Smoke & Mirrors

by John Ramsey Miller

  43

  AFTER HANGING UP, HAYDEN HATCHER LIFTED HIS encrypted phone and dialed a number he had committed to memory.

  “Yes?” the familiar voice said.

  “It’s Hatcher. It appears we have another scented red toothpick left at the scene of a killing south of Memphis,” Hayden said. “This one is being handled by Bradley Barnett, the sheriff in Tunica County, Mississippi.”

  “Who was the target?”

  “A young black girl. Nineteen years of age. Shot from long distance with a rifle. Not like the others, is it? You said any reports of red, clove-flavored toothpicks at murder scenes. This makes four in fifteen months.”

  “How did this one come in?”

  “Through Alexa Keen, she’s in—”

  “I know who she is,” the voice said. “You found out how?”

  “Well, it was picked up via an overheard conversation.” He wouldn’t admit over the phone that she was under continuing internal surveillance ordered by Hayden at the behest of his benefactor. “She got a request for expedited DNA on the toothpick from a friend of hers. Are you familiar with Winter Massey? It seems he had a sample to compare it to.”

  The only sound coming over the line was that of breathing.

  “So the toothpick is connected to the man you’re looking for? The East German?” Hayden asked.

  “We’ll deal with this. If anything else pops up, you will let me know immediately.” It wasn’t a question. The line clicked as the man hung up.

  Hayden placed the phone in its receiver and rocked back in his chair.

  He was excited. Pleasing his benefactor was the key to his amazing run of successful operations against terrorist cells inside the United States, its territories, and, most recently, Canada. His man had alerted Hayden to a Hamas cell that was bootlegging low-tax cigarettes from North Carolina to New York and other cities, and then to a group of amateur Canadian terrorists plotting to blow up targets across Canada, take over parliament and—as absurd as it sounded—behead the Canadian prime minister. Hayden had, as instructed, given the intelligence to the Canadian authorities, who had in turn given him personal credit for his assistance. It was this voice in the darkness that had put Hayden Hatcher this close to the throne.

  Whoever this murderous East German toothpick dropper was, he was someone the shadow man’s group had been after for a long time—and he was someone his secretive friend clearly wanted very badly. Hayden certainly hoped they got him. And if all worked out as planned, he was confident that someday, as the man had insinuated on many occasions, Hayden Hatcher would be the director of the FBI.

  44

  SHORTLY AFTER ONE P.M., BRAD STEPPED TO THE podium in the sheriff’s department briefing room and was instantly bathed in the floodlights used by the TV news crews that represented the Memphis, Tennessee, and Jackson, Mississippi, affiliate stations. Roy Bishop stood to one side.

  “I’m Brad Barnett, sheriff of Tunica County, and I’m going to make a statement. Yesterday morning, Sherry Adams, a nineteen-year-old resident of Tunica, Mississippi, was killed as she walked from a county residence to her car. Yesterday afternoon, Jack Beals, a resident of Tunica County, was killed in a room at the Gold Key Motel, while he was in the commission of an armed assault and attempted robbery. We believe that whoever killed Mr. Beals may have seen the attack in progress and acted in the urgency of the moment to rescue the man Mr. Beals was assaulting. We urge anyone who has any information on this incident to contact our office. At this time we have no suspect in that crime.

  “Upon investigating these two deaths, we came upon what appears to be conclusive evidence that it was in fact Mr. Beals who fired the shot that killed Sherry Adams. We have recovered from Mr. Beals’s residence what we believe to be the murder weapon, along with other evidence, and are continuing to investigate these cases. As of yet we do not have a motive in the Adams murder, and it appears that it may have been a random act of violence.”

  “Was it a hate crime?” a reporter yelled out.

  Hands went up and almost every newsperson shouted a question.

  “Since these are ongoing investigations, I will not answer any questions beyond what I have already told you. As there are new developments, and as we have verified them, my office will release that information.”

