Smoke & Mirrors

by John Ramsey Miller

  9

  PIERCE MULVANE LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND gazed affectionately at the framed Walter Anderson watercolors of Gulf Coast wildlife that decorated his office. Anderson’s work—sloppy and unfinished looking, in Mulvane’s opinion—had appreciated enormously over the past few years. Pierce wouldn’t have purchased them himself, and he technically didn’t own them, since they had been part of the purchase of the Castle casino. The fixtures, including all existing equipment, had remained with the structure as part of the sale agreement. He didn’t know anything about art, but the increased value endeared the paintings to him. He had made a wise choice by talking Klein into buying this marginally profitable, garishly designed casino in north Mississippi, instead of building one on the Gulf Coast.

  Mulvane had been employed by Royale Resorts International for twelve years. The Castle had been his idea. He had convinced the owner, Kurt Klein, to purchase the run-down casino to see if the area was viable for a major investment in a future RRI self-contained billion-dollar casino resort—the likes of which had never been seen in Tunica County. After the new resort was built, RRI would sell the existing casino to another group and recoup their investment, plus pocket the profits it had made. Or they might even retain the casino as an operation that catered to low rollers. The Roundtable had only two hundred hotel rooms, four restaurants, five bars, and two acres of gambling floor. The new place, to be built over three thousand acres, would be the grandest operation RRI owned, and Mulvane would manage it.

  Pierce’s brothers had all followed in their father’s footsteps and joined the Boston-based Irish mob. Pierce, more ambitious than the other Mulvanes, had started his career in crime as a bookie, but after three years he had been put in charge of a floating high-stakes poker game. From there Pierce had gone to Atlantic City and worked his way into casino management. After two years rising through the ranks at the Atlantic Ocean Club, he had been hired by Resorts Royale International. He had been running RRI’s Atlantic City casino when he suggested to Kurt Klein the concept for the new resort in Tunica County, an area he believed had more growth potential than Las Vegas. Pierce had targeted the Castle, a casino that would have been a gold mine except for the fact that it was being crippled by the skim taken off the top by greedy, silent-partner mobsters. Providentially, and with the help of a phone call to the right people, the mobsters had been caught and RRI had purchased the Castle at fire-sale rates. Due to Pierce’s management, an honest count upstairs, effective promotions, and a cosmetic remodeling, the place, renamed the Roundtable, had indeed become a gold mine.

  The present Roundtable, originally built with a facade that resembled a medieval castle complete with battlements from which a series of long and colorful banners flew, had become so profitable that Pierce had finally convinced Kurt that the spot was ripe for a major resort operation. Pierce had promised to have the new operation ready to start construction within a year, but he had run into an unforeseen problem. He had explained the dilemma to Kurt Klein, but it was clear that any revision in the schedule would not be tolerated. His boss, a German billionaire businessman unaccustomed to financial disappointment, demanded strict adherence to his instructions.

  Pierce left his office and strolled to the elevator where his personal assistant, Patrick “Tug” Murphy, waited. He looked, despite an expensive suit tailored to hide his handgun, like a professional boxer who’d been knocked out and collapsed, the side of his face landing on a pile of sharp rocks. He had not been a prizefighter, but he had been disfigured in a car accident years earlier when an explosion had sent super-heated safety glass into his face. The scars resembled acute acne, mercilessly pitting the skin on his right cheek, the side of his chin, and forehead. As a result, his facial expression gave less information than the backside of a speed limit sign.

  “Time for a tour,” Pierce said.

  “Yes, sir,” Tug said, looking down at his watch. Tug was intelligent, had astounding reflexes, no conscience, and executed orders perfectly. Klein’s people in New York had recommended Tug. He had only been with Pierce a few months, but Pierce trusted him as much as he did Albert White, his chief of security.

  Pierce checked himself out in the wall of mirrors. His crimson hair was perfectly combed, his naturally bushy eyebrows neatly trimmed. He centered the knot of his silk tie perfectly between the stiff collars of his Swiss-made shirt and pulled down the hem of his double-breasted charcoal Armani jacket.

