Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4)

by Dallas Gorham

  I moved to the large room.

  A six-foot catering table with a chipped laminate top was jammed against the wall to the left. At the table’s other end stood a four-drawer metal file cabinet with scratched green paint, a twin of the one in the last room I’d searched. A wheeled desk chair sat by the table, the same type as the other three I’d seen. All four windows had burglar alarm sensors. Two more catering tables sat shoved together in the center, with two newish folding chairs at each side. A modern classroom-style whiteboard on a stand stood six feet from the two tables.

  Fluorescent light fixtures of uncertain age ran across the ceiling at a forty-five degree angle to the walls. I’d seen arrangements like this in architectural drafting rooms in the engineering building at the University of Florida. Perhaps the large room had been a bullpen for office staff or a telephone call center before that industry migrated to Asia.

  The opposite wall had two doors marked Men and Women. The men’s restroom was clean and one stall was stocked with toilet paper. The paper towel dispenser was empty but a roll of towels perched on the lavatory next to a modern hand soap dispenser. There was extra toilet paper and paper towels in the cabinet under the lavatory. The women’s restroom was much the same, except the sanitary napkin dispenser was empty, as was the toilet seat cover dispenser.

  I climbed to the third floor. The floor was abandoned, but each window was burglar alarmed. Whoever leased the space didn’t want intruders, but I hadn’t seen anything worth stealing. Why were they so security conscious?

  As if in answer to my thought, police sirens, more than one, screamed on the street outside. I froze. Did I trigger a silent alarm? Maybe a pressure sensitive spot under the threadbare carpet in the first room? I held my breath until the sirens moved past. Their haunting whine diminished and faded away.

  Returning to the second floor, I photographed the large room with my phone before descending the stairs to the street entrance. A new burglar alarm panel was mounted inside the front door. The red light glowed; the system was armed. I opened the access door and photographed it. The installation date was three years earlier. Maybe Flamer could tell something from the alarm permit or from the make and model that would be useful. You never regret the picture you do take, only the one you don’t.

  Returning to the second floor, I opened the file cabinet. Bingo. That was what the security system was all about.

  Chapter 40

  Manila file folders with company names on the tabs filled the top two drawers. The two drawers must have held over a hundred files. I couldn’t spend the time to copy them, let alone read them. To triage the files, I read the company names, looking for anything familiar. The first name that caught my eye was Hillside Pines Apartments, Athens, GA. I grabbed it and opened it on the catering table.

  The first data in the file was a matter of public record available under the Freedom of Information Act. There had been numerous protests at the Athens planning commission meetings. Complete transcripts of the meetings. A topographic map of Athens showing where the apartments intended to blast into the hillside for parking lots, swimming pools, and foundations. Even the annual report of the corporate developer, 4Square Properties, listed on the New York Stock Exchange. There were newspaper clippings of stories about picket lines at the construction site and the developer’s headquarters in Cincinnati. And clippings about the fire, the night watchman’s death, Ponder’s arrest, and subsequent release. A full-sized copy of the blueprints was rolled up inside a rubber band in the bottom drawer, stamped with the planning commission meeting date.

  There was a chart of 4Square Properties’ stock price for the fifty-two weeks that ended a week after the fire. Why was Wallace interested in the developer’s stock price before and after the fire?

  I debated whether to steal the file, but there was nothing criminal in it. Any good defense attorney could explain everything in the file as legitimate fodder for protests. I didn’t want Wallace to know that his hideaway had been compromised. It looked like it had been months since anyone had set foot in the abandoned office where I had entered. Maybe not since the alarm system installation three years earlier. With the door closed, Wallace might never know anyone had invaded if I stuffed the bath towel under the door to stop any draft from the open window. Instead, I photographed the stock chart and the topographic map.

  The next familiar name was Port City Power. The file contents were similar. Public record information and aerial photos of the power plant, the railroad line, the railroad company that delivered the coal. Newspaper articles on the protests. An annual report of Port City Power & Light. One article included a photo of Wallace chained to the gate of the plant entrance. Someone had circled his face with yellow highlighter.

