal computers, and see if we get a hit.”
Hurd pulled out his cell phone and made the call, while Holly walked around the van, which was nearly as disassembled as the convertible. “Anything?” she asked the officers working on the van. Both shook their heads. She walked over to the horse trailer, which looked more whole than the other two vehicles.
“There’s not all that much to pull off it,” a young officer said.
“Let’s get in on a hoist and look underneath,” Holly said. The two officers maneuvered the trailer over the hoist, and soon it was six feet off the ground. Holly walked around under it, dodging drips of Indian River mud. “Pretty dirty,” she said. “Use the pressure washer.”
She stood back as the underside of the trailer was cleaned, then she looked again.
“What’s this?” an officer asked.
Holly joined him at the rear of the trailer, where a metal box had been fixed to the chassis. “That doesn’t look like it belongs on a trailer,” she said. “Get it out of there.”
The officer went to get a radial saw and returned. “Looks like it’s been welded there,” he said. “This blade ought to do the job.” He put on goggles, switched on the saw and began working on the welded seams. After a few minutes of noise, the box dropped onto the garage floor.
Holly walked over and inspected it more closely. “Looks like some sort of strongbox,” she said. “There’s a keyhole. Anybody a good lock picker?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Hurd said. He found some small tools and began working on the lock. Ten minutes later, it snapped open, and Hurd lifted the lid. “Well, I’ll be,” he said.
The box, which was about twelve by eighteen inches and four inches deep, contained bundles of money that had been shrink-wrapped. Hurd cut one open and found the bundles to be made up of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills.
“I think we’ve found out what these people were tortured for,” Holly said. “Let’s get it back to the office and count it.”
Half an hour with a calculator later, Hurd looked up from his tally. “I make it $161,000, even.”
“I guess a lot of people would torture and kill for that,” Holly said.
“I guess they would,” Hurd said.
“It’s got to be what they embezzled from the bank,” Holly replied. “They must have spent the rest.”
“But who killed them?” Hurd asked.
“So far, I’ve got only one suspect, or rather, one group of suspects.”
“How are we going to tie these murders to them?”
“I don’t know,” Holly said, honestly.
Thirty
SHORTLY AFTER HOLLY’S TELEPHONE CONVERSATION with Harry Crisp, he called back.
“Never mind sending all that stuff to me,” Harry said. “I’m coming up there. I want to talk to you and Ham.”
“Sure.”
“Can I take you to dinner?”
“Maybe we should just cook a steak at my house. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for the three of us to be seen together in a restaurant.”
“Okay, can you meet me at the Vero Beach airport?”
“You’re flying up here?” Holly asked, surprised.
“Yeah, we’ve got a light airplane attached to the Bureau. It’s better than a three-hour drive.”
“You want me to put you up for the night?”
“We’ll see when I get there.”
Holly called Ham on his cell phone. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Fishing,” Ham said.
“I don’t guess your boat is bugged.”
“It isn’t. I checked.”
“We’re having dinner with Harry at my place, seven o’clock.”
“Okay.”
“Let yourself in if I’m not there.”
“Right.”
Holly watched the Piper Saratoga set down and taxi up to Sun Jet Aviation. Harry got out and walked over to her car, carrying a briefcase and a small bag, then the airplane taxied away.
“I guess you’re staying overnight,” she said, as he got into the car.
“I guess I am. Thanks for the offer.”
“Anytime. What’s up?”
“Did you bring the material from the Morris investigation?”
“It’s at the house, and Ham’s waiting for us.”
“I’ll bring you up to date when we get there. No need to do it twice.”
They drove the rest of the way chatting desulto rily, or mostly, in silence. When they got to the house, Holly pointed at the living room coffee table. “Everything is there, except the corpses,” she said.
“I’ll go over it later,” Harry replied.
Holly got them all a drink, and they sat down.
