Meshach cocked his head. “Didn’t you make an agreement with the man who rented this place from you? Privacy. I like my privacy. I know he told you that, and I know you’ve been paid handsomely too. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Your tabletop is broken. Here’s two grand for a new one.” He counted out two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills, twenty in each stack. “And another two grand to leave me alone. Let’s call it a bonus. Take the cash and go. Or don’t and I’ll go.” Meshach pocketed the dozen or so bills left, turned his back on the unwanted visitor, and walked into the bedroom. The moment he rounded the corner out of sight, he spun and crouched next to the open doorway.
Meshach followed Scott’s movements by the squeak of his shoes. Four rapid steps to the counter followed by a long sigh. A long squeak as he spun on the ball of his foot and turned toward the door. The screen door bumped the jamb, sounding his exit.
Meshach moved back into the kitchen and watched from the living room window as Scott descended the steps.
As he suspected, Scott had taken the bait. A good stack of C-notes worked every time.
Scott walked to the end of the slip and boarded a Skeeter Bay Boat. He lit a cigarette and watched the camp house. He puffed rapidly then pulled a long drag and blew the smoke from pursed lips.
Meshach knew Scott stewed, weighing his options: keep the cash, or return it and evict his client—his wealthy, albeit eccentric, money-throwing client.
Shanteel drew Scott’s attention as she pulled out of her space onto the gravel road and sped away. He flipped the cigarette into the water, untied his boat and motored into the marsh.
Meshach closed and relocked the front door. At his computer, he opened the Automatic Identification System. He entered the user name and password into the AIS. A broad view of the Gulf of Mexico popped up. He narrowed the display down to twenty-five miles around the Venice area. Dozens of small, bullet-shaped icons, each one representing a ship or boat, appeared on a blue background. The Mississippi River was obvious, displayed as a narrow blue field between bumpers of green, representing dry land or marsh.
He clicked on one of the icons and a small inset window appeared—a Candies boat, Miss Munroe, speed: six knots, course: 105 degrees.
Now, he needed to find the right vessel moving in the right direction.
~*~
Darkness settled in and quieted the gulls. Mosquitoes woke. The marsh came alive slowly with the croak of toads and chirp of crickets. The only lights in the house glowed blue on the satellite receiver, green on the computer’s charging adapter and red on the coffeemaker.
Meshach glanced at the orange fluorescent hands on his watch—10:25—gathered the anchor and rope and walked out.
He stored the anchor and retied the loose end of the rope onto the bow. The Yamaha purred when he turned the key. He backed out of the slip and eased into the channel before he flipped on the running lights. The Lowrance displayed his previous track. He followed the line on the screen, out of the marsh and into the Gulf. The wind had died down. The boat bucked and bounced across the top of the small swells the wind had left in its wake. Obstruction lights on a thousand platforms flashed over and over, like fireflies drifting through the night.
The GPS took him directly to the platform he’d sabotaged the day before. He bumped the throttle into neutral. A drift test confirmed the current came from the south. He moved around to the north, tied up to a cross member, and let the boat drift back twenty feet before killing the engine. He didn’t want to be directly under the structure. With the anchor wrapped in a dark cloth, if he missed and the hunk of steel fell back into the boat, at night, he could end up with a headache.
To the rhythmic, shrill blare of the foghorn, he gathered loops of the knotted rope in his left hand, grabbed the anchor, tested his footing on the flat area on the bow of the boat, and heaved. The hunk of steel disappeared into the darkness above. The obstruction light flashed just in time for him to see the anchor clear the handrail. He pulled on the rope, one, two, three lengths before it pulled taut. Whether the flukes caught a handrail or not didn’t matter. There was plenty of piping for it to hang-up on. He secured the loose end to a forward cleat mounted on the side rail of the boat, grabbed the rope, and pulled himself hand over hand twenty feet straight up to the main deck. He went down in the same manner, suspended over the water, then scaled the rope again. The second time he pulled himself onto the platform, loosed the anchor from a pipe laid along the deck, and dropped it into the sea next to the boat.