  A fifty-two-week chart of the stock price ending the week after the gate-chaining protest was in the file. A second chart covered the fifty-two weeks ended last Tuesday, the day after the railroad bombing. There were clippings of articles from the Port City Press-Journal on the bombing and investigation, one dating to last Wednesday’s Pee-Jay. Maybe that’s why Wallace came here Wednesday afternoon, to add the clipping and stock chart to the file.

  In the second file drawer, I scanned the tabs, but only one name caught my attention, Great Southeast Forest Products. I had seen the company name in the website about tree spiking that Snoop had found. The file contained newspaper articles on protests of logging in seven different states in the Southeast and the Pacific Northwest. But there had been no tragedy involving Great Southeast that I was aware of. Was that Wallace’s next target? There was no stock price chart, so perhaps an attack was not imminent.

  I pulled three other files at random and glanced in them. Two of them had stock charts and one did not. I photographed the stock charts. What did the stock prices mean? I knew who could tell me.

  Chapter 41

  “Tank, I need to see you ASAP.”

  “Your semi-annual portfolio review isn’t due for another two months.”

  “Something’s come up. I need your advice on another matter. It doesn’t involve me.”

  “Chuck, you do remember that April seventeenth is only one week away, right?”

  “So what? What’s so special about April seventeenth?”

  “April fifteenth is on a weekend this year, so income taxes are due the following Monday, which is April seventeenth.” Thomas Tyler—known in his football days as “Tank”—was my CPA as well as my investment advisor. My modest portfolio must have been his smallest client.

  “So? You already finished my tax return. I mailed it a week ago.”

  “I know you act like you’re my only client sometimes—like right now, but I’m kinda busy for the next few days, pal. Can it wait till next week?”

  “Tank, I won’t say it’s a matter of life and death because two people are already dead. But it’s really important. Delay could put a young lady in danger.”

  “Let me check my calendar. How about Thursday at seven?”

  “You get into the office that early?”

  “I meant seven p.m., buddy.”

  “How about this morning?”

  “Chuck, I’m swamped this morning. I have appointments scheduled all day. Look, you’re an early riser. How about seven tomorrow morning?”

  “Thanks, Tank. I’ll see you at your office.”

  “Remember, I moved. Don’t go to the old place.”

  “I remember, Tank. Say, will I need an oxygen mask on the sixty-first floor?”

  Diane Toklas met me in the firm’s reception. “Come in, Chuck. Abe is in court making his magic, but this FBI thing is a pretty routine life-and-death matter. I’ve done these a dozen times.” When Diane smiled, her blue eyes sparkled. “It’s always life-and-death to the client, but you and I know better.”

  I didn’t agree with Diane that this wasn’t life-and-death, but I didn’t see any reason to argue. I admired the view of her professional pantsuit from the rear as she led me down the hall. Diane was married, and I
would never mess with a married woman. Didn’t keep me from appreciating beauty though. Short blonde hair, thirtyish. Every time I saw her, she reminded me of a picture I saw once of Hillary Clinton when she was young.

  She ushered me into the conference room. Seeti Bay sparkled through the window. A file folder with a big red Confidential stamp across the cover lay on one end of the polished walnut table. A giant Chinese lacquered tray holding a coffee set with service for six was in the middle and two deli sandwiches. “I just got you a corned beef sandwich. Is that okay? Today, we’ll make you an honorary Jew.”

  “Sure. I love corned beef. Thanks for getting it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had any lunch today.”

  “We’re expecting two FBI agents, Michelle, and Snoop. With you and me, that makes six. Did I count that right?” Diane sat at the head of the table and picked up a sandwich.

  “Sounds good.” I grabbed a cup off the tray and sat with my back to the window. I loved the view, but I didn’t want the distraction. I took the insulated silver carafe and poured. Steam rose from the cup. I pushed the carafe toward Diane and unwrapped my corned beef.

