Black Point

by Sam Cade

  “Cause no 911 call. I think he rushed to the window, wasn’t sure if it was anything. Saw his boss down, his buddy down, thought, hell no, I’m not running outside. Pulled out his phone. Bang. He’s down. Couldn’t get the call off.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Here’s the summary. .338 magnum, popular military round. Ultra-precise shooting from 500 plus yards. But fast. Who can do that? Hunters can’t. People are living in two houses within 145 yards of this place. Somebody was at home all day for the days around the shooting. They heard nothing. Had to be a suppressed weapon. Who uses suppressed .338 rifles?”

  “Military.”

  “Bingo, Jake. Now let’s get out of here. I’ve got a date with a plate of chicken-fried steak at a Rotary luncheon. Re-election. Every vote counts. Gonna tell those folks I’m cyber-talented and my stock jumps fifty percent. I’ll be a shoe-in.”

  72

  Thursday, June 20, 2019

  9:10 A.M. DENVER INTERNATIONAL. Jake sat in a cushioned terminal chair with his back to the massive glass walls that overlooked the planes on the tarmac, an iPad in his hands, a Diet Coke on ice held between his legs, and an unopened Clif Bar in his shirt pocket.

  He spotted two new emails he had been waiting on.

  He popped open the mail from Les Cox, F.B.I. cybercrime department.

  Jake. I hope leads are materializing. YES, you can purchase explosives on darknet. I didn’t look extensively, but I found products on two sites. ABRACADABRA99 and BLACKONBLACK. Saw C4, Semtex, dynamite, det cord, bomb plans. If you set up Tor browser on your computer, you can look at these sites and others. Let me know if you need anything or help in setting up Tor. Les

  He couldn’t picture Shedd as a computer guy, especially something darknet.

  Jake pulled out his cell phone, pulled up Pike Tatum’s number and dictated in a message.

  Pike. Flying back from Colorado today. Want to discuss your search on Shedd’s computer. One thing verified. Plastic explosive available online through darknet. Also, did you run the national database for theft of plastics?

  The second email from the FBI source arrived titled THEO FULLER BIO. He clicked on it, found a two-page PDF doc. He read it slowly. The information was surprising. It was an extremely impressive resume until he got to the part about the debacle in London. And, Theo owed the Bank of London almost $4 million. MIT, mathematics, computers, MBA, startup on a cloud site. Wall Street. Russian hedge fund. Even solid poker winnings.

  Bill must be paying him a mint to lure him back to Black Point.

  Saturday, June 22, 2019

  JAKE CUT THE LANDCRUISER OFF GREAT BAY ROAD onto the shell drive that led to Kimbo’s place overlooking the bay. He lived four houses down from his parents. The first thing he saw was the black 911 Carrera, top down. Ahhhh, gosh. Jake hadn’t spoken to Hope since they sealed the deal on the Cruiser.

  “Well, look at you ladies.” Jake walked into the sun-soaked kitchen from the screen porch overlooking the water. It was built for a chef. True glass-front refrigerator, Wolf commercial range, and triple Thermador ovens.

  Three attractive, earth-friendly, natural women stood around the island chatting, each holding a glass of white wine.

  Marin, Kimbo’s mother, wearing a bohemian paisley top over bleached bell-bottom jeans and Birkenstocks, raced around the corner of the island and grabbed a big hug from Jake. “About time you came down to see us. What took you so long?”

  Before he could answer, Jan was next to him, on deck for a squeeze. Five-foot-two, busty, and hair streaked sandy-blond from tennis. Barefooted, she stood on her tiptoes. “Come here, you.”

  As Jan held on tight, Jake looked over her shoulder right into Hope’s dark brown eyes.

  Hope wore a casually loose wrap-front chambray dress that dropped to her knees leaving her graceful calves exposed. She shot Jake a gleaming smile, raised her hand, palm forward and waggled just her fingers in a demure wave. At the same time his brain was telling him how good Jan felt in his arms, he said, “Hey, Hope.”

  Nothing much better than the soft scent of women, he thought.

  “Look at this, Jake.” Jan pointed to a colorful, oversize children’s book on the counter. “It’s the twelfth book in the series.”

