Smoke & Mirrors

by John Ramsey Miller

  Alexa nodded.

  “If you scream, I will set off the device, stroll up to Massey and Mrs. Gardner, which we both know I can do, and kill them inside this establishment. On all of this, and I mean every bit of it, you have my word. Please tell me you understand.”

  Alexa nodded again.

  “Oh, and there’s one other thing you should see. Just in case you don’t grasp the entire situation.”

  Styer stood and went into the bedroom. When he came back, he was not alone. Cynthia Gardner’s eyes were wild, her hands behind her back, her mouth covered with tape. Around her waist was a belt containing a brick of explosives with a detonator and a receiver attached to it. Styer pushed her roughly onto the couch and she blinked rapidly, looking from Alexa to Styer, confusion and fear clouding her features.

  Styer came around the table and jerked the tape from Alexa’s mouth. “Alexa, do you know Cynthia Gardner? I told you she was all right. Cynthia, meet FBI Agent Alexa Keen. She’s an abduction specialist who has found you against all odds.”

  Cynthia turned toward Alexa, alert and terrified.

  “So you didn’t know I had her?” Styer said. “You being the world’s leading abduction expert?”

  Styer picked up Alexa’s purse, took out her Glock, removed the magazine, jacked the receiver, and caught the round in the air. He slowly thumbed each of the rounds from the magazine into the bowl along with his nail clippings. That done, he slammed the empty magazine into the gun’s handle, tossed the other loaded magazines on the couch, and put the Glock back into her purse.

  “I won’t hesitate to kill her. You believe me, I hope. Cyn’s explosive is rigged to the same signal and will go off in sync with the one in her home. Double jeopardy, you see. I think I’ve covered all my bases.”

  Lifting his cell phone, he checked the readout, and put it into his left hand, thumb on the SEND button. “One queer move and I’ll press it.”

  “Okay,” Alexa said.

  “I know you may think I’m bluffing so I want to show you something.” He reached into his jacket pocket and showed her a Polaroid of him holding a bomb made of eight blocks of explosive in the foyer of the Gardner house.

  “I’m pretty photogenic, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Jesus,” Alexa said.

  “Do as I say and you will live. I want your word.”

  “It’s your game,” Alexa said.

  Styer cut the cable ties on Alexa’s ankles and unlocked her handcuffs. She sat up, rubbing her wrists slowly.

  Cynthia was sobbing hysterically.

  “It’s okay, Cynthia. He won’t do anything if we do as he says.”

  “Now, Cynthia,” Styer said. “You are going to make a call. If you say exactly what I tell you, you’ll be fine. If you screw this up, you are going to be very dead.”

  Cynthia nodded slowly as she locked eyes with Alexa. “Cynthia, do exactly what he says,” Alexa told the girl.

  98

  PIERCE MULVANE HAD EXPLAINED TO HIS WIFE THAT with Kurt Klein visiting he wasn’t going to make it home tomorrow for his usual Sunday visit with her and the kids. He listened patiently to her long litany of complaints, all the while going over the stack of gamblers’ complaints passed up to him from his managers. Most of the complaints were no more important to him than the tripe his wife came up with about him missing his son’s soccer finals, or his daughter’s hidden candy stashes, or his wife’s inability to find decent shoes in her size that were the right color. Why they couldn’t live in Vegas, where they had everything, was simply beyond her. He promised her that when River Royale was up and running, the shops would stock her sizes and colors, and she’d never have to mention Las Vegas again—and neither would anybody else.

  By the time he finally told her he would get up on Wednesday to spend the night, he had initialed the customers’ gripe reports and placed them into a stack for further consideration, probably around the time the temperature of hell finally dropped below thirty-two degrees.

  Pierce’s phone buzzed.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Pierce,” Kurt Klein said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Absolutely not. I was just finishing up some paperwork. What can I do for you?”

