“Fire him,” Dal said.
Cyprus looked to Gene who suddenly was hit by a bolt of inspiration.
“Wait. Let's not be hasty. Is it possible your man simply went AWOL?”
“Not a chance. He's been with me for five years or so. He knows the rules,” Cyprus said.
“I'd like to see his personnel jacket before we make a decision about his future with us,” Gene said as Cyprus nodded.
“I'll have it to you within the next 15 minutes,” he said.
“What's to decide? He let Jack bribe him. Fire his ass,” Dal said.
“Let me handle this dad,” Gene added, “Walk with me D.C.,” as he stood and gestured for the door.
When they were out of earshot of the old man, Gene leaned over close to Cyprus as they walked down the hall.
“When was the last time you swept this place for bugs?” Gene asked.
“Two hours ago,” Cyprus said.
Gene considered his words.
“Let's take a stroll on the lawn,” he said.
When they were outside and well away from the house, Gene finally spoke.
“No matter how we punish this Stasser guy, Jack will just elude us again. He thinks it's a damn game. So we need to punish him,” he said.
“What do you suggest?” Cyprus asked.
“The problem resides on Hurst Street. Give it a couple of days and eliminate it. Remove the temptation, remove the problem. Then maybe Jack will see who controls what,” Gene said.
“I'll see to the matter personally. And what of Stasser?” Cyprus asked.
“How well do you know this Stasser?” Gene asked.
“Former marine, former merc. Good guy in a firefight but not the deepest of thinkers,” Cyprus answered.
“Family?” Gene asked.
“None that I'm aware of — he fits the company profile,” Cyprus said.
“I see. Let's leave him alone for the moment, shall we? I know a void he can fill for us later,” Gene said.
***
Beau woke up at 11 p.m. His planned nap earlier in the afternoon morphed into a deep sleep. Dressed only in a pair of flannel sleep pants, he got out of bed and stretched. Even with nine hours of sleep he was still tired. He promised himself more sleep in a couple of hours but he had a little work he wanted to wrap up before he returned to the CID Office.
He trod barefoot to the bathroom to relieve himself before going to the kitchen and pulling a bottle of diet soft drink from the refrigerator. He picked up a banana and walked to his faux leather couch.
After dining on the fruit and taking a couple of satisfying pulls from the cold soft drink, he opened a manila folder and began to sort through its contents.
He picked up the top sheet and read aloud: “Haley Josephine Garrison.”
Hmmm. Haley Jo, Beau thought.
He read through her personnel folder carefully, studying her military record as well as the various commendations she had earned in civilian life.
Chet was right — she was more than qualified for her promotion. He flipped to the personal history section. Never married. No children. Parents deceased. No siblings. Outside of her Aunt Carlene, she had no living blood relatives.
He read various letters of recommendation from commanding officers in army to supervisors with police departments in Atlanta and Knoxville.
“Lt. Garrison is very methodical and detail oriented. She is among the best investigators I've known in my 27 years in the army,” wrote Col. P.T. Sherman.
“Lt. Garrison is a tremendous asset to the provost marshal's office. She possess superior skills as an investigator,” wrote Lt. Col. Steven McClain.
“Ms. Garrison is bright, hard-working, and resourceful. She is a team player who works for results, not accolades. Excellent administrator as well. In short, she is a true law enforcement professional,” wrote Capt. Webb Jackson, Atlanta Police Department.
Letter after letter praised her abilities.
Only one letter contained a less than glowing recommendation. It was from Lt. Rayford Pickett of the Knoxville Police Department.
“Ms. Garrison is as fine a police officer as I have ever known. She dedicated and devoted to each case - so much so that I worry she is too dedicated. Ms. Garrison seems to have no social life to speak of, spending many long hours and weekends in the crime lab. An occasional break from the daily grind would make an even better officer and analyst,” the letter read.
“Too dedicated?” Beau asked himself mentally. Perhaps Lt. Pickett was right that she did need to lighten up. Then again, maybe the backhanded compliment her former superior's way of getting back at her. It wouldn't be the first Beau encountered such logic. He saw it up close several times when he was in the army. Almost every female soldier who had been in line for some type of advancement or promotion found a similar letter in their personnel file.
Still, he needed to keep an eye on her. A person — male or female — could crack under the strain with that kind of attitude, if the assertion was true.
Beau looked at her photo in the personnel file. Like all such official ID photos, it was no more than a different version of a driver's license photo.
Even with the poor quality photo, he couldn't help but stare. Her dark hair and eyes drew him like a moth to a flame. She was beautiful, even with the no-nonsense expression on her face.
He recalled her smile from their meeting earlier in the day. Haley stirred something in him he hadn't felt in a long time. It was a fact he couldn't deny.
He sighed. But what good was acknowledging that fact? He remained her supervisor and co-worker. Maybe he would soon move past her distracting good looks and his attraction to her. He felt a spark between them and was torn between hoping she didn't notice and hoping she did.
Maybe becoming chief investigator wasn't going to be everything he hoped. Certainly he could do what he always did when faced with difficult problems — bury himself in work. As he sat on his couch alone staring at the picture he asked himself would that continue to be enough?
***
Adam walked through McGee-Tyson Airport in Alcoa, Tenn. He picked up his luggage and carried his suitcase and brief case to the parking garage of the airport. He caught an early flight out of O'Hare and made it to Tennessee by 9 a.m. As he crossed the street a man in his fifties, medium build, and balding was crossing from the other direction. He too was carrying a brief case and was talking loudly on a cell phone to someone named Shelly. From the sound of his nasally accent, he was from the northeast, perhaps Boston.
It was also clear he was oblivious of the world around him.
“But Shelly,” he whined as he walked right into Adam, who tried to dodge the distracted traveler.
“Watch it!” Adam exclaimed as both men dropped their briefcases and the cell phone carried by the Yankee whiner clattered across the asphalt.
“Didn't you see me walking?” The stranger asked as he grabbed up the briefcase dropped by Adam, who had to fight to stifle a smile.
“Excuse me!” Adam said sarcastically as the stranger shot him a scornful look and scooped up the cell phone.
“Shelly? Shelly? Are you there? Can you hear me?” He asked as he walked away.
Adam shook his head in disgust and picked up the black briefcase dropped by the stranger. He continued on to the garage and found a green 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck. Adam placed the briefcase on the bed of the truck and opened. He withdrew a set of keys and unlocked the door. After securing his luggage and briefcase inside, he checked the glove compartment and found a brown envelope. Inside was a key and a number for a locker at the bus station on Magnolia Avenue in Knoxville. Before leaving Chicago, Adam memorized the best route from the airport to the bus station. He fired up the truck and backed out of his designated parking space, headed out for the short drive to Knoxville.
As he followed Alcoa Highway, he reached back into the glove compartment and pulled out a Colt Desert Eagle .45 semi-automatic pistol and placed it on the seat next t
o him. Confident he wouldn't experience any problems, Adam knew it did not hurt to be prepared just in case.
He should wrap up the job within a week — he had to, his deadline was just eight days. It was something of a rush but a very old and well- paying client made the request and was willing to pay top dollar yet again.
As Adam checked his rearview mirror and looked at the RV dealership on his left, he started thinking about how much longer he could effectively do his job. Maybe it was time to start looking for something to do in retirement. He looked to the beautiful fall colors in the mountains around him. A rural area might be a good place to go to spend his retirement years. Sure it would be a far cry from the familiar sights, sounds, and activities of urban life. It would also be remote and maybe he could spend his final years not looking over his shoulder for some former client trying to tie up a loose end or someone from INTERPOL, the FBI, or some other government agency tracking him down.
Without a doubt, his own government would pay handsomely for his capture or neutralization. The Secret Service and FBI had been tracking him for years. The NSA came later. The CIA? Well, the Company was a different story. The CIA was an old friend. They trained him and helped him transition into life as an independent contractor. Many times he took jobs from them because he knew funding or moral qualms would not be problems.
They gave him wonderful memories too. The month he spent on the job in Chile in 1973 was among his favorite memories. It was too bad he couldn't have brought the lovely Esmerelda back the states after Allende died.
Two things he needed to do after settling into the apartment rented for him by his agent, was find out about law enforcement in Butcher County and find the best escape route for the day of the job.
In less than 25 minutes Adam found himself parking near the Greyhound Station on Magnolia Avenue. The neighborhood looked like it had been ripped from the Southside of Chicago and dropped into the foothills of East Tennessee.
As he stepped out of the truck and locked it behind him he was careful to shove the pistol into a special pocket inside the jacket. Adam looked around and saw a collection of what appeared to be homeless people and prostitutes loitering near the entrance of the station. Ignoring the calls of panhandlers and drug addled women - and possibly one man who wore a bright leather mini-skirt and matching knee boots - Adam entered the building and headed straight for the lockers. Using the key he opened the locker and retrieved a large olive green duffle bag. He lifted the familiar piece of equipment with his left hand. The weight felt right. He would check the contents after he was safely away from that neighborhood.
Adam was almost to his truck when a skinny white man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties with a crew cut and scraggly beard stepped in front of him.
“Hey buddy could you help a feller out? I don't usually do nothing like this but my wife and three-year old daughter are sitting at a gas station about two blocks from here. Please mister, just five dollars for a little gas to get home,” the man said in a rapid, urgent tone. It was almost believable.
The man wore dirty blue jeans and a faded red University of Georgia sweatshirt and scuffed brown cowboy boots.
Adam noticed the shadow easing slowly from his left.
The scraggly man began to talk again.
Adam noticed the poor dental hygiene and missing teeth of the man as he spoke.
“Please mister. I'm a veteran and it looks like you could spare it,” the man said as the shadow moved quickly.
In a flash, the Desert Eagle was planted against the forehead of another man — a man who lunged but had the good sense to freeze. Scraggly man started to step toward and Adam merely shook his head. The look in his eyes told both would assailants they preyed upon the wrong man.
“Over here with your friend,” Adam said, nodding for scraggly man to move and he did.
Adam studied the man with the pistol against his forehead. He too looked as scruffy as his confederate and about the same age. He had oily looking shoulder length hair and a patchy beard that was either black or very dirty brown. He was as skinny as the first man as well. He wore a tattered and nasty orange baseball cap with a Power T that was once white. His shirt was blue and white flannel with a filthy Hank Williams, Jr. T-shirt underneath. Ratty blue jeans and black sneaks completed his ensemble.
Adam noticed both men eyeing the duffle bag which never left his hand.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn't leave both you druggies dead,” he said gruffly.
“Please mister. We didn't mean any harm. We just wanted some money,” scraggly man said.
“Oh you meant harm. And you didn't want 'some money,' you wanted whatever I had in this bag and in my pockets,” Adam said with a laugh and added. “Step back, both of you.”
They backed up about seven steps.
“That's far enough,” Adam said as both men began to sweat.
“I knew this was a bad idea Ray,” scraggly man said.
“Shