Smith's Monthly #22

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  He glared at me, his mean dark eyes cold and angry. “Seems this game is yours. I’m out of chips. Time for me to walk away.”

  “Hop away,” I said.

  He turned toward the remains of the dam he had built and started down a narrow trail there, trying to hop along the thin rock ledge.

  I couldn’t have stopped him if I had wanted to, which I didn’t.

  It took less than ten seconds before his foot slipped, he lost his grip, and he went over backwards.

  The fall was about sixty feet to a rock ledge where he hit and bounced, then came to rest with his neck and back in a very awkward and unnatural position.

  “Watch that first step,” I said, far, far too late.

  Annie actually laughed at my lame joke.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Northern California near Mt. Shasta. September 4

  MIKE’S HELICOPTER CAME in fast and hard. It landed about a hundred yards down the road from where we stood, kicking up clouds of dust and filling the air with the fantastically loud sound.

  Annie and I had moved farther away from the burning building as things inside started exploding, more than likely ammunition and propane tanks. The dust cloud from the chopper washed over me. I turned away to keep the sand and dirt out of my eyes.

  Mike was first out of the helicopter, his gun drawn, moving fast toward us through the dust cloud as the helicopter shut down.

  “All clear!” I shouted over the sound and through the choking dust.

  He kept running until he was beside us.

  By the time he reached us, the helicopter’s engines had shut down and the blades were slowing, letting some of the dust settle.

  Behind us, a massive explosion sent flames even higher into the sky as the house became completely engulfed.

  “Steven,” Annie said to Mike over the noise. She pointed over the edge.

  All three of us moved closer to the edge, looking down.

  “He dead before or after the fall?” Mike asked, smiling at me.

  “After,” I said. “Annie shot him in the leg, but the fall was his idea. I tried to talk him out of it.”

  “Why?” Mike said, shaking his head.

  “At the time, I was asking myself that same question.”

  Mike turned and went back to stand down his men who had spread out from the helicopter like a trained crew of Marines.

  I handed Annie my pistol. “I’m betting this needs to be taken, since I did fire shots.”

  Annie nodded and took my gun. She checked it, then put it in the back of her belt. “Well, where do you think the keys are?”

  “My guess is either in the bag or on his body,” I said. “I’ll check the body. It’s going to take mountain rescue to get that body off that ledge, though.”

  “You can get down there?” she asked, glancing over the edge again.

  “Sure can. I’m part mountain goat, or did I forget to tell you that?”

  “No comment on that,” she said, shaking her head and turning to look in the bag.

  I didn’t tell her I had seen a couple of pretty good trails down the side besides the one Steven had tried. And one of them passed right close to the ledge Steven had landed on.

  Carefully, in the hot afternoon, with the burning house sending up a gigantic plume of gray and black smoke, I worked my way down the hot rocks. I was sweating more by the time I got to the body than I had been up on top.

  “Nothing in the bag but a lot of money, a gun, and some food,” Annie yelled down to me as I reached the ledge.

  I was glad that there had been a gun in that bag when Annie shot him. Better all the way around.

  I signaled I’d heard her, then knelt beside the body.

  No matter how many times I had been around death, it never got easier. The smell of the blood and bowels always choked my nose and gave me nightmares for a week. I had no doubt good old Steven’s body would do the same, since the big black flies were already being drawn to the splattered blood.

  I patted the outside of his pockets, then worked my hand into his front pants pocket, trying not to get any blood on me.

  I found six keys, all like Carson’s, only with different numbers on them.

  I stared at them for a moment in the hot sun, not really feeling anything either way, then put them in my pants pocket and stood. I glanced back up at Annie and Mike who were staring down at me like I was at the bottom of a very deep pool.

  “Got them,” I shouted.

  Annie gave me a thumbs-up signal and a smile.

  “Just in time,” Mike shouted back. “I got reports of two more helicopters coming in fast. One is FBI.”

  “Be right up,” I said with one last glance at Steven’s body.

  There was still one more hand to play. One more player in this game.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Las Vegas, Nevada. September 6

  THE BACK ROOM at Mike’s business looked like a nightmarish cross between a gunsmith’s shop, a locksmith, a computer store, and a used-car lot. And it was huge. The space filled most of a small warehouse tucked off the old Boulder Highway, the small front office being what the customers saw, the back being only what Mike and his employees saw.

  Around the high ceiling was a storage area with ladders up to it.

  We were in the very back of the huge space. From the looks of it, not many customers got back here, and for good reason. The place smelled of oil and old computers and was almost cold because the air-conditioning was set so high. Parts of different equipment lay everywhere in the clutter. But I had a hunch Mike knew exactly where everything was.

  Ace and I and Annie stood in one corner of the big warehouse, near a work bench covered and surrounded by thousands of key blanks. Mike was sitting on the only stool in front of the bench, his massive shoulders hunched over, studying the seven keys I had brought him.