  “How do I look?” he asked, knowing it was a rhetorical question.

  “Like you stepped out from a page in GQ, boss,” Tug said.

  “Anything else on that incident out at Six Oaks?”

  “Nothing yet. Albert’s still trying to find out more. It was a young black girl, is all I know.”

  “If it were Pablo, that wouldn’t be the case, would it? He’s the best there is, right? Mistaking his target would be impossible,” he said sarcastically.

  Tug nodded. “Big fuckup for a big professional.”

  “Then,” Pierce said, “it must have been a hunting accident. Still this is definitely not a good thing.”

  Pierce wasn’t yet fifty, and he was at the top of his game. Stepping into the mirrored cab, he was confident that he was going to make the resort happen on schedule. The alternative was unthinkable.

  10

  “I’M NOT GOING HOME WITHOUT YOU,” SEAN SAID with a finality Winter was all too familiar with. She was holding Olivia and standing in the RV’s master bedroom while he packed clean clothes into his canvas duffel. “Your problem is you have never learned to say no.”

  “If it’s Styer,” Winter said, “I have to stop him. If it isn’t, I’d like to know who wants me to think it is. If Brad didn’t know who I was, I’d be a suspect under a bright light in some interrogation room.”

  “Say it is Styer. Maybe if we go home, he’ll just leave,” she said. “Maybe he’s done here and he’ll move on.”

  “And let me go? Not likely.”

  “But why would he be after you?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s had time to think about what happened in New Orleans and he regrets leaving a loose end. He knows I won’t ever forgive him for what he did to Hank and Millie. I’m his enemy. Maybe he figures to end our unfinished business with one of his little games.”

  “You aren’t a killer. Are you prepared to kill him? You know he’s trying to kill you, and if anybody can, he can.”

  “He may figure that killing innocent people is a good way to get me involved. The card and the toothpick mean I’d figure it was him. I have a feeling he’ll keep killing until it’s time to move on me, while he watches me from close by. It has to end here, and fast.”

  “You can get those CIA cutouts to deal with him. They would, wouldn’t they? They’re still looking for him. Let those bastards handle their own kind.”

  “I won’t go that route. Besides, if they tried and missed, I’d be in worse shape than I am now. I’ve thought this through, Sean.”

  “How did he know you’d be out here in the middle of nowhere, and now?”

  “I don’t think he’d harm you or the kids. But he might try something to get me to come after him.”

  “I thought he underwent some sort of spiritual conversion in New Orleans when he walked away from his contract to kill you.”

  “So did I. But I think there’s only one way to deal with Paulus Styer.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, which Winter gently wiped away.

  “Massey, nobody ever sees him coming. You aren’t forgetting that you didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t aware that he even existed then. That isn’t the case here. I don’t care how well he disguises himself. This time I’ll know him when I see him.”

  “Daddy, gep me op!” Olivia said, reaching out her hands. Sean handed her to Winter and, taking her, he kissed his daughter on her cheek.

  “I’ll check into a motel in Tunica and call you. Go turn in the RV and take the first flight back home tomorrow. Will you d
o that so I won’t have to worry?”

  “I guess falling in love with a man who attracts violence is the downside of our otherwise perfect relationship,” she said, hugging him and her daughter. “Good thing the upside makes it all worthwhile.”

  “I’m sorry, Sean,” Winter said. “You don’t know how sorry I am.”

  Sean smiled. “Massey, it isn’t like I didn’t know what you were when I met you. You’ll do what you want to do.”

  Thirty minutes later Winter put the venison tenderloins and the quarters of deer meat into the camp’s cooler, figuring he’d return in a day or two and take it to the processor in Batesville, or let Billy Lyons give it to somebody who would make use of it. Winter threw his duffel into the rear of the rented Jeep, turned the RV around, and Sean followed the RV ten miles to Interstate 55, where they switched vehicles. Sean and Winter honked enthusiastic see-you-soons for the half mile before they arrived at the turnoff to Tunica. Faith Ann and Rush waved and made comical faces from the RV’s rear window until it pulled away. And as Sean drove the motor home north toward Memphis, she carried the majority of Winter’s heart with her.

