“A little over forty miles. That’s not much distance between lunch and dinner.”
“Unless she made a few stops, maybe in some of the small towns in that part of Georgia. Probably looped around Thomasville, stopping to buy fertilizer.” I looked in my coffee cup. It was empty. “Let’s think like she did. If I’m going to buy bomb-making material, I’d want to buy it in a small town in the next state, where I won’t be noticed.”
“Unh-uh, Chuck. She’s more likely to be remembered in a small town than in a large city.”
“Yeah, but the big city stores would be more computerized. They’d have security cameras and maybe more regulations regarding ammonium nitrate fertilizer sales. And, on a practical note, it’s easier to check stores in smaller towns. If she bought in a bigger city like Thomasville or Valdosta, we’d have two chances of finding where she bought it—slim and none.”
“And slim just left town,” Snoop finished. “Okay, we assume she started in Quakerville. I’ll look up fertilizer stores in Quakerville. Okay, two fertilizer stores there.”
“Assume she bought her first bag in Quakerville. She puts it in her trunk. She’s excited about the start of her big bomb. What does she do next? She looks up another fertilizer store in a small town near Quakerville. I need more coffee. Helps me think. I’ll be right back.”
I headed to the break room and hit paydirt. Some other tenant in the office suites had abandoned a half-box of donuts on the counter. And they weren’t too stale. I carried one back for Snoop.
Snoop sampled it. “Almost fresh, thanks. While you were refueling your stomach and your coffee cup, I’ve been working. Next small town with a fertilizer store is Barton, sixteen miles from Quakerville.”
I extended the line to Barton. “So she buys another bag there. She gets stoked; she’s on a roll. Where would she look next?”
“Coleridge, Georgia, fifteen miles.”
“Great.” I marked the line. “Then where?”
“Meade, twenty miles.”
I highlighted the route. “So we have Quakerville… Barton… Coleridge… then Meade. But we know she ate dinner in Cairo. How far from Meade to Cairo?”
“Sixteen miles.”
“Hmm. That would be five stops… No, I don’t think so.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“That’s a bridge too far,” I answered. “She wouldn’t buy five bags; that’s too many for a clandestine shopping trip. No, it’s one or two stops too many.” I drank coffee and thought. “Maybe one place she stopped didn’t look right. Maybe it had an obvious security camera, or maybe a cop car drove by and spooked her. Whatever, she bypassed it. Or maybe one store didn’t carry ammonium nitrate. That would explain the extra stop.”
“Yeah, or maybe one store wasn’t open on Saturday, or it closed by the time she got there. Or maybe ammonium nitrate is a seasonal fertilizer and the stores wouldn’t carry it in the winter. Remember, it was January.”
“Good points. Also, when she got to Cairo, it would have been dark in January. And she had to drive to Thomasville to rent a hotel.” I read the credit card charges again. “Sunday, January 15, there’s a car rental in Valdosta, Georgia. Doesn’t make sense. Oh, wait. It was charged to her card when she turned it in. She rented a car to have Georgia license plates when she bought the fertilizer.”
Snoop said, “That means she went back to Valdosta to retrieve her own car and transfer the fertilizer from the trunk of the rental.”
“Yeah, on Sunday, she bought gas again north of the Florida line at the last stop in Georgia.”
I sat in a visitor’s chair across from Snoop and pulled Flamer’s report out. “She withdrew four hundred dollars from a Port City ATM on Friday before she left. That wouldn’t buy four bags of fertilizer after you allow for sales tax and maybe paying a little more than a hundred bucks a bag.”
“So she bought three bags,” Snoop said.
“Or she got more money from another ATM. I’ll keep checking. Nope. Of course, she might have had cash on hand before the ATM withdrawal.”
“So, she bought a max of four bags. How many did they need in all?”
“Lopez said fifteen hundred pounds of explosive. That would be at least fourteen hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate—minimum of twenty-eight bags, maybe thirty—plus other ingredients and a blasting cap or other starter.”
“Like Tovex?” Snoop asked.
“Like Tovex,” I answered.
Chapter 35
The South Georgia Ag & Chemical Company occupied two acres surrounded by a six-foot chain link fence topped by barbed wire. A twenty-foot electric sliding gate sat in the open position, allowing access to the graveled parking lot and the steel buildings inside. A red on white sign fastened beside the gate advised us to Please stop by the front office for a delivery ticket before entering the warehouse. Three pickup trucks with Georgia plates were parked at the one-story office that squatted beside a drive-on truck scale. An assortment of steel buildings and huge cylindrical tanks were scattered across the rear. Two pieces of heavy equipment with chipped yellow paint were nosed up against the left side fence.
Snoop took photos of the site through the windshield as I bumped the van across the gate track. I had hidden in the rear of the van the previous morning while Snoop drove us out of the condo garage. The three stooges from Chicago sat in their white Ford and paid no mind to the van. They guys must not know that I owned the van, and Snoop aroused no suspicion because he’d been parked behind them when we’d trapped them the previous week. I doubt they saw his face. We had driven to Valdosta and spent the night. Today we were hot on the trail of Katherine Shamanski.
“If I were Shamanski, this is the last place I would hope to buy fertilizer and not be noticed. Cute girl like that, she’d stand out like a strobe light in a candelabra.”
“You’re right, Snoop. Still, we came all the way to Quakerville, we may as well ask.”
There were four ill-defined parking spots for the office and the three pickups managed to grab them all. I U-turned on the gravel lot and parked against the front fence. Dust swirled around our shoes as we walked to the door.
“Can I he’p y’all?” the man behind the desk said as we walked into the office. He wore a battered straw cowboy hat, a short-sleeved plaid shirt and denim overalls.
“I’m Chuck McCrary. This is my associate Ray Snopolski.”
“Charlie Wheeler.” He stuck his hand across the desk. “Pleased t’meet y’all.” We shook hands. He gestured at two wooden office chairs with frayed seat pads that sat near his desk. “Set if you like.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wheeler.” I pulled Shamanski’s photo from my pocket. “We’d like to know if this woman purchased any ammonium nitrate fertilizer from your company last January.”
“She’s a looker, I’ll say that. I’m pretty sure I’d remember if a pretty girl like that came in here. Mostly it’s farmers and such.” He turned to his left. “Hey, Will, Zack. Either of y’all sell any ammonium nitrate to this girl last January?” He turned the photo to where the two men could see it.
“Nope, I’d remember her. She’s a real looker, ain’t she?”
Wheeler handed the photo back. “Sorry, fellas.”
Snoop and I returned to the van and crunched our way across the lot back to the two-lane county road we had come in on. Snoop said, “Southern Pines Farmers Co-op is on this same road, two miles to the left.”
I waited for an eighteen-wheeler to pass and followed it. The road’s center stripe soon dissolved into a ghostly shadow where the yellow paint had been applied decades before. The paving degenerated so gradually that I couldn’t tell where the asphalt ended and the gravel began. I dropped back from the truck to avoid the rocks thrown up by its back wheels.
“Looks like the truck’s headed the same place,” Snoop said. He consulted his phone. “No point trying to pass; we’re only a mile away.”
We passed a group of one-story brick houses with weed-filled yards that sat abandoned
behind another of the ubiquitous chain-link fences. A half-mile farther a well-tended cemetery nosed up to the road. The cemetery ended at an intersection with a four-way stop.
The eighteen-wheeler lurched through its gears as it left the stop sign and rumbled another quarter-mile. Brakes lights flashed as it eased through the gate at the Co-op. We waited while it backed up to the loading dock before entering the parking area.
Snoop opened the passenger door. “This looks like another spot a pretty girl wouldn’t come to buy fertilizer.”
“I know. Still… we gotta ask.”
We did and got the same answer we heard before. On to Barton, population 386, where Southern Pines Farmers Co-op had another location.