  She opened the file and pulled out a check. “This is for ten dollars, payable to McCrary Investigations.” She handed it to me. “We retained you and Snoop as our investigators on behalf of Michelle Babcock. Actually, we retained you when you first discussed the case with Abe. We’re just now paying you.” She smiled. “Documentation in case we’re ever questioned. Everything you and Snoop discuss with Abe and me is privileged.”

  I pocketed the check. “Thanks. Not that it’s likely, but what would happen if a conflict of interest developed between Michelle and her parents?”

  “We would resign from representing her parents and continue to represent Michelle. She has the more serious legal exposure, obviously.”

  “Good. How much did Abe tell you?”

  “Everything, of course, but only up to the time the Babcocks hired us.” Diane poured her coffee. “A lot has happened in the last two weeks. Bring me up to date.”

  Between bites of corned beef, I told Diane about our trip to Athens and the road trip around South Georgia. When I got to the part about breaking into the building above Gino’s Pizza, she stopped taking notes.

  “No point in writing that down,” she said. “Other than the cut-out window, is there any evidence that you’ve been there?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  She smiled. “Of course not. Go on.”

  I told her about the three stooges following me.

  She added cream and sugar to her cup. “Why don’t you tell the police about them?”

  “A Port City detective ran rap sheets for me—unofficially. If I make an official complaint, the police will want to know why someone would follow me. Same thing with the FBI. I want to keep the feds in the dark about my pipeline into the Port City cops and about the three hoods who are following me. Too easy to trace back to Michelle.”

  Diane blew on her coffee. “I understand. From what you said on the phone, they may know only that she met you at the Day and Night Diner.”

  “They know more than that. If I’d found out that much, I would trace Michelle’s phone back to when she was at Ponder’s house. She and Ponder probably have smartphones with GPS built in, so the feds will know the exact address. And Michelle called Ponder, Shamanski, and Wallace frequently. They could get those in a few seconds.” I handed her a picture of Ponder. “If the feds do a simple Google search for Ponder, they’ll see this picture. I downloaded it from his Facebook page. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s the bearded man in the train bombing video.”

  “You said the three men following you are from Chicago. Why the Chicago connection?” Diane cleaned her fingers with a wet-nap from the deli and threw her lunch trash into a wastebasket.

  “That’s not clear. Lots of clues lead to Chicago, though. Katherine Shamanski is from Chicago. Both her parents are personal injury attorneys in Chicago, and Walter Eliazar, the guy who defended Ponder on the Hillside Pines arson, is from Chicago. One of them might be the Chicago connection.”

  “Which one?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t know yet. I need to uncover the connection between Eliazar and Katherine’s parents, if any.”

  Diane asked me a lot of questions. I filled her in on every detail of the investigation. Everything I did, every theory I formed. While she caught up with her note-taking, I finished up my corn chips, cleaned my hands with the wet-nap, and disposed of my trash.

  The intercom dinged. “Ms. Toklas, Special Agents Emily Fuller and Hector Marsalis are here for a one o’clock appointment.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I’ll be right out. Have you heard from Raymond Snopolski or Michelle Babcock?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Diane stood up. “You call Snoop while I fetch the agents. I’ll walk slowly.” She winked.

  Snoop’s phone rang several times and went to voicemail. That’s strange, I thought.

  Chapter 42

  Snoop first noticed the black Suburban when it turned into the Mango Island ferry terminal parking lot two cars after he did. He lined up his Toyota in the boarding lane to fetch Michelle for their appointment at the lawyers’ office. He looked at his dashboard clock. Hope we don’t have to wait too long for the ferry. The Suburban didn’t join the boarding line; it parked across the lot where the employees parked their cars. Snoop drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for the ten minutes he waited to board the ferry, but no one emerged from the Suburban. He filed that information in the back of his mind. Suspicious, but not definitive.

