Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  As we all stood to leave, Cyrus looked over at Al. “Too bad about Malcolm, wasn’t it?”

  “What, that the fuckin’ rat has to spend a few years in the Caymans drinking piña coladas and banging native girls?”

  “He didn’t make it to the Caymans, Al. His plane exploded en route. He’s scattered over a couple hundred square miles of the Gulf.”

  Al didn’t flinch. “No shit. His plane blew up?”

  “Yeah, first Thorny, then Rosenburg, and now Malcolm,” Cyrus replied. “It’s getting to be dangerous being involved with Montana Creek Mining, isn’t it?”

  Al extended his hand to shake with Cyrus and looked him directly in the eye.

  “Sometimes bad things happen to good people, my friend.”

  “Yeah, they sure seem to, especially lately.” I said, looking at Al and Pino. “Beats any actuarial table I’ve ever seen. Three dead shareholders in less than six months. Hell, I decided I should take some precautions. So, I set it up where if my plane goes down or I eat a poison tree frog, all my shares go to the general fund at Central Washington University, my alma mater.”

  Al and Pino looked at me.

  “Very generous of you, Trace,” Al said, glancing from me to his brother. “You’re not insinuating we had anything to do with those deaths, are you?”

  “Nope, but like Cyrus said, owning shares in Montana Creek Mining seems to come with a bit of risk. I’m just making sure my shares are well-placed should something happen to me.”

  Back in our room Cyrus looked at me as he mixed a Crown and water.

  “Your shares really go to Central if something happens to you?”

  “Yep. I had Will Coffee update my will. Kind of surprised Albert a tad, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I believe it did. It’s a smart move, Trace. Take away the Pantelli’s fancy clothes, cars, and money, and you’ve got a couple of bottom-dwelling scum suckers. I told you, killing is just a tool with them. We need to be very, very careful from here on out.”

  “I’ve got to believe the FBI is going to tie the Pantellis to Rosenburg and Malcolm’s deaths.”

  “Maybe. Problem is, the guy who hit Rosenburg and tried to snuff Malcolm got snuffed himself. So he’s not around to testify against the Pantellis.”

  “What about whoever planted the bomb on Malcolm’s plane?”

  “My guess is he, or she, is already out of the country.”

  I nodded in agreement. “By the way, that little jab about Malcolm hit a nerve. I could see Al’s jaw tighten, just a bit.”

  “They’re both very cool customers, but they killed Malcolm and Rosenburg just as sure as we’re standing here.”

  Chapter 56

  Sean Flannigan checked into a cheap hotel near Houston’s Intercontinental Airport. He opened a throw-away cell phone and dialed Al Pantelli’s number.

  “Al, it’s Sean.”

  “Jesus, Sean, are you out of your fuckin’ mind? You hit a cop, a senior detective, in my town, without asking me first. Do you know how much heat this is going to bring down?”

  “It was me or him, Al. There must be a warrant and a description out on me. The cop recognized me, called me by name, and went for his piece. I was damned lucky to tag him first.”

  “Okay, okay, shit happens. Where are you now?”

  Sean hesitated. He knew he was on thin ice with the Pantellis.

  “I’m getting ready to take a little vacation. I’ll let you know where I end up.”

  “Good plan. Lay low till the heat blows over. And goddamn it, Sean, don’t do anything else stupid.”

  “It wasn’t stupid, Al. It was necessary. You’d have done the same damn thing.”

  “Maybe. It’s just we’ve got a relationship with you, and naturally we want to protect it.”

  Sean knew Al meant protect the family. Which meant he’d be a dead man if he got captured.

  “Don’t worry, Al. They won’t find me. I’ll be in touch.”

  “You do that, Sean.”

  *****

  Since Sean Flannigan was considered a terrorist, FBI Special Agent Monroe and Agent Allen were working closely with the New Orleans Police Department on the shooting of Detective Hebert. They re-interviewed both the bartender and the doorman at the Club Le Bon Temps. Both of the club’s employees knew the suspect as Mr. McDougall, and both were able to ID him from photos of Flannigan.