We passed ten miles of pecan orchards and another ten of peach orchards along the highway to Barton. A couple of blocks before we reached the center of the town, the two-lane county road widened to accommodate three blocks of downtown stores, now mostly shuttered.
It felt like driving onto a western movie set. On the south side of Main Street, corrugated steel awnings leaned out from the storefronts and shaded the sidewalks like a John Wayne town. The north side had a few tin awnings too, coupled with a one-story frame antique store next to the concrete-block post office. A sedan and two pickups were parked in its adjoining parking lot. A dog lay sleeping on one side of the lot.
Two pickups were parked at the Co-op, so I parked in front of the Downtown Grill, which served, according to its sign The Best BBQ in Georgia.
Snoop inhaled as we exited the van. “Ah, southern barbecue. Let’s eat lunch before we leave.”
“Sounds like a plan, Snoop.”
A corroded Coke cooler sat in the shade of the awning shoved against the front of the co-op. “How about a root beer, Snoop?” I pulled out two from the icy water and handed him one. We took turns opening the bottles on the built-in opener on the front of the cooler.
I held the Co-op door as a gray-haired man in a straw cowboy hat exited carrying a box with six quarts of motor oil under one arm.
“Thanks, young fellow.” He touched the brim of his hat with the other hand.
“My pleasure, sir.” I walked over to the check-out counter. A teenage girl in a red Barton High School Volleyball tee-shirt perched on a high stool behind the cash register.
I lifted my root beer. “Is this where I pay for the drinks?”
“Yes, sir. That’ll be two dollars and twelve cents.”
I set the bottle on the counter and fished money from my pocket. “Snoop, you got two pennies? Thanks. Here you are, young lady.” I handed her correct change. “Who would I see about buying fertilizer?”
“That would be my Daddy.” She turned toward the rear of the building. “Daddy,” she screeched, “someone up here wants you.” She turned back to me and smiled. “Daddy’ll be here quick as anything.” She looked me up and down, then Snoop. “Y’all don’t look like farmers.”
“That’s because we’re not. We’re looking to see if this woman bought any fertilizer here last January.” I handed her the photo of Shamanski.
She studied the picture. “Are y’all detectives, or something?”
“We’re private investigators. Have you seen this woman?”
“Oh, sure. I remember her. I never seen her before nor since, but I sure do remember her.”
“Oh?”
“She was driving a brand new red Jeep Grand Cherokee. Parked it right out there in front.” She pointed. “I been wanting me one of them ever since forever. Daddy promised to get me one, soon as I get my license and graduate high school. ’Course, mine’ll be used.” She handed me back the photo as a middle-aged man walked over.
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jeff Wilkins. Can I help you folks?”
We introduced ourselves. I showed him Shamanski’s picture. “Your daughter was telling me that this woman was here last January.”
Wilkins took the picture. “Yeah, she looks sorta familiar. Can’t be sure though.” He handed the picture back.
The girl said, “Sure you remember her, Daddy. She’s the one was driving that red Cherokee. Just like the one you promised to give me when I graduate.”
Wilkins frowned. “I never promised, Melissa. I said if you keep your grades up and make at least a B-plus average.”
“I’m carrying a low A right now, Daddy.”
Wilkins turned back to me. “Yeah, she was here. If you say it was January, then it was. Don’t recollect exactly. I do remember that it was cold as a blizzard with no snow when I loaded her bag in the Jeep. Why you askin’? You a cop?”
“Private investigators. Do you remember what she bought?”
“Yeah, now that Melissa reminded me. It was real strange. She sure weren’t no farmer. But she wanted a bag of fertilizer.”
“What kind?”
“Ammonium nitrate, why?”
In Coleridge, we checked three stores before we found where Shamanski had bought her second bag. And in Meade, we struck out at both stores. In Cairo, we hit a gold mine. The second store we checked had security cameras and even archived their footage. We copied the security video of her loading the ammonium nitrate in the Jeep.
“Let’s eat dinner at the same place Shamanski ate, Snoop. Maybe they’ll remember her there.”
“Or have video.”