The hum of gas flowing through the pipes meant they’d sent someone to check on the problem and open the line he’d closed the day before. Another glance at the gauge on the wellhead tempted him, but he left the valves alone this time. He climbed the handrail and placed a foot on the wellhead behind him to keep his balance. If his employer saw him now, he’d think Meshach was off his rocker and scream about him risking an injury and jeopardizing the operation. The man might be right too, on all counts, but he would never understand the rush of doing something no one else would ever consider.
Meshach launched himself over the side, into the deep, cold waters of the Gulf, and swam to the boat. He retrieved the anchor, cranked up, and headed for camp. By the time he moored the boat, midnight had come and gone. The anchor was back in its compartment in the bow, proven and ready to go.
The chill of wet clothes felt good for the first fifteen minutes of the return trip. Now, he looked forward to a hot shower. In the house, he turned on the light under the microwave and punched the button to wake up his computer.
Chirp. A start up garnering little to no attention. A perfect tool for him and his clients. Untraceable.
Lamech left him a morsel. akando check paris’s antics west
That was off the wall. He had to think. Some of the text was outside the code they’d agreed to use. His code. Paris, Paris...antics. Paris. A place? No, possessive. Paris’s antics. Paris Hilton was always in trouble. Oh, a hotel. There was no way. Who could know and how had they found out?
Gasoline for the boat would have to wait.
16
Thursday morning
Meshach had left the camp house at four, after a shower and a three-hour nap. He passed the airport on the right. To his left was the only Hilton on the west side of New Orleans, a couple of off-airport parking businesses, and a Days Inn with an IHOP attached to it.
Using the short-term lot at the airport was out of the question. Too many cameras for his liking. And he didn’t want to park in front of the hotel. He flipped a U-turn at the next light and picked a spot in front of the IHOP, a short one-hundred-yard walk from the Hilton. He exited the car and locked it.
He entered the hotel and grabbed a newspaper off the counter on the way by the front desk. The receptionist talked to an old couple and didn’t seem to notice him. He took a seat on a tan sofa toward the back of the reception area, near the unlit bar. Perfect, a view of the elevators and front entry just over the top of the paper. Several people sat in the restaurant. No one else stirred.
The paper was simply part of his cover, like the white shirt, dark tie, and polished black shoes he loathed to wear. The boogieman never looked so refined. If they, he, whomever, had any sort of description of him, the get-up would throw off wandering eyes.
He had to admit, Lamech had connections. Somehow, he’d gotten wind of an investigation—someone snooping into their affairs—and passed along the warning. The plan was in place. He had his orders, but word to move hadn’t been issued yet. He knew the longer they delayed, the greater the odds of failure.
At least he had something to do. Find out who was digging around, assess the threat, and if he had to, neutralize it. Could be fun.
The code word for police wasn’t used, so who? Cole Blackwell? This job and oilman were linked by an industry, but totally unrelated in purpose. The visit he paid Cole’s daughter wasn’t personal. A job was a job. Money was money. The people who paid him for that visit hated big oil. And t
heir coffers were full. He didn’t care who paid the bills as long as the money was in the bank on time. If Cole hired someone to find him, and they stumbled onto the scene …
Someone else might find irony in the coincidence. Meshach did not.
The elevator door opened, and a looker stepped out dressed in blue shorts, a loose white pullover, and colorful running shoes. Toned. Not skinny. She checked her watch as she exited the front door.
He checked his—6:02.
A waitress walked down the short set of marble steps from the restaurant area and spotted him. She approached and straightened her apron. “Sir, could I get you something? A cup of coffee? The buffet is open if you’d like to eat. Or you can order from the menu.”
He smiled. “Black coffee will be fine.”
“OK, dear.” She spun and hustled back into the serving area.