“Okay, first of all, Ham�
��s phone is bugged, and only his phone, not the rest of the house. However, Ham, they can listen to what’s going on there, even when the phone is not off the hook. I wouldn’t say anything in the living room or on the phone that you don’t want these people to hear.”
“Okay,” Ham said.
“I guess I’m not bugged,” Holly said, “if we’re talking about this.”
“That’s right. Your place is clean, but be on the alert for signs that anybody has been here. They might decide to add you to their surveillance list.” He pulled a small box from his pocket. “See the needle there?” he asked, pointing to a meter.
“Yep.”
“You can wave this at a phone, and if it’s bugged, the needle will move. You might just check it out now and then, and if you get a reading, let me know, and we’ll go over the whole house again.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“Now, let’s go over the Morris stuff,” he said.
Holly fed him the ME’s report and her tech’s report, then showed him the money. “I guess you’ll return that to the bank.”
“To their insurance company,” Harry said. “They’ve probably already been paid for their loss.” He looked carefully at the fake IDs and birth certificates. “These are pretty good,” he said, “but a lot of people could do them with a computer and a laminating machine.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Holly said. She nodded at a cardboard box. “Morris’s computer is in there. We don’t really have anybody who can go over it, but I’m sure you do.”
“Right, I’ll take it back with me,” Harry said. “It could be important.”
Holly got up and started dinner, while Harry and Ham talked. He still hadn’t told them why he was there.
When they had finished their steaks and were having coffee, she asked. “Harry, you haven’t told us why you wanted to come all the way up here.”
“We’ve come up with something,” Harry said, “and it isn’t good.”
“What?”
“I mean, it’s good for the investigation, but it’s not good for Ham.”
“Tell us,” she said.
“Ham, you remember you said that when you were out at Rawlings’s house, they drank a toast?”
“Yep. ‘On the day.’ ”
“That’s right. We ran it through one of our databases in Washington, and we came up with something.”
“You came up with something from three words?” Holly asked, surprised.
“Yes, the Bureau has come across it before.”
“Where and when?”
“Several years ago, in an investigation in Atlanta. There was a right-wing militia group called The Elect, based in Atlanta, but with, apparently, other outposts. Ham, did anybody ever mention The Elect?”
“Nope. I think I’d remember that.”
“Well, don’t ever mention it to Rawlings and his people, but if they mention it to you, I want to hear about it.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, ‘On the day’ was a kind of motto with these people. They killed a Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate, and they made an attempt on Will Lee’s life, when he was running for Senate the first time.”
“Did they have anything to do with the attempt on his life when he was running for president?”
“It’s possible, but we’re not sure. There was a little nest of these people in Idaho, and they may have had a connection to the Atlanta outfit. We never had any firm evidence to that effect, because when we went after this guy, the others bolted, and we’ve never found them. They had been robbing armored cars and, generally, getting up to mischief. One of them actually made two attempts on Lee’s life.”
“How many of them?”
“Three families.”
“And you’ve never found a trace of them?”
“They were apparently well prepared, had escape routes and identities all worked out ahead of time. It was all very slick.”
“But you got the man who tried to kill President Lee?”
“The man’s son shot him. We questioned the boy and his family, but we never got anything out of them connecting him with The Elect.”
“Spooky,” Ham said.
“Yes, it is, and Ham, if you get any indication of these people at Lake Winachobee being part of The Elect, I want to know about it instantly.”
“Okay,” Ham said.
“Ham, I’d love it if we could take down the group, but if these people are part of it, then they’re very, very dangerous. You keep that in mind.”
“Okay,” Ham said.
“God, I’d love to bust them,” Harry said.
Ham raised his coffee cup. “On the day,” he said.
Thirty-one
A MONTH PASSED. HOLLY NOTICED THAT THE emotional detachment she felt from the experience of Jackson’s death when she was working had begun to lap over into the hours when she was not.
She still had moments when she couldn’t stop the tears, moments when she was alone in the dunes with Daisy, or sometimes when she woke up in the middle of the night and reached for Jackson, but they seemed to come less often and with less intensity. If she wanted to really feel sorry for herself, to feel what she had felt when Jackson had died, she could, but it took more and more effort. She wondered if time really healed all wounds, or if she was just becoming a harder person. She didn’t want to become a harder person, but how else could she protect herself from the pain?
She found work less and less interesting, particularly since she had not been able to connect the Morris murders to the Winachobee group, or anybody else, for that matter. And as for the Winachobee group, they had gone very quiet. Ham had not heard from them, and they had not come to her attention again, except through an occasional call from Harry Crisp, and those were coming less and less frequently.
The Morrises themselves remained an enigma. Their fingerprints were not known to any law enforcement computer, nor were their photographs. The name Franklin Morris, with its corresponding birth date, did not appear on any legitimate birth certificate known to any county database in Florida or in any other state. The young couple were a blank, and none of the names they had used on various identity papers rang any bells with anybody, either. It was Holly’s slowly developed opinion that they were not connected with the Winachobee group; rather, that they were a couple of freelance hustlers who were either new to the game or who had never been caught. Still, they were working with someone, she believed, or else why would anyone have had a motive to kill them? They had failed to share their ill-gotten gains with whomever they had promised to share them with and had been killed for it. Also, they must have learned what criminal skills they had—car theft, fake identities, loan embezzlement—from somebody, but who? Holly had no idea.
The phone rang. “Holly Barker.”
“It’s me,” Ham said.
“Hey, Ham.” She had not seen as much of him as usual, because it seemed better not to, if they were under scrutiny from the Winachobees.
“I’m on a pay phone. I got a call at home from Peck Rawlings,” Ham said.
Holly’s heart skipped a couple of beats. “Tell me,” she said.
“They’re having another one of their gun shows tomorrow, and they invited me to come out there. You, too.”
“Great,” she said.
“I said I’d ask you, but I think it’s better if you don’t come.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve told them we don’t get along all that well, remember? I think I ought to tell them you weren’t interested.”
“Well, maybe you’re right.”
“I think you ought to check with Harry Crisp on this, though.”
“Okay, I’ll call him right now. Hang on, I’ll make it a conference call.” She put Ham on hold, got Harry on the phone, then pressed the conference button. “Everybody there?”
“I’m here,” Ham said.
“Me too,” Harry replied.
“Harry, they’ve invited Ham out to another g
un show, and me, too, but Ham doesn’t think I ought to go.”
Ham explained himself.
“I think Ham’s right,” Harry said. “They need to get used to him without you—after all, you’re the law.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Holly said.
“I know you’d rather be out there amongst ’em,” Harry said, “but I think Ham’s got to carry the water on this one.”
“I guess you’re right, Harry.”
“What about me?” Ham asked.
“Oh, all right, you’re right, too.”
“I don’t hear that very often,” Ham said, and Harry laughed. “Harry, you got any special instructions?”
“Nope, just go out there and do what you do. I don’t want you carrying any recorders or cameras, either.”
“I’ve got to win their trust, huh?”
“No, not that,” Harry said quickly. “If they see you trying, they’ll wonder. Let them come to you. Don’t make any moves.”
“He’s right, Ham,” Holly said. “Did they say anything except come to the gun show?”
“They mentioned lunch by the lake,” Ham said.
“Nothing more sinister?”
“Not unless you consider barbecue sinister.”
Harry laughed. “Be patient, Holly, this is going to take a while.”
“You’re right, Harry,” she said. “Ham, take your cell phone this time, just in case you need help.”
“No, don’t,” Harry jumped in. “You need to go naked into the jungle.”
“Won’t be the first time,” Ham said.
“Bye,” Harry said, and hung up.
“Listen, I’ll call you back on my bugged phone and invite you, okay? Then you can turn me down.”
“Okay.” Holly hung up.
A couple of minutes later, Ham called again.
“Holly Barker.”
“It’s your old man, Holly.”
“How are you?” she asked, as if she didn’t care.