  An hour later, when he and Michelle returned from Mango Island, the black Suburban was still in the lot. The huge vehicle stood out like a giant among pygmies. And the windows were open in the Florida heat. Snoop made out the silhouettes of three men inside who waited with the engine off. The SUV trembled as the engine started. Its windows rolled up as the ferry glided to its berth at the dock.

  Snoop studied the SUV as he exited the ferry. He watched in his rear-view mirror as he turned east onto the Beachline Causeway. The SUV let two cars in between, and then turned after him. “I don’t want you to worry unnecessarily, Michelle, but someone is following us.”

  “Omigod. Do you think it’s the same guys who followed you and Chuck the other day?”

  “Don’t worry about it; I’m gonna lose them.” He slowed at the Azalea Island Drive traffic light, waiting for it to turn. Slower… The car behind him honked. Wait for it… The light flicked from green to yellow. Snoop hesitated two more seconds then stomped the accelerator. His Toyota leapt across the intersection with squealing tires as the light turned red.

  Snoop’s phone was sitting in the dashboard cup-holder. It began to play The Mexican Hat Dance. The screen flashed with Chuck’s picture. Snoop cut his eyes to a split-second glance in the rearview mirror at the black Suburban lurking two cars behind him.

  “Should I answer that, Snoop?” Michelle asked.

  “No. It’s Chuck wanting to know why we’ve been delayed. I don’t need the distraction. Oh, geez, they’re gonna run it.” The SUV pulled onto the shoulder, passed the two cars, and ran the red light. Black smoke rose from its tires as it dodged across the intersection, narrowly missing the cross traffic. Cars turning left onto Azalea Island Drive honked and brakes squealed. The Mexican Hat Dance kept playing.

  The Suburban dodged the last of the cross traffic and pulled into the left lane, gaining on Snoop’s Toyota. Snoop and Michelle were almost to the next traffic light at Poinciana Island Drive. The right side windows of the SUV rolled down. Two black gun barrels stuck through the openings.

  “Geez, those are AK-47s,” Snoop shouted. “Get on the floor.” Michelle unbuckled and squeezed into the foot well, curling into a ball.

  The SUV closed on the Toyota. The gunmen raked the rear of Snoop’s sedan with a burst of automatic gunfire. His rear windshield and windows shattered under the fusillade.

  Sn
oop slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the left as another br-a-a-ap of bullets raked the Toyota’s rear door. He slammed his left rear door against the right front fender of the pursuing vehicle. The SUV driver fought for control, the Suburban rocking from side to side as he fought the skid into the oncoming traffic waiting to turn onto Poinciana Island Drive. Snoop straightened out, pushed harder on the accelerator and willed his Toyota to give him a little more speed. Behind him the SUV skidded sideways and slammed into a traffic barricade.

  Chapter 43

  I didn’t have time to worry about Snoop not answering his phone, because Diane brought the FBI agents into the conference room. Slowly. She was stalling until Snoop and Michelle arrived.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I shrugged.

  Special Agents Emily Fuller and Hector Marsalis introduced themselves. It was obvious that Fuller was the senior agent. Her gray pinstriped pants suit and yellow scarf reeked of authority. She wore matching low-heeled gray pumps. Marsalis wore a gray pin-striped suit with a yellow tie that in years past was called a power tie. I was tempted to ask if they coordinated their outfits, like twins. Cooler heads prevailed.

  We shook hands all around, and Diane gestured them into chairs. “Would you like coffee? We also have decaf, water, and soft drinks.”

  Fuller answered for them both. “Regular coffee is fine, thank you.”

  Diane poured the coffee. Slowly. “My client will be here shortly.”

  Agent Fuller pulled a tape recorder from her pocket and placed it on the table. “I’d like to record this meeting.”

  “Of course,” Diane answered. She pulled a small device from her briefcase and placed it beside Fuller’s. “I will too.” She smiled a saccharine smile. “So there’s no… misunderstanding about who said what.”