A tall man stepped from the elevator. Big hands, solid arms and shoulders, straight back. Sharp jaw and light brown hair. Even lines on his face showed he shaved regularly. He’d be near forty if Meshach had to guess. The guy wore jeans and a tan, short-sleeved shirt. His arms were white, like they hadn’t seen the sun in a while, a contrast to his tanned face and hands. He didn’t look like the suit and tie type, so he’d traveled from a colder climate. Maybe. Purpose rode in his step as he strode to the desk and picked up a newspaper. After a quick glance at the front page, he tucked the edition under his arm with another paper and headed into the restaurant where he chose a four-place table against the wall and sat facing the entrance. He glanced Meshach’s way once.
Meshach knew the type, ex-military, probably a jarhead judging from the haircut. Still in good shape but middle-aged and waning. Not as dangerous, but not to be underestimated either.
Could be his man. Time. Just a little more time.
Meshach kept the paper up, turning the page every so often, but he never read a word. The elevators went up empty and returned with people who checked out and left or hit the breakfast buffet before tending to their bills.
The old man kept busy with his reading.
The waitress approached and placed a cup of coffee on the low table in front of Meshach. He nodded. His eyes remained fixed on the paper.
“Anything else, you just wave at me, sweetie.” She left.
Sweetie, honey pie, darling, baby, the list of endearments he’d heard since he arrived in Louisiana went on. Reminded him of his doting mother.
The looker walked in from outside. Her flushed face cried jogger. She glanced into the restaurant then walked up the steps straight to the old guy. She took the chair he slid out for her and sat facing him.
Husband and wife or girlfriend?
They talked, but about what? She looked at him. He looked at her. She patted his hand.
Too timid. Not married. Not lovers.
The man shifted his gaze from the woman to the elevators. A chubby guy in a black hoodie, black pants, and black-and-white checkered shoes stepped out. They nodded at each other.
Had to be who Meshach was looking for. The woman exercised. Early too. Something to remember. No bags with them, so they had additional business. The old man was the boss. What could the fat guy and the woman bring to the table?
As hoodie walked up to them, an iPhone appeared in his hands. That was his role, the computer guy. The woman stood, walked to the elevator and got on. Her quick glance made Meshach look away, a first for him. She had the bluest, most penetrating eyes he’d ever seen.
The waitress glanced Meshach’s direction. He waved her off. No more conversations with gushing women.
The phone disappeared from the chubby boy’s hand into a hoodie pocket as he stood and walked toward the buffet.
Meshach rose, dropped a five on the table for the coffee and tip and walked across the lobby. The key to disrupting this little team was the woman. The old man would sacrifice himself for her. Even if they weren’t lovey-dovey, a soldier’s protective instincts were innate.
Meshach counted on it.
~*~
The conference room the hotel provided seated over one hundred at the many tables arranged evenly throughout the room. It was much too big for Wes and his team, but better than a cramped room.
He set up his computer and laid out a legal pad. As soon as the computer booted, he typed out an e-mail to Cole, giving him a rundown of events during the previous evening and the rough description of Meshach the waitress had given them.
Tony and Jess walked in. Jess looked showered and refreshed. She wore black slacks and a red top. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Tony had on the trademark hoodie and black, baggy pants. The checkered shoes were a new addition. Like Op art, Wes was sure if he stared at them long enough he’d either see an elephant or get vertigo and fall down. Wes had always thought the bags Tony dragged everywhere he went, the anchors he’d called them, held computer equipment. Wes had never asked. Tony had on a different ensemble every day. Those cases were full of clothes. Had to be.
Tony’s iPhone had his attention. He sat across the table, next to Jessica. “Just got some info from Risa. It’s early, barely eight o’clock. She’s on the ball.”
“Probably a computer nerd,” Wes said.
Tony glanced up and smiled. “That’s real funny.”
“I thought so. Anything interesting?”
“Not at first glance. We’ve got inbound flights for the last couple of days. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, illegal lane change, indecent exposure, you name it, must be a couple thousand of them. An overview of robberies and murders, domestic abuse, sexual assaults and animal assaults. Drive-by shootings. You can’t make this stuff up. Lots of info, but license and social security numbers have been redacted. Risa is good. I’d like to meet this girl.”