  Brad left the room with his chief deputy following him. The reporters shouted questions behind them, but the sheriff neither responded nor slowed. Winter and Alexa, who had waited in the hallway, followed Brad to his office.

  The press conference was part of Winter’s plan to get the media off the streets and away from the investigation. He hoped the press would report the few details they’d gathered, file their stories, and, without more information immediately forthcoming, lose interest by rapid degrees. And he hoped Albert White would sweat some and maybe do something dumb. The murder of a poor black girl in a rural Mississippi county—one that had been solved—was, when it came to the bottomless stomach of Americans for graphic violence, less filling than an airline snack.

  45

  “HERE’S WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN,” THE MAN who’d kidnapped Cynthia told her when she came around. She was tied up and blindfolded but no longer in the barn. The place smelled of disinfectant and she was sure she’d been dressed in new clothes. They felt cheap and stiff and smelled like they had never been washed.

  “Please, my stomach hurts really bad. Like worse than cramps. It’s what happens if I don’t get my insulin. I feel like I’m starving.”

  “But you aren’t going to starve,” he said.

  “It feels like I am. Even if I eat, it won’t help.”

  “How about candy?” the man asked her.

  “Sugar would make it much worse. I feel so sick. Please let me have a shot.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. You feel like you are starving, but when you eat you won’t feel any different for it, even though you’d be full?”

  “Yes. It’s diabetes. If I don’t get a shot, soon, I’ll have other symptoms.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve never gone without insulin since I was diagnosed, so I’m not really sure what all can happen. When I realize I’m really thirsty, I check my blood sugar and give myself a shot. If it’s, like, under two hundred fifty I’m feeling tired or my stomach hurts. If it goes to, like, three hundred fifty, I could go into a coma and have to be on an IV. I could die. So I need to do a check with my testing monitor. Look, I have two loaded syringes in my purse. You do have my purse, don’t you? My kit’s in there.”

  “It’s in the van,” he said.

  “Could you go and get it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I abducted you. This is not a hospital, and I’m not a physician. If you die from insulin shock, you die.”

  “But I need it,” she told him. “I’m serious.”

  “You can go a long time without a shot without dying.”

  “I’m not sure how long that is,” she said, frightened.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I will do. I have a sandwich you can have that may be staler than you’re accustomed to. I will give you plenty of water, and I will let you pee. I will only get your purse when I don’t have anything else that I have to do. If you give me any trouble, or try to escape, my associate outside this room will cut your nipples off. If you try a second time, I will cut your throat. Do you understand me?”

  She still didn’t know who this man was or how he fit in with Jack. Her father—even given the bastard he was—would not allow anything to happen to her. It had occurred to her that her father might be involved in this to get money out of her mother. The thought pained her, but she couldn’t dismiss it. But she didn’t believe he could allow this man to hurt her. But maybe Jacob wasn’t in charge. At this point, very little would surprise her.

  She felt the shooting pains of hunger worsen, a bad sign. She couldn’t just die like this.

  She just couldn’t.

  So she nodded
.

  “I understand,” she told the man who’d kidnapped her. “If you have time later on.”

  “That’s better. I’ll see what I can do.” The man gave her a big smile, and she suddenly felt very cold.

  46

  THE PRIVATE JETS CARRYING THE ADVANCE SHADOW team members—a cell comprised of dark ops specialists from four different cities—all arrived at the Memphis airport within the same forty-minute window. They had been dispatched as soon as word that Paulus Styer was in Tunica had been received by their organization. Once they were on the ground, the group was driven to Millington Naval Station, where two Yukons, already loaded with their equipment, had arrived in a C-130 cargo plane from North Carolina. The Millington gate guards had been instructed by their base commander to ignore the arriving team members and to wave their matching Yukons through when they exited the base.

  The men in the cell knew each other well because they had worked numerous missions together, but they knew each other only by the names they had been assigned. They were ex-military Special Forces members who had died in combat or in training accidents. Their given names, along with their histories, had been buried with the bodies—or parts thereof—supplied by the shadow cell to fill their coffins.