  “One of my security men was in the model room a few minutes ago and he reported to me that he caught a man with a camera who claims to be from one of the newspapers in Memphis, taking pictures of the resort model.”

  “That room was locked,” Pierce said.

  “Maybe one of your people let him in. My man does not think he is who he says he is, and he may be with a competitor. They found some interesting items in his room—number seven ten. I am going to go down myself in a minute. Meet me there?”

  “I’ll be right there as soon as I call Tug. He’s very good at this sort of thing. Don’t you think you should stay clear of it?”

  “Good thinking. But use Steffan’s people, no need to hassle Tug. Meet me up here after you have a look and we will decide what action is required.”

  Pierce hung up. If pictures of the resort were released before the official press conference, it would greatly lessen the impact of the announcement. When over a billion dollars was on the line, care had to be taken.

  Pierce tried to call Tug anyway, but there was no answer. He went to the elevator and got off on the seventh floor. One of Klein’s beefy security men waited in the hall beside the door. As Pierce drew close, the man gave him a troubled smile. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Mulvane,” he said, opening the door. “I think you will find this very disturbing.”

  Pierce went through the door into the short hallway and the security man came in behind him. The first thing he noticed were the leather suitcases beside a laundry cart. A sheet of plastic covered the floor and there was more covering the furniture. He wondered what the guest was up to that had made protective covering necessary. When he realized that the suitcases were just like his, the bathroom door opened, and Finch stepped out wearing a raincoat. Even as the guard muscled Pierce farther into the room and onto the plastic, Pierce had no idea why Finch was aiming a gun at him.

  99

  ALBERT WHITE TOOK OFF HIS TIE AND PUT IT IN the drawer along with his .38. He took the two speed loaders from his jacket pocket and tossed them in before closing and locking the drawer. In the five years since his wife left him for his second cousin, a roofer, he had rarely spent any of his off time—and there was less and less of that—with other people. He didn’t much care for company. Now he was going to spend the evening with a South African jerk-off and two of his pals. The prospect made him bone-tired. Why the old Kraut hadn’t just given him a cash bonus was beyond him. He was going to sit in a restaurant for a couple of hours, eat a thick steak. Then instead of lying down, which is what he’d want to do, he would have to go out carousing with the sons of bitches. And he’d bet ten dollars against a donut they’d want free trim at casino expense.

  He looked at his watch and frowned. Why was it that time passed so quickly when something unpleasant was coming at you, and so slowly when there was something tasty ahead? Well, if things worked out as planned, he’d be getting a nice bump from a real estate deal he’d been working on. He thought about Jack Beals. Although White had never cared for him, he had been useful. He may have been a preening smart-ass, but he would do anything for money, and he and White had made a few hundred grand by taking winnings from people who walked away with money they didn’t deserve. White knew the cash that had been found in Beals’s house was from their little sideline venture.

  Albert had his money well hidden, and once in a while he would take it out of the vents and count it. Since he didn’t go on vacations or buy expensive toys, he had more than he needed. When he wanted sex, Albert had a colored gal who would come over and set him right as rain for a fifty-dollar bill.

  Albert was saving for retirement. He had bought a small house on a lake in Florida, and when he walked out in five years, six months, two days, and fourteen hour
s, he would have enough to pad his retirement from the force in West Memphis, his social security, the bundle he’d saved from the years of collecting money to look the other way in West Memphis, Arkansas, and the liberated winnings he and Beals had put together. Nine hundred thousand dollars, but he planned to have well over a million before walking away into the glorious sunrise.

  Albert’s thoughts were interrupted by a rapping on his office door. Finch opened it. “You ready, big buddy?”

  “Yeah,” Albert said. “Where’s your two guys at?”

  “Waiting outside in the limo,” Finch said, smiling. “We’re going first-class all the way, big fellow. We go eat at that steak house you were bragging about, have a few drinks with Tug at that blues club outside town, and then we get some girls and have our ashes hauled. You up for all that?”