  Agents Monroe and Allen were seated at the bar in the Club Le bon Temps, having a coke after completing their questioning of the bartender.

  “It was Flannigan, all right,” Monroe said. “It looks like Detective Hebert made him at the bar and followed him into the head.”

  “Yep, and Flannigan was ready. Two in the chest and one in the head. Very tidy.”

  Monroe’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Special Agent Monroe, speaking.”

  Monroe listened for a minute, then pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and grabbed a napkin from a stack on the bar.

  “Give me that again.”

  Monroe hung up and looked at Agent Allen. “The NOPD located Sean’s apartment. They’re waiting for us before they go in.”

  Monroe threw five bucks on the bar, and the two agents hauled ass.

  The New Orleans Police had Sean’s apartment building sealed off. Monroe and Allen pulled up, parked near a police cruiser, and walked over to a uniformed lieutenant, who appeared to be running the operation.

  “Lieutenant, I’m Special Agent Monroe, FBI, and this is Agent Allen,” Monroe said, opening his badge holder.

  “I’m Lieutenant Decker. We’re ready when you are.”

  “Let’s go have a look-see,” Monroe said.

  Four uniformed cops, along with Lieutenant Decker, Monroe, and Allen, entered the apartment building and cautiously ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  “It’s number twenty-two,” Lieutenant Decker whispered, pointing two doors down.

  “Are we going in hard or soft?” Monroe asked, softly.

  “Hard. Standby,” Decker replied, in a low voice, motioning his men to get in position.

  “Guns out and up,” Decker whispered, pulling his .357 service revolver and positioning himself just to the left of the apartment’s door.

  Lieutenant Decker did a last check of his men, then shouted, “Police!” And kicked the apartment-door open. The uniformed officers followed, guns at the ready. Monroe and Allen were close on their heels.

  “Spread out. Check every room, closet, everything,” Decker ordered.

  In a few moments, shouts of “Clear!” came from all quarters.

  “He’s not here, Agent Monroe,” Lieutenant Decker said, the disappointment obvious in his voice.

  Monroe figured if he and Allen weren’t present for the raid, and if Flannigan had been in his apartment, he’d have been shot about twenty times . . . trying to escape. Cops hated a cop killer, above all else.

  “No, not now, but he’s been here since the shooting. Look at this,” Monroe said, pointing to a few red whiskers stuck around the drain in the bathroom sink. “He’s shaved his goatee and dyed his hair from the looks of it,” Monroe said, picking an empty hair-dye bottle from the trash. “Our red-headed Irishman is now a brunette. Agent Allen, update the APB with this new information. Make sure security at all the major airports within a six-hundred-mile radius get the revised info.”

  Special Agent Monroe had the right idea, but he was about four hours too late. Earlier that morning, William O’Connell, aka, Sean Flannigan, boarded an Island Air 737 bound for George Town, Grand Cayman. As the updated description was being delivered to security personnel at Houston Intercontinental Airport, Flannigan was checking into the Colonial Hotel on Grand Cayman Island.

  While he was waiting to get a hit on Flannigan’s revised APB, Special Agent Monroe decided to go see Mr. Bugati. He called the warden at Pollack Federal Prison near Alexandria, Louisiana, and got permission to interview Bugati. Monroe knew it was his last best chance. The Chemist was dead and buri
ed, but Bugati might be able to give him enough to implicate the Pantellis.

  Monroe met with Bugati in a special interview room. The convict was thin and wiry with short-cropped hair and jailhouse tats on his forearms. His close-set dark eyes and narrow, pinched face reminded Monroe of a weasel, which he hoped would be the case.

  “Mr. Bugati, I’m Special Agent Monroe. I believe you’ve already spoken to Agent Allen?”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll get right to it, Mr. Bugati. I think you’re a slime-ball, and I’d love to see you sit around here for a few more years, and maybe get shanked out in the yard or anally explored in the showers. But, if you can help us build a case against the Pantellis, I’ll arrange an early release, and you’ll be back on the street. You’ve got this one chance. I won’t be back. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. I already told the other agent what I’d heard about the Chemist doing wet work for the Pantellis.”