  He picked it up. “Rufus and Cheeto Race to Yosemite.”

  “I love it.” The cover had a chimp, Cheeto, bouncing down the highway driving a VW bus with a donkey, Rufus, in the shotgun seat with his face out the window, wind flapping his lips.

  Marin was a children’s book writer and illustrator. Her Rufus and Cheeto series explored America’s national parks.

  “Last one in the series, Jake,” said Marin.

  “Nonsense,” said Jan. “The last five made the New York Times bestseller list. There’s fifty more parks so no stopping now.”

  Jake flipped some pages then glanced up at Marin with a meaningful look. “I have every single book you’ve created on my bookshelves in Georgetown. I think twenty-four...or something like that. A daily reminder of you and J.D. and Kimbo.”

  Marin couldn’t speak for a moment. She knew he was thinking of Sunshine at this moment just like she was. As a little girl Sunshine came up with the names Cheeto and Rufus and asked her mom to make up a story about them.

  Marin took the book over to the counter by the sink, blinked several times to control welling in her eyes, pulled a Sharpie out of the drawer, and wrote quickly with her splashy flair.

  To one of the sweetest men on the planet. We all miss you and love you. Think about it. Think about coming home. Marin

  She handed the book to Jake. “Number twenty-five. Open it when you are back in Washington.” Jake hugged her again.

  A ship’s bell clanged in the distance. “Let’s go eat, folks.”

  The dock setup could have been a photo spread from Coastal Living. A brightly colored picnic table held a feast. Grilled grouper and oysters. Boiled crabs and corn. A large bowl of summer seasonal salad. Three bottles of California wine on the table. Candles ringed the railing around the end of the pier. Gentle waves smacked the pilings.

  The water was turning black, the horizon a strip of orangish pink under violet racing into darkness.

  J.D. stood at the end of the table. “Let’s hold hands.” He offered thanks to the Lord for the abundance of blessings they’d all received. He asked the Lord to bless a few individuals in Black Point dealing with trying times. Then he spread his hand out toward the sunset. “All the evidence anyone needs to know that there’s a Creator.”

  After ninety minutes of tremendous food and conversation, Jake excused himself to make a bathroom run.

  “Hang on, Jake, I gotta go too. Want to ask you something,” said Dr. J.D. Gage.

  Walking slowly down the weathered wood dock, J.D. said, “How’s your real estate going? Getting into anything new up there?”

  “Nope. On cruise control. But I’ve been fortunate. I’ve invested with some good people. All fantastic commercial locations. It’s been good.”

  “I want to share something with you, Jake. Good news but keep it under wraps and whatever you do don’t make any trades on it. Immu-Bioscience is about to be gobbled up for an eighteen percent premium on the stock price. That values your shares at just over $8-million.”

  Reaching the house, J.D. grabbed Jake’s elbow to stop him for a moment. “So, smart move listening to the old man on the stock. But here’s a bigger deal if you haven’t heard it. We want you home. And, you’re set for money. So, hell, just think about it, would you?”

  Jake invested most of his NFL money into prime commercial real estate projects in the mid-Atlantic region over his ten-year playing time. Developers found him. With his bio science stock and real estate, he was worth $23 million. A very rich cop. And that didn’t include Big Jake’s Grill Company.

  Jake returned from the restroom and remained standing next to Hope. “Folks, this has been the most amazing evening. Thank you so much for having me. But now I have to leave on offi
cial business.” He looked at Hope.

  “Hope, do you have any interest in running by a little roadhouse and watching a police interview?”

  Hope glanced at Jan. Caught a wink.

  “Well, sure, I guess.”

  TWO BEERS AND FORTY MINUTES LATER, Jake and Hope walked outside to the parking lot of the Rusty Anchor. Jake enjoyed talking to the manager, his old teammate, Alonzo, and digging into what he knew about the Anchor’s burglary as well as Dude’s background. Jake left thinking Dude Codger was no boy scout.

  “That was fun. My first live-in-person cop investigation. I kind of like the cop stories, love the action.” She had an inviting look in her eyes.

  “Well, I’m an action guy.”

  Hope glanced at her watch. “Only 10:15. Why don’t you stop by my place and put me under arrest, action guy?”