  The search for Paulus Styer, who was called Cold Wind by the CIA, had been going on for over ten years, and had cost six of the shadow team’s elite professionals and millions of dollars. The team members knew that Paulus Styer was a continuing top priority, and that the men who ended him would be generously rewarded. Even as the shadows traveled toward Tunica, Mississippi, other units were moving to join them.

  47

  STANDING AT ATTENTION IN THE VAST HOSPITALITY suite, windows at his back, Pierce Mulvane watched as workers finished assembling an architectural model of the River Royale resort. The model, made in Los Angeles by a company that built scale models for use in movies, had cost a great deal of money, but it would all be expensed. Press releases would show dignitaries standing behind the model, and pictures of it would be used to illustrate brochures and vacation articles. The model would then be moved downstairs in the lobby and placed on a table for public viewing while the actual complex was completed.

  The River Royale, situated far south of the other casinos in Tunica County, would eventually cover over three thousand acres. The model depicted indoor tennis courts, swimming pools, fountains, two eighteen-hole golf courses, a spa, the casino itself, designed to replicate a palace in Monaco, a seven-hundred-room hotel, five mini-villas, a concert hall, a four-screen movie theater, a promenade with high-end specialty shops, heliport, and eight restaurants. The closest competing casino would be fifteen miles away, as if any casino could compete with a world-class, one-stop destination where gaming was the core profit generator, though it appeared to be only one more method of entertainment for the guests.

  Pierce looked at the model, and although it wasn’t physically apparent, a large section in the center of the project stood out—the parcel that Kurt Klein didn’t yet own. Looking at it, Pierce felt another wave of nausea rise within him.

  The workers finished their task and left without saying anything. Pierce had hardly noticed until he turned to find Tug Murphy waiting for him.

  “Yes, Tug?”

  “Klein’s guy, Steffan Finch, wants to see you.”

  “Again? I shouldn’t keep him waiting…long, I suppose.”

  “It’s a beautiful resort,” Tug said, nodding in the direction of the model.

  Pierce rubbed his hands together briskly. “We have a great deal to accomplish and not much time to do it in. I wonder if Albert knows more about this Beals thing than he’s said.”

  “That could be,” Tug said.

  “I wish I knew everything that’s going on. Maybe it’s best I don’t. Given the circumstances, deniability may be my best friend,” Pierce said as he lifted a tiny golf cart and moved it from the cart path to a fairway. He thought, Maybe Herr Klein has done me a huge favor by being so damned secretive.

  Across the desk from Pierce Mulvane, Steffan Finch sat, his sunglasses still on. Beside him, a visibly nervous Albert White sat twiddling his thumbs.

  Finch said, “Instead of waiting until Tuesday, Herr Klein will be arriving tomorrow from Atlantic City. I have some good men coming in with Herr Klein to handle his personal security needs.”

  “I told Mr. Finch that if he needs anything from us, I will arrange it,” Albert White said.

  “Quite a bit of bother over this Beals fellow,” Finch said. “When I spoke to Herr Klein earlier, I mentioned its being on the news, and he indicated I should place myself at your disposal in case this threatens to expand into something larger.”

  “Yes,” Pierce said. “If it does, we’ll make sure you are kept apprised.”

  Albert said, “It was a very unfortunate thing. Beals seemed to be completely trustworthy. It appears, however, that he was up to something on his own.”

  “His connection to this casino should be of no concern,” Pierce said. “Isn’t that right, Albert?”

  “No way this can come back on the casino,” Albert said, straightening his tie and shooting Pierce a nervous glance. “I can assure you he wasn’t acting on our behalf.”

  “Herr Klein is always concerned about blowback, and my job is to address his concerns. These are very important people who can’t afford to be associated with any hint of scandal. So tell me what you know about Beals’s escapade. Herr Klein says that you are to level with me.”