  “Yeah, well, the Chemist is dead. I’ll need you to agree to testify as to your knowledge of his association with the Pantelli family.”

  “Jesus, they’ll kill me.”

  “No, they won’t. We’ll put you in the witness protection program, after you testify. You’ll get out of this place and get a fresh start. It’s up to you, and I need your answer right now.”

  Bugati clasped his hands between his thighs and looked down at his prison-issue shoes for nearly a minute.

  “Okay, I’ll do it. But, you’ve got to get me out of here, and I mean fast. Word will get out I’ve been talking to the feds. Hell, I won’t last long enough to testify.”

  “I’ll get the paper-work drawn up for you to sign. You’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Just sit tight and don’t do or say anything out of the ordinary. Got it?”

  “I got it. Just don’t take too fuckin’ long. The Pantellis have big ears and long arms.”

  Bugati was right to be worried. Pino Pantelli closed his cell phone and walked down the hall to his brother’s office. He knocked twice and opened the door.

  “Got a sec, Al?”

  “You bet,” Al replied, looking up at Pino. “Jesus, you look like death warmed over. What’s up?”

  “Yeah, well, you remember when I told you a guard we have on the pad up at Pollack said the feds had visited with Vince Bugati?”

  Al thought for a moment. “Yeah, I do. They were asking him questions about the Chemist?”

  “Yep, well they came back. Only this time they sent a big- gun agent by the name of Monroe.”

  “Our guy on the inside is a senior officer. He says Bugati is going to be transferred to FBI protective custody.”

  “Holy shit,” Al said, shaking his head. “The little prick’s going to rat us out, isn’t he?”

  “Looks that way. The fuckin’ Chemist is pushing daisies, but Bugati may know enough to implicate us in a couple of hits.”

  “How long have we got?”

  “The guard says a couple of days, at most.”

  “Jesus, it’s piss-poor timing, but we’ve got no choice.

  “Agreed. I’ll take care of it,” Pino replied. “I know just the man for the job.”

  Pino arranged for a woman to be at the prison visitors area the next day. She was to meet with an inmate named Anthony Delucia, and pass on Pino’s instructions.

  Delucia was doing twenty years for manslaughter after a drug deal went south, a Pantelli drug deal. He took the bust and refused any deal to testify against the Pantellis. In return for his loyalty, the Pantellis made sure his wife and two kids wanted for nothing.

  Delucia would do the hit on Bugati.

  Chapter 57

  When I got back from the Sullivan Mine, I’d received an e-mail, with an attached photo, from Special Agent Monroe. His e-mail said the fellow in the photo was a person of interest in Malcolm’s plane crash. He also listed a number of aliases. I opened the attachment but didn’t recognize the man, or any of the names listed. I forwarded the e-mail on to Cyrus and Wally.

  Wally e-mailed me back within fifteen minutes. He’d never seen or heard of the individual in the photo. Cyrus called a few minutes later.

  “Trace, it’s Cyrus. I looked at the photo and names, but neither rings any bells with me.”

  “Yeah, same here.”

  “Listen, I’ll forward the photo on to some of my pals who run more in the shadows and see if I get any hits.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, Cyrus. Let me know if you turn up anything.”

  Sean Flannigan needed to find more permanent quarters. The Colonial was great but too expensive, and too high profile, for a long stay. He decided to look for a condo he could rent on a monthly basis. After a few days of looking, he found a nice building on the beach with a great pool. The property manager said there was only one vacant condo in the building. The owner was from Spokane, Washington, and occasionally let friends and business associates use the condo. She said she’d check about the possibility of a month-to-month rental.

  *****

  Cyrus got the call a day later.

  “Mr. McSweeny, this is Doris Wright in George Town. Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure, Doris. Everything okay with the condo?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s just fine. I’m calling because I’ve had an inquiry from a gentleman who’d like to rent it on a monthly basis, for a few months. Would you have an interest in doing that?”

  Cyrus thought about it for a few moments. “As a matter of fact, I’m not planning on using it for some months. So, yes, I would be interested. What’s the going rate for a monthly rental?”