  He had them in order by number and was examining every one of them. We stood in silence around him while he worked. There was no way I was going to let those keys out of my sight with anyone, no matter how much I trusted the person.

  The afternoon and evening of the day Steven died had been one continuous interview for me. I must have gone over what happened on that ridgeline two dozen times for five different agencies. When I had my turn with the FBI, I didn’t ask about Heather, and none of the agents talking with me ventured any information. I doubted she worked for them anymore, after what had happened on her watch.

  Yesterday had been even more interviews, but thankfully, the story the press got was a simple one.

  Working together, different law enforcement agencies, with the lead of the Las Vegas Police Department, had taken down the man who killed Paul Hanson and others.

  My name was kept out of the story.

  Thankfully, Annie’s name was held out as well, on her request.

  From the moment we got on my plane yesterday evening to come back to Vegas, she had been smiling, almost bubbling, and today her smile was even brighter.

  So was mine I was sure. Last night, for the first night in a long time, I actually slept almost soundly, even though this wasn’t over.

  “So,” Mike said, looking up from the keys, “you want me to make you copies of the two missing keys?”

  “I do,” I said. “I’m assuming it’s possible.”

  “You’re lucky, it is. The changes in the keying patterns vary in a distinct pattern from key-to-key. You’re missing key #9 and key #6, so I can figure them out.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “How about a half hour?”

  I nodded.

  “You know these are bank keys. I’m not supposed to make copies.”

  Annie laughed. “You need a court order?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Mike said. “Just wanted to make sure you all knew what we were doing was illegal.”

  “Just make them look like the others,” I said. “Right down to the numbers scratched in.”

  And for the next half hour we watch
ed Mike create the two missing keys that were going to help us open a record to a very nasty night a long time ago.

  A night that had cost me my father.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C. September 8

  TEN IN THE morning. Heather Voight, dressed in her jogging shorts, a sports bra, and a thin shirt, left her apartment in the Hillcrest Heights area, cut across the street between cars, went north one block, and then into the park.

  It had been another long, almost sleepless night. She was on paid leave until the hearing about her actions and conduct. She had no doubt she would be fired. It was only a matter of time. And with Paul dead, she doubted the President would lift a finger to help her. Even if he wanted to, she doubted he could. She was betting he blamed her, even though the entire mess was his fault.

  She was just glad that Doc and the Las Vegas Police Department had run Steven to ground and killed the bastard. At least she didn’t have to think about going after him on her own. Now all she had to do was deal with the nightmares of Paul’s head exploding as she was talking to him.

  She got onto the jogging path, dropped into her normal running pace, and tried to just not think.

  Around her, the air was thick and warm, and no doubt the day was going to be even warmer. Maybe one of the last real summer days of the year.

  She was going to miss summer.

  She was going to miss her job. She had no idea what she would do next. Nothing seemed interesting to her.

  As she entered a grove of tall trees at the half mile mark, feeling the relief of the shade, Doc Hill and Detective Annie Lott stepped out from behind the trunk of a large tree.

  Her first thought was that it couldn’t be them.

  Not here.

  But yet there they were.

  She slowed to a walk about ten feet away. “You’re a long way from a poker table. What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Came to talk to you,” Doc Hill said, smiling.

  “We need your help,” Detective Lott said.

  Heather laughed. “Didn’t you hear? I’m on paid leave until they can fire me.”

  “We know,” Doc said. “That’s why we figured you could actually help us get to the man who was behind Paul’s death.”

  “You already killed that scum,” she said. “Or at least that’s what I heard.”

  “We think Steven was just the hired gun,” Doc said.

  He was no longer smiling.

  The simple sentence took her breath away and made her legs weak.

  She moved over toward a bench under a tree. For the first time since Paul’s death, she tried to think like an agent. If what Doc had said was true, even more people might die before this was over.

  Doc started to say something more, but she just held up her hand for him to not say anything.

  “Stay right there,” she ordered.

  Then she moved around them in a complete circle, walking slowly as if walking off a cramp in her thigh, but actually looking for any signs that she had been followed, or that they had been.

  Or that anyone had a listening device on them.

  Middle of the morning, a number of mothers with young children were out for a stroll, a few other joggers coming along the path, but no one else.

  For the moment, they seemed clear.

  She came back to them and nodded. “We walk and talk and keep your voice low and your head down when speaking.”

  Both of them nodded.

  “What do you need from me?” she asked as they got back to the path. Her stomach was twisting just like it had the night Paul was killed. This nightmare couldn’t be continuing, could it? Was that possible?

  “A trip to Seattle,” Doc Hill said.

  Heather didn’t need to ask any more. She knew about the box and the keys. She didn’t know what was in there, but she knew it was explosive for the President. And had been deadly for Paul and others.

  She nodded. “When?”