  73

  Monday, June 24, 2019

  JAKE ANSWERED THE CALL at 10:42. “Jake, it’s Rye Hewitt in Charleston.”

  “Good morning, detective.”

  “Might have something. You remember the tomahawk?”

  “Sure.”

  “We tracked it down. It’s called the One Strike Battle Hawk from One Strike Tactics.”

  “What’s the story on the company?”

  “Based out of California. Started by a retired Green Beret. They make tactical combat knives and hawks. Artisan quality, handmade. Sell a lot to military guys. Some to outdoorsmen.”

  “Did you say military?”

  “Yep, special forces love the product. I spoke to the owner, a forthcoming guy, sounded like a good dude. Military guys view it as mystical, magical, and guaranteed effective since it was born, bred, and made by a spec ops soldier. They sell it to Rangers, Delta, and Navy Seals. A lot of Marines and regular Army, too.

  “Huh.” Jake nodded. “Okay, the One Strike owner. You tell him what happened here?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know.”

  “What did he say about that?”

  “He said that if anybody called him to complain that the tomahawk didn’t cut somebody’s head off easily, he’d refund their money and call me to let me know who it was.”

  Jake laughed. “Well, there ain’t no head on this lady’s body, so they’re meeting their quality standards. Let me get Justice working on a subpoena of company sales records, put some steam heat on the process. What’s the owner’s name, the guy you talked to at One Strike?”

  “Mayo Sexton. Check out One Strike on YouTube. That damn guy’s throwing knives and tomahawks at oak trees. He sinks the blade in deep with every throw. Never misses. Sexton is a big, no nonsense, tough-looking son of a bitch.”

  MILITARY CONNECTION? All Jake could put together from two separate murders, if anything, was a possible military connection. But still, anybody could buy a .338 rifle and a hatchet. Didn’t have to be military. And Wild Bill’s Rolls? Plastic explosive. Shedd was military...

  He fired a text to Ben Staggers.

  Need to pick your brain. Call me if you get a minute.

  The phone rang twenty-two minutes later.

  Jake filled Staggers in on what he’d found so far then got to his question. “Could an ex-military guy do this?”

  “Well, if I was of a mind to, I’d be great at doing that. So, yeah, a former military guy could do this. But why would he want to?”

  “Same reason most people do things. Money.”

  “Well, I like money, but I’m not going to be doing anything like that,” said Ben, a retired captain.

  “I don’t want to blow too much smoke here,” said Jake, “but knowing a guy like you, I think of great character, impeccable ethics, strong moral code. In my mind, that’s the level I view our military.”

  “Okay, I know where you’re going. Could a military guy even conceivably stoop to doing this kind of violence?”

  “Exactly.” Jake tossed three almonds in his mouth, focused on what a former special ops guy has to say.

  “Here’s the deal. Military guys have all the same problems as anyone else walking the streets, and in all probability, even more pressures. To start, the money is crap. Hard to support a family. Marriage is tough. Lot of time away from your spouse. Affairs are common. Kids don’t see their dads for long periods of time which is not good in today’s culture. And coming back in from a deployment? Oh boy. God forbid you could always have a life changing physical injury. But the epidemic is PTSD. It can keep you from sleeping, eating, loving. You’ll drive away everyone you know. Guys walk around angry, half-cocked, or maybe in the other direction, hidden from life holed up crying in a bedroom closet. It can make you unemployable. Then zero money. That leads to desperation. The latest VA stat is twenty suicides committed daily by our soldiers.”

  “Ahhh, man. Glad you’re doing well.”

  “Jake, I’ve been divorced twice. I’m okay, but most of that is bringing the war home. It has affected me, but I march on. Fortunately, I’m able to cope. Here’s your answer. Yes, an ex-military guy could be involved in that shit going on. Definitely. Here’s the only place I find a problem in your story. I haven’t heard of a single soul with solid combat experience that would know about any movement of significant money into overseas accounts. Almost a fact that if he was ex-military, he already has kills under his belt from the service. He knows how to do it, he’s good at it, and he’s comfortable with how you feel after you do it. And one lawyer alone, that buffoon buddy of yours from Alabama, sent over $5 million, you said. Most military guys wouldn’t know whether to spit, shit, or piss with $5 mil.”