  “I think three thousand a month with a seven-hundred-fifty- dollar deposit would be in line.”

  “Okay, go ahead and rent it, but make it a maximum of three months. I may be coming down for a bit, after that.”

  “Okay, I’ll contact the renter. He’s staying at the Colonial, and I’ll e-mail you a copy of the lease. Do you want me to hold the funds in our account until you come down, or set up something else?”

  “No, that’ll be fine. It’ll give me some spending money when I come down,” Cyrus said with a laugh. “By the way, is it just one person or a couple?”

  “Just one man. He seems very nice, and has a wonderful Irish accent. I believe he said his name is William O’Connell.”

  “William O’Connell? Boy, that name seems familiar to me.”

  “Well, I’ll get everything taken care of and send you the documents.”

  Cyrus hung up, still trying to remember where he’d seen or heard that name before. Then it came to him. He quickly re-opened Trace’s e-mail and scrolled down. William O’Connell was the third name on the list of aliases.

  Cyrus hit Trace’s number on speed dial.

  “Trace, it’s Cyrus. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Hell, Cyrus, I’ve got the commies trying to take over my company. I just got back from having supper with the Pantelli crime family, and I’m on a first-name basis with the fucking big Indians. I’ll believe damn near anything.”

  Cyrus laughed. “Fucking big Indians?”

  “When I was working on my masters, I was mapping along the Yakima River, and I wanted to cross a suspension bridge over the river. I sent one of the undergrad students over to see if it was okay to cross. The kid came back and said the FBI was on the other side, and told him we couldn’t use the bridge. I said, ‘The FBI?’ And he replied, ‘Yep, a fucking big Indian.’ ”

  Cyrus laughed. “Well this is even better. My property manager in the Caymans just called to see if I’d consider renting my condo out for a couple of months. I don’t have any plans to use it, so I told her sure. Guess who the renter is?”

  “Jimmy Hoffa?”

  “Very funny, but not too far off. Try, William O’Connell.”

  “William O’Connell? Where do I know that name from?”

  “Check the e-mail from the fucking big Indians.”

  “Holy shit, you’re right. It w
as one of the names in the e-mail from Agent Monroe.”

  “Exactly right, and it gets better. The guy’s got an Irish accent. I am going to send his picture to my property manager and see if it’s our man.”

  “Ah, I’d hold off on doing that, Cyrus. You could be putting her in harm’s way. And, two, if your manager starts acting differently around him, he may get suspicious and disappear.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Trace. It’s just I want to get this son of a bitch for killing Malcolm.”

  “So do I. But I think our best course of action is to get Agent Monroe on the phone. Can you hold while I try and conference him in?”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled Special Agent Monroe’s card from my desk and called his cell number.

  “Hello, Trace,” Monroe answered, seeing my name on his caller ID. “Did you get the e-mail I sent?”

  “Morning, Agent Monroe. Yes I did, and I forwarded it to Cyrus McSweeny to see if he recognized the photo. I’ve got Cyrus on the line with us.”

  “Mr. McSweeny, Special Agent Beau Monroe here. What have you fellows got for me?”

  “We think we’ve located Sean Flannigan, aka, William O’Connell,” I replied.

  “Did you recognize him from the photo?” Agent Monroe asked.

  “You tell him, Cyrus,” I replied.

  “Okay. No, not from the photo,” Cyrus said, “but from one of the aliases on the list.”

  “Which name?” Monroe asked.

  “William O’Connell,” Cyrus replied.

  “I see,” Monroe said. “And how do you know where he is?”

  Cyrus snickered. “He just rented my condo in George Town, Grand Cayman.”

  “Are you sure?” Monroe asked, his voice deadly serious.

  “Pretty sure, Agent Monroe,” Cyrus replied. “My property manager confirmed the name and mentioned the fellow had an Irish accent. I was going to send her his picture to confirm, but Trace thought we should contact you first.”

  “You thought right. This guy is an IRA killer. He’d likely kill your property manager and skip the island, if he thought his cover was blown.”