  “Doing anything this afternoon?” Doc asked.

  She looked at him. He was deadly serious, of that she had no doubt. “Actually, I think I’m free. My hearing isn’t for two days.”

  He told her how to get to his plane at the airport. “We can talk safely on the plane.”

  “Give me an hour, plus or minus considering the traffic.”

  “We’ll be there,” Doc said.

  With that, she turned and went to a fast jog, headed for home, a quick shower, and another trip west.

  She knew exactly who they were talking about, and if the President really was behind Steven, then she would do everything in her power to bring the bastard to his knees.

  She owed Paul that much.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Seattle, Washington. September 8

  WE MADE IT back to Seattle in almost record speed, and by the time we were ready to leave the plane for the three limousines and the panel truck waiting outside, it was the middle of the afternoon Pacific Time.

  It had been a long day on the plane, going back and forth across the country.

  Annie and Mike and I had left Las Vegas for Washington, D.C., at midnight for the four-hour flight east, and we had all tried to sleep some on the plane.

  At one point, while the three of us were talking, Annie had curled up against me and fallen asleep. Having her there like that, relaxed and comfortable, had been one of the nicest feelings I had had in years. I really wanted this entire mess over, mostly to have us all really safe again, but also to find out if there really could be something between Annie and me.

  On the way to Seattle, Heather had been surprised to learn that Mike had been tailing us, blocking any kind of electronic surveillance while we talked to her. He had been in a special van he had rented.

  “You’re good,” she had said to him. “I didn’t spot you.”

  “So are you, Agent Voight,” he said, smiling at her. “You interested in a job?”

  She also smiled. “I just might be, depending on how this turns out.”

  Annie looked at me after that conversation and smiled. The connection between them was clear to anyone watching. Even I could see it, and I was known for not seeing that sort of thing at times.

  Now that we were on the ground in Seattle, my biggest worry was that the President, or someone working for the President would have the bank watched. I was almost sure that he did in some fashion or another.

  My hope was we could get in and out without him hearing about it. As long as he knew we didn’t have the contents of that box, the safer we were for the moment.

  Fleet had called ahead and talked with the bank manager about the bank’s facilities. It had a private copy machine that good customers could use for a fee. I planned on using it.

  We just had to make sure that no one inside the bank alerted anyone outside the bank that the box was being accessed. That was Mike’s job. He didn’t tell me how he planned on accomplishing that. All he said when I asked was, “Complicated. Just trust me.”

  With only a few muttered “Good lucks,” we all climbed into our perspective limousines and Mike into his van.

  The time was 3 p.m.

  It took me a half hour to get on my disguise, with the help of a professional makeup artist named Carol from Mike’s team. Annie and Heather were on their own with their disguises, and they had to change cars along the way as well.

  The keys were secured in my pocket, and I had a phony paunch strapped on. I had some wrinkles applied to my eyes, and a gray-haired wig, along with a gray moustache. I wore an expensive suit and carried a briefcase in one hand and an expensive walking stick in the other. For a very short time, I was going to be Benson James, one of the signers on the box.

  Fleet would be standing by a few blocks away with top legal help in case I got into trouble.

  I climbed out of the limo at exactly fifteen minutes until four, right on our scheduled time.

  I pretended to limp slightly, using the walking stick, as I made my way up the short fligh
t of stairs and into the old bank. It had been a fixture in the Seattle area for almost a hundred years, with its high ceilings and marble floors and pillars. The place felt just cold to me, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would bank in a building that felt more like a mausoleum than a place to do business.

  I moved to the counter for signing in for the safe-deposit boxes.

  The clerk was a young woman with a pristine look and a small wedding ring on her finger. She had to be very new on the job. Not too new, I hoped, that she had to have the bank manager’s permission for things like this.

  She looked at my request, then at my ID, then said, “That’s a special box, sir. It takes nine keys.”

  “I have all nine,” I said, patting my vest pocket like that was where I had put them.

  “Good,” she said, having me sign Benson James’ name.

  She checked it against a signature card while I stood and worried, without looking like I was worried. I had practiced that damn signature for hours and hours.

  She nodded, then said, “This way, sir.”

  She unlocked a big gate, let me pass, then re-locked it.

  I was steps away from finding out what had killed my father and a bunch of other good men, and when that gate clicked shut behind me, all I wanted to do was bolt.

  It was too much like a jail cell, and I was breaking far too many laws.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Seattle, Washington. September 8

  THE YOUNG WOMAN put the bank’s key into its slot in the wide and very old-looking box.

  “Just insert the keys one at a time and turn them,” she said.

  With her watching, I took out the keys and inserted #1 and turned it.

  It clicked solidly.

  She nodded and said nothing.

  I guess that was what it was supposed to do.

  I went down the line to #6 without a problem, but that sixth key was the one that Mike had made, the one that worried me the most.