  Jake barked out a laugh at that.

  “Have you ever thought, Jake, this might be some whacked out NFL guy cut the second week of training camp that left school without a free degree?”

  Jake laughed even louder. “Hadn’t thought of that. Lotta suspects there.” Chuckled again. “Thanks, man, good insight. Thursday at 7:00 at the dojo?”

  “Sure. I’ll call Kreitzman. Always fun to kick his secret agent ass.”

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, Jake was sitting in his Tahoe outside a Five Guys eating a burger and fries listening to Old Crow Medicine show sing about poverty, cocaine, and wife beating when his phone rang with another important piece of info. Pike Tatum.

  “Pike, whatcha got?”

  “Got the plastics report. It’s Semtex. But no match to anything found at Shedd’s.”

  “Ahhh, what the hell? I was hoping to close the car bombing.”

  “Me too. And we’re kind of out of leads. But, you know, I kind of believed Shedd when he said he didn’t do it. Might be he just hadn’t thought of it yet. Or, maybe he’d lay the pain straight on Burnham’s ass.”

  “I thought he was shooting straight, too. Listen, you got any cameras focused down that block of Black Point Ave.?”

  “Yep. We’ve studied everything pretty good. Before, during, and after the blast. Saw Bill pull in. About fifteen minutes later, boom. Could be the bomber mistimed his blast. Maybe Bill was supposed to disintegrate.”

  “I don’t think so. Bill had that email come in that told him to hold on to his ass just before the explosion. The killer may have been watching the street and set the blast off with a remote trigger. Let’s keep in touch with anything that pops up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Hey, Pike, one question. Do you feel safe? I mean doing your job.”

  “In Black Point, yes. In Dallas, I was uncomfortable. Why?”

  “Nothing, really. Some of my friends have just expressed concern for me while I was down there.”

  74

  JAKE KILLED THE RADIO AND THOUGHT BACK. He knew for sure prior to getting drafted by the Redskins he never had one single thought about law enforcement, ever.

  Twenty-three years ago, that’s when he was sideswiped by Buck Bradley. Jake had not seen Ms. Sarah’s husband since he moved into their carriage house four months earlier. It was a pleasant spring evening, and Jake had the front door open. He heard a tap on his screen door, looked over his shoulde
r from the couch and saw Buck Bradley, the former admiral and current director of the C.I.A. The director wore cut-off khaki pants with paint stains, an untucked navy Izod golf shirt with a few holes that had to be fifteen-years old, tennis shoes, and no socks with a two-day scruff. He could have been a handyman at a any large apartment complex.

  “Hello, admiral, come in, sir.”

  “No, no, but thanks, nice night, you come on out for some air.” Jake stepped out on the porch. The screen door rattled the frame as the spring cracked it shut.

  “Damn, I love the slap of a screen door. Makes me think of my childhood in Beaufort, South Carolina,” said the admiral. “I’ve had a fine life, but not one day of it was better than being a boy growing up in the Carolina low country.”

  “I can imagine. Have a seat, sir.” Jake pointed to the Adirondacks.

  “Look, Jake, I’ve been really busy, so I wanted to catch up, and set some ground rules. First, cut the admiral and director crap, okay. You aren’t in the military or the CIA, we’re across the backyard neighbors now. The kind where you can come over and ask if they have any extra corn flakes or whatever and not be too concerned about bothering somebody in their pajamas.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bradley. That sounds good.”

  “Hold it.” Buck raised his palm. “From now on, call me Buck, forget the mister.”

  “But listen,” the director leaned in, “I’m serious here about one thing and I needed to talk to you about it. Sarah and I have a big investment in the Redskins, and I know you understand the gravity of this. We took out a huge bank loan to buy in and truthfully it scares the hell out of me. So,” the director’s head lowered, eyebrows shot up, “listen to me now on this real close... you miss a pick on an overthrown pass, and you might get a visit from men with names I don’t even know. Black agents. So, no fuckups on the field, got it?” Bradley bored his steely CIA gaze right through Jake’s skull.

  “You need to understand something, Jake. The Washington Redskins ain’t south Alabama high school ball and this ain’t Monopoly money. Am I clear on this?” Chin down, cheek scar in full view.