  “I reckon I am,” Albert said.

  “Then let’s have a run at it.”

  Albert nodded, took a look at the locked drawer, and followed Finch down the hall toward what he was sure was going to be a pure pain-in-the-ass experience.

  100

  ALEXA DRESSED IN THE LIVING ROOM WHILE STYER and Cynthia looked on.

  “You are a very attractive woman,” he said.

  She buttoned her blouse.

  “I find women of small stature attractive.”

  “Girls who look boyish.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said, frowning. Styer’s eyes hardened for a few seconds, then softened.

  “You don’t have to. Maybe psychotic young men like Jack Beals are more your speed. I’ll just use my imagination.”

  “Jack…?” Cynthia said, startled. “He’s dead?”

  “Males have never held any sexual fascination for me. Jack had a high opinion of his mediocre talents with a gun. He never allowed his targets to face him on even ground. He was a thief and a coward, who used a badge to get close.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “You killed Jack?” Cynthia asked, her lip trembling.

  Alexa didn’t know that Cynthia knew Beals. She would have loved to ask her how she knew him.

  Styer shrugged. “The young man was supposed to be helping me, but I discovered that he was trying to figure out what I was up to so he could tell certain people with interests contrary to those of my employer. All of this intrigue over the land, and so much duplicity swirling around. As it happened, his body was a convenient sign holder for Massey.” He smiled.

  “Did you kill Sherry Adams just to draw Winter in?”

  “File that under killing two birds with one bullet. Now, Cynthia, put on your parka. If you so much as look the wrong way, your fashion accessory will spread your lovely body, and unfortunately ours, too, all over the landscape. You get that?”

  Cynthia nodded mutely.

  Styer made Alexa’s skin crawl. She was fairly sure, despite his assurances, that he didn’t intend to leave her alive after she’d served his purpose. Time was running out, and she had to start looking for a weakness to exploit.

  Alexa put on her coat and slipped her purse on her shoulder. After Styer fixed the do-not-disturb sign on the door, she walked beside him down the hall toward the elevators. His left hand, hidden in his coat pocket, held his cell phone. The valise in his right hand contained God knew what.

  They didn’t speak as they rode down to the casino, now crowded with Saturday night gamers. The gamblers ranged from fat to fit, rich to poor, and their clothes reflected a wide range of fashion and functionality—from gowns to jeans and halter tops, Armani to hunter’s camouflage jackets and matching ball caps. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the insipid sounds of ringing bells, as the wheels of a thousand slot machines spun in place.

  Alexa kept her eyes on the floor in front of her, thinking in ten directions at once. “We’ll take your vehicle,” Styer said. “Wouldn’t be good if Massey saw it sitting here, what with you supposed to be in Memphis meeting with those FBI agents.”

  As they exited the casino, Alexa spotted Albert White climbing into a limousine. He stooped to get his considerable bulk into the Cadillac, reminding Alexa of a fat groundhog slipping into a narrow opening in a wall.

  At Leigh’s pickup, Alexa unlocked the door and handed Styer the keys. He aimed Cynthia into the rear seat and placed the valise on the floorboard beside her feet. He watched as Alexa opened her door and climbed into the cab. She started the engine and backed out carefully.

  “So what’s in the valise?” she asked.

  “Maybe I’ll let you look if you behave yourself. Aren’t you going to try and use psychology on me? It’s a long drive out to the plantation, and I like entertainment where I can find it.”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then, what’s your listening pleasure?” he asked, turning on the radio.

  101

  ALBERT WHITE SQUEEZED PAST FINCH’S PALS IN THE jump seat and crabbed back to the rear bench, lowering his bulk to the cushioned leather. The other two men, whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn, were large and serious individuals who didn’t look like they were going to enjoy this any more than he was. Only Steffan Finch was smiling, and as soon as the car rolled away, he opened the bar on the side bench and started fixing a drink, dropping ice cubes into a crystal highball glass, then pouring in scotch from a decanter.