But no such luck. It was five hundred miles back to Port City, so we rented two rooms in Cairo.
I fell asleep that night thinking we’d made good progress.
My cellphone rang while Snoop and I were at breakfast. I glanced at the screen. Why would John Babcock call me at 8:05 on a Saturday morning? This can’t be good.
Chapter 36
John Babcock’s stomach turned cartwheels. Chuck had warned him this might happen. He had said, “Eventualities tend to eventuate; therefore, we plan for them.” Chuck rehearsed this situation with him and Penny. She was the strong one. It had been almost two weeks and nothing bad had happened. Just that weirdo Ponder trying to see Mickie. John had relaxed and let his emotional guard down. And now this. Penny handled these things better than he did, but she had gone out for a jog, and John was alone. Keep calm, he commanded himself. Do this like you rehearsed it with Chuck. Keep calm. And smile, dammit!
John smiled through the screen door at the two people on his porch. The man wore a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. The woman was in a tan pants suit with matching low-heeled closed toed shoes. Her short hair didn’t reach to the collar of her off-white silk blouse.
Swallowing hard to keep his breakfast down, he unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. The visitors on the porch stepped back to make room. John stepped onto the front porch and pulled the wooden door closed behind him. “I’m confused why the FBI would show up at my house out of the blue. What’s this about?”
“May we come in?”
“The place is a mess. What’s this about?”
“We’d like to talk to Michelle Babcock. Is she here?”
“Why do you want to talk with my daughter? Is she in trouble?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss that. May we talk to Michelle?”
“I think I should call my counsel.” He was careful to say counsel instead of lawyer, just like Chuck had told him. John punched up his cellphone and stared at Chuck’s picture on the screen while he waited for it to connect. He placed the phone to his ear.
“Good morning, John. This is Chuck. What’s going on?”
John turned away from the unwelcome visitors. “There are two FBI agents at the front door. They want to talk to Michelle.”
“Are they with you now? Can they hear what you’re saying?”
“The three of us are on the front porch.”
“Remember what we practiced: Be friendly and smile. Tell the agents that you’re confused by this sudden visit. Ask them to excuse you a moment while you step back inside to talk to your counsel. Tell them when you finish this call, you’ll talk to them. They might agree to that. Don’t be surprised if
they insist on coming inside or you staying outside with them. They may not want to let you out of their sight. If they do let you go inside, leave the front door open so they can see you. We don’t want them to think you’re trying to run.”
John held the phone to his chest and turned to the two agents. “I’m confused. Would you folks excuse me for a minute while I talk to my counsel inside? When I finish talking to him, I’ll invite you both inside. Okay?”
The lead agent leaned toward her colleague and said something John couldn’t make out. She turned back to John. “Sorry, sir, we have to keep you in sight. Bureau regulations. You can finish the call out here or we’ll need to come inside.”
“Hang on, Chuck.” He held the screen door open while the two agents stepped inside. “How about if I finish the call in the powder room here?” He pushed open a door off the foyer.
The male agent reached through the doorway and switched on the light. He glanced behind the door then nodded to the other agent.
“That’ll be fine, sir.”
John closed the door behind him. “Okay, I’m alone.”
“Do they have a warrant?”
“I don’t know. Should I ask?”
“No. If they had an arrest warrant or a search warrant, they would have said so, and they wouldn’t agree to let you close the door. Is Michelle where she was last weekend?”
“No, she’s at Hank and Lorene’s condo on Mango Island.”
“Good. Is Penny with you?”
“She went for a jog. She should be back any time.”
“Okay. After we hang up, I’ll call Abe Weisman’s office and tell them to expect a call from you. Invite the agents in, offer them coffee, do the whole good host thing. Then call Abe or Diane. It’s okay to call right in front of the agents. In fact, it’s better if they hear you call. If Penny shows up while the agents are there, tell her in the presence of the agents that you called me and that you called Abe. She knows what to do like we rehearsed. They won’t ask you any questions after you tell them you are represented by counsel. But if they do, do you remember how to answer?”
Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4) Page 15