“Pass it on to me and Jess.”
“I got it,” she said.
His computer booted. The list of e-mails popped up one by one, he slid the bar across his phone, opened messages, and typed a text to Lisa. good 2 c u. looked happy. He started to type keep in touch, but people who made that statement didn’t intend on doing likewise. am proud. can’t wait to meet levi and josh. love always.
He reread the text twice, hesitated one deep breath, and pushed send. As the whoosh sounded from the phone, indicating the text had been sent, he wished he could look down and find the stamp required for a letter he’d have mailed ten years earlier stuck to his thumb. How come it was always so hard to talk to loved ones? Had he said the right things?
Jessica looked at him and nodded. She knew the whoosh and the intended recipient. He was glad she did.
The info Bubba’s girl sent was extensive. They’d be a week looking through so much data.
“No one named Meshach in this stuff,” Tony said. “Caucasians matching anything close to his description are too old, too short, too heavy. Once you weed out the residents for traffic violations, there isn’t much to look at under that subject line.”
“How did you get through all of this so fast?” Wes said.
“Word searches. Keywords. Put in dark hair, eye or eyes we don’t have, pun intended, weight based on the height the waitress gave us, a name that’s a pseudonym, and you get what I got, nothing, zero, and zilch. That doesn’t mean he’s not here somewhere. The cops would have better computer resources.”
“I know. Whether he’s done anything illegal or not, only God would know. We have to look. For now, concentrate on the events downtown. That’s where the waitress said she’d met our man. Start there and work outward.”
Wes liked books. He liked to turn a real page, not a virtual one on an iPad or a Kindle. He needed a printer and a highlighter so he could print the lists, go though and eliminate each suspect one by one and cross out a name. He needed a map. “I’ll be right back.”
He left the hotel for the Shell Station next door and purchased a city map. It was a touristy thing highlighted with area restaurants, golf courses and museums, but it would work for what Wes had in mind. Returning to the conferenc
e room, he spread it out on a table. “All right, let’s do it by the book. Street by street.”
“What first?” Jess said.
Wes had to think about it a minute. “People walk downtown. As in park and walk, like we did, or they take a taxi and walk. Leave out traffic violations. Except parking tickets. It’s easy to get one with so many red zones and meters. If we find a parking violation, we’ll have Risa run the plates to see if it’s a rental. Jess, take the even numbered pages, Tony the odd. I’ll give you the street names to look for. Then we’ll mark the map.”
He’d reached for a pencil and a Sharpie when he realized Jess was staring at him. Her blue eyes held something that made him pause. What?
“I assume you want to start with Bourbon Street, so here’s an arrest for fighting, three guys, Tuesday night. Not our guy. These were locals.” Tony broke the spell.
Wes marked the map and made a short notation. “For now, we’ll record every incident. Then we’ll talk about them afterward. You never know.”
Jess studied her screen.
Tony added another offense. “Purse snatcher, north of the intersection with Conti Street. Didn’t catch the perp. Description vague.”
“Here’s shoplifting,” Jess said. “Looks like a local too. Another one for dealing drugs, but it’s a black man. That’s about it for my pages.”
“Me too. Pick another street,” Tony said.
Wes crossed Canal with his finger. “Carondelet.”
Both techies typed then shook their heads.
“Baronne. Baronne and Royal Streets.” If the pickings were slim, he’d give them more territory to look at.
“A murder, on Baronne, near Union.” Jess typed. “A guy from Las Vegas. Lane Woodard, age twenty-five, white man. Throat cut. Possible robbery. No wallet found. Just a cell phone. Suspect in custody.”
Wes marked the map. “They nabbed a robbery suspect who’d cut a man’s throat for his wallet? That’s a terrible price to pay for credit cards and cash. If someone gave me an either/or ultimatum, I’d hand over the wallet. It’s not easy to cut another man’s throat either. And he took the man’s wallet, but not his cell. What’s the timeframe?”
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