  “You know how to get to the steak house?” Albert called to the driver as they stopped at the entrance to the casinos, facing the highway.

  The driver shook his head.

  “You shouldn’t be driving for the casino until you know the area,” he said, annoyed. “Take a left.”

  The driver looked into the rearview and lit a cigarette, illuminating his features for a couple of seconds. He didn’t look familiar to Albert—at least the back of his head didn’t, but the cap made it hard to tell.

  One of the two large men coughed.

  “Put out that cigarette,” Albert commanded.

  Instead of tossing out the cigarette, the driver took a deep drag from it and turned right onto the road, pushing down the accelerator.

  “Fuck’s sake,” Albert mumbled. “I guess he doesn’t want to keep his job. Well, then close the glass.”

  The driver slid up the glass partition.

  “And turn around, damn it!” Albert said, his anger rising.

  The man who had coughed leaned to the side, reached down under his leg, and took out a pistol tipped with a thick black silencer. Resting the gun on his knee, he aimed the automatic directly at Albert’s chest. Albert froze.

  “Albert,” Finch said, tasting the scotch. “This is very good, by the way. Would you like some?”

  “No,” Albert heard himself say. “I quit drinking ten years ago.”

  “Never too late to go back,” Finch said, bringing smiles to the two goons’ faces. “Unless it turns out that way. It’s entirely up to you.”

  Albert said, “This isn’t funny. Don’t aim that thing at me.”

  “No, it isn’t, is it? Not funny at all. Here’s the deal. We’re going to make a stop a few miles from here. You are going to make a tape for Herr Klein. On this tape you will tell the story of how you hired Jack Beals to kill Leigh Gardner so her ex-husband could sign over the land Mr. Mulvane so desperately needed. He had already purchased the land from Jacob Gardner when he found out that Gardner did not own it, his ex-wife did. When Mulvane discovered that she would never sell it as long as Jacob needed her to do so, he became desperate because he had intended to take the land from Gardner by force and say he paid a million dollars for it in order to cover the embezzling he has been doing for a long while. Beals killed the wrong person and panicked. Mulvane had Tug Murphy, or yourself, if you’d like to go to prison, kill Beals and Jacob Gardner to keep them quiet. You, being a decent man, couldn’t live with this sin on your head, so you’re making the tape to incriminate Mulvane and Tug Murphy. Then you leave town, or die by your own hand. I don’t care which, though you might. I think that’s about it.”

&nb
sp; “That’s crazy,” Albert said. “Who’s going to believe that?”

  “Some of it is true enough.” Finch took a small recorder from his coat pocket. “People will believe it because it explains everything nicely, and people like for things to make sense. And Herr Klein will make sure they do. He is investing over a billion dollars locally, and you are a fat, stupid, crooked ex-cop who works for a casino. The alternative is that Herr Klein will have Tug make the tape and blame you, which seems just as logical to me. All the denials you can muster won’t help you. One way or the other, Mulvane is going to take the rap. So is it going to be you or Tug in a cell with Mulvane?”

  “I have a lot of money,” Albert said. “Let me go and it’s yours. Half a million dollars. Cash.”

  “No, you don’t have that kind of money. Does old Albert here have any money, Gregory?”

  The man who wasn’t aiming at Albert said, “We visited your home to look around and we found your twenty grand.”

  “It’s nine hundred grand,” Albert growled.

  “Nine or five, we only found twenty grand. Isn’t that right, Carl?” Steffan said.

  The man with the gun nodded. “That’s right, Steffan.”

  “Better for us. People will believe you took twenty from Mulvane for dirty favors,” Finch said. “Any more than that just complicates things. And Beals got what the cops found in his place for getting rid of troublesome individuals for you. It all works in more than one way.”

  Sweat oozed from every pore in Albert’s large body.

  “So,” Finch said holding out the recorder. “You choose. You have thirty seconds to begin your confession.”