  11

  THE TUNICA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE WAS LOCATED within the jail facility, a building with all the architectural charm of a shoebox, just down the road from a decrepit cotton gin. Winter parked in the lot across from a pole flying the Mississippi State and United States flags, locked the rented Jeep wagon, and strode up the wide concrete walkway to the front doors, opening them for an elderly woman and a small boy wearing a hooded jacket and threadbare shoes. In the reception area, a line of chairs faced a reception nook where two clerks stood behind bulletproof glass. On the far wall was a row of framed black and white portraits of past sheriffs of Tunica County. Several of the early sheriffs looked like hard-faced lawmen from the Old West, with sweeping handlebar mustaches, strong jaws, and serious eyes sheltered by bushy brows. In the more recent photos, they looked less like gunslingers and more like businessmen who had taken the job for a change in routine. Winter wondered if the last photo was of the sheriff who had been arrested by the Feds for corruption.

  Speaking through a slot in the window, Winter asked the clerk to let the sheriff know he was there.

  After a couple of minutes, an attractive black woman dressed in a gray business suit came out into the reception area smiling at Winter.

  “Mr. Massey,” she said, holding out her hand, which he shook. “I’m Bettye Barry, the sheriff’s assistant.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sheriff Barnett is expecting you. I’ll take you back.”

  Winter crossed through the metal-detector gate and set off the alarm, which the receptionist ignored. They went down a short hall and took a right at the first intersection, pausing at a steel door with a built-in glass panel. Bettye used her card to open the lock and showed him through, then opened the door to the sheriff’s office spaces. The reception area was small, but the sheriff’s office wasn’t.

  Inside, Winter spotted Brad Barnett at his desk talking on the phone. As Winter entered, Brad hung up.

  “That was the MBI,” Brad said.

  “They coming in?” Winter asked.

  “They aren’t overly enthusiastic about it. Said it looked like a county matter—a hunting accident I could solve. They’re going to review the evidence at the state lab, the crime-scene pictures, and the autopsy report when it comes back from the ME’s office in Jackson. They don’t see a likelihood of solving this if it isn’t an accident, a jilted boyfriend, or nobody confesses or strikes again. If this is a hate crime they’ll get involved, but it’s obvious they don’t want to jump in on a dead-ender. I think it’s more about a dead black girl from a poor family. They assume all county sheriffs here are crooked based on our department’s recent history. This guy you think committed the murder, who’s he on the run from? The FBI?”

  “He’s not officially wanted by anyone in this country. If you’ll get the toothpick ready to ship, I can check it against a sample of his DNA I have.”

  “That takes months.”

  “Get it packed for shipping. I have a friend in the FBI who told me about a technique for getting DNA run in a matter of hours. I’ll call her.”

  “I have someone checking the crime database to see if any toothpicks have shown up in any other killings anywhere. What else can you tell me?”

  “We’ll see if I need to tell you more. Right now I can’t.”

  “Why not? Is it a government secret?”

  “Brad, you don’t want to know. If I think you should, I’ll tell you.”

  “I guess I’ll have to take your word on it. For the time being, anyway. But I don’t like it.”

  Winter shrugged. “I sent my family home.”

  “So, you’ll help me solve this case?”

  Winter nodded. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “You’ll need temporary official standing. Just so happens I have an opening that needs filling in my homicide department.”

  “You have a homicide department?”

  “Of course I do. You think this is some hick sheriff’s department?”

  Brad reached into his desk, took out a used badge case, and tossed it across the desk to Winter.

  “That was Deputy Bratton’s. He went to Gulfport after Katrina to help his family and hasn’t said if he’ll return. Just to cover this legally, we’ll get your picture taken in a minute. You’ll work directly with me, and you can give orders to anybody in my department as you need to. The Sherry Adams case is your only official responsibility. If that suits you, we can figure out compensation.”

  “Put me down as an employee, and pay me a buck.”

  “At least let me cover your expenses.”

  “Can you recommend a motel?”

  “I rattle around in a big old house with four bedrooms. There’s just me and my dog, Ruger.”

  “I don’t want to inconvenience anybody.”

  “You kidding? Guest room is private, has cable TV, clean linens, and a bathroom with big bars of soap.”

  “That’ll do,” Winter said.

  “What size uniform do you wear?”

  Winter’s shocked reaction brought laughter from the sheriff. “Just messing with you, Massey. Raise your right hand.”

  Winter smiled. He had the feeling that the sheriff was like an iceberg—what was below the surface was far more substantial than what wasn’t.

  12

  WHILE BRAD WENT TO GET THE TOOTHPICK READY for shipping, Winter picked up the office phone and dialed a cell number in Washington, D.C. He smiled when a familiar voice answered, “Alexa Keen.”

  “Alexa, it’s Winter.”

  “Winter. Have you gotten yourself arrested?” she asked.

  “What makes you ask that? Oh, the caller ID.”

  “Tunica County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Sean told me you were doing your deer hunt in Como.” She laughed. “So how’s that family-bonding-over-blood thing going for you?”

  “Faith Ann killed her first deer. A major buck too.”

  “I still think that’s a shame, Massey,” Alexa said. “Teaching that child to murder poor defenseless animals.”

  “She’d beg to differ, and obviously you’ve never been assaulted by a deer. Their little hooves are like razors. Anyway, it’s all in the name of game management and a well-rounded education, which was her argument to get me to let her go hunting.”

  “Cheaper than a shopping trip to Europe, I suppose. She is an extraordinary young lady,” Alexa said. “Must be hard on you, being so obviously average and surrounded by extraordinary people. So what are you doing in Tunica? Not gambling, I hope. It’s a superhighway to ruin, you know.”

  Winter told her about the Adams murder, the card, and the used toothpick he’d found. “I need DNA really fast. Awhile back you told me about some new DNA deal that takes hours, not days,” he said.

  “I did indeed. It’s ca
lled EDM.”

  “Wasn’t the lab in Nashville?”

  “ProCell. I suppose I can have DNA expedited for your sheriff buddy. You get it there ASAP. The procedure they’re doing is fast, but results aren’t going to be accepted in court. They need three days for accuracy.”

  “Can I do that without having those results included in any official report along with the tests? I’d cover the costs, of course.”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “No big deal. Just a favor for a friend.”

  “A favor for a friend is loaning them your car,” Alexa said. “Your friends tend to ask you to close the gates to hell.”

  13

  ON THE WAY TO LOOK FOR ALPHONSE JEFFERSON, Brad decided to drop in at the Adamses’ home and pay his respects to Sherry’s parents. A tall, distinguished-looking black man with graying hair stood alone on the porch of a small home in the predominately black section of Tunica.

  Beneath a smoke gray sky, Brad parked on the street and the men got out of the cruiser. They followed behind a fireplug of a woman wearing a black-cloth coat with rabbit fur trim. The hat perched on her head looked like a two-tiered chocolate cake someone had decorated with a trio of long red feathers. Folded potholders protected her bare hands from the heat of the covered casserole dish she carried.

  A professionally painted message on the tire cover of the conversion van parked in the Adamses’ driveway read LIFE IS GOD’S GIFT TO YOU. HOW YOU LIVE IT IS YOUR GIFT TO GOD.

  “Welcome, Sister Bertha,” the man on the porch said in a deep melodious voice.

  “Brother Adams,” the woman said. “Sad day for the world, but it’s a day of rejoicing in Heaven, because an angel has arrived at the pearly gates, praise His holy name.”

  “Go on inside, Sister Bertha,” Mr. Adams said, opening the door. “Mother’s in here.”