  Pierce said, “Well, I mentioned to Albert that I wished I could discover how a certain young man was managing to cheat this house. Albert asked Jack Beals to talk to the young man to find out how he was cheating. I have no idea who killed Beals. He was making himself useful to a certain someone whom Kurt sent to help with a land complication, and perhaps that man may have decided to take matters into his own hands for some reason not known to us. I mean, Kurt—”

  “You’re mistaken,” Finch said, interrupting. “Have you seen anyone sent here by Herr Klein? Did Beals tell either of you that he had been helpful to anyone who was dealing with any problems for Herr Klein?”

  “Of course not,” Pierce said quickly. “You?” he asked White.

  “I’ve seen nobody. I just told Beals—as Mr. Mulvane told me to—that when someone approached him and used the name Pablo that he should do whatever this person asked him to, and that Pablo would compensate him directly. Jack never told me he had been approached, but I had also told him never to mention it again,” Albert said, smiling uncomfortably. “That’s all I know, and I only know that much inside this room, between us. Mr. Mulvane told me to find someone that could be trusted, and I picked Beals since he has always performed with professionalism. And, as a lifelong resident of Tunica County, he could furnish information on the Gardners. Is it possible this Pablo killed him so he wouldn’t have to pay him? Or to keep him quiet? I mean, with Beals dead, nobody else has even seen Pablo—if he actually ever arrived.”

  “I see,” Finch said. “Beals was someone you could depend on. Isn’t it possible that this cheater had someone watching his back who was in the room when Beals went inside?”

  “I didn’t know he killed that girl,” Albert said. “Out on the Gardner plantation.”

  “The girl yesterday?” Mulvane said, turning his eyes to exchange glances with White, who nodded.

  White said, “The sheriff said so on the news a little while ago. They searched Beals’s house, according to my source at the department, and found the rifle used to kill the girl, and close to two hundred grand.”

  “Where did Beals get that kind of money?” Mulvane asked immediately. “We don’t pay him anywhere near that much.”

  “He might have inherited it, sold something, saved it up, I guess,” White said. “Maybe Pablo paid him that money for helping him.”

  “But you can’t be sure it wasn’t stolen from us,” Pierce said. “I mean, if he was embezzling, that makes him appear more criminal and less
like he could have been acting on our behalf, like he told that gambler. Right, Albert?”

  “He was never alone with large sums of cash. None of my people are.” White seemed confident.

  “Nobody pays that kind of money to a helper, not even a full partner,” Finch said.

  Mulvane opened his hands expansively. Albert was being slow on the uptake. “Well, obviously he was stealing from us, which means he didn’t get paid to kill anybody, or anything that would need further looking into. We were victims too. Exactly how much money was found?”

  “One hundred and eighty thousand, two hundred twenty dollars,” Albert said. “And he had an arsenal in that house. Like thirty guns.”

  “Well,” Finch said, clapping his hands together. “I see we’re on the same page here. I’ll tell Herr Klein all of this when I see him. No sense bothering the man with details, is there? He’s not really interested in details, just the overall picture.”

  “Of course not,” Pierce said. “Not at all.”

  48

  THE BLUE & WHITE RESTAURANT, PAINTED ROYAL blue and white, was located on Highway 61. The Tunica County institution looked like a large roadside restaurant and gas station. Years before it had been a popular truck stop, but all that remained of that was the original cafe structure, the gas pumps long since removed. There was an L-shaped dining room, tables, and a series of booths against the open kitchen.

  Brad waved at or made small talk with several diners before joining Winter and Alexa Keen at a corner table.

  Brad said as he slid in, “I went over our missing-person files, and some of the people were supposedly headed here, or had called someone from here to say they’d won big. So it’s safe to assume Beals was using his casino job to target people like Scotoni. People he checked out. Maybe he killed them and disposed of their bodies. According to the IRS, four of the missing people paid taxes on winnings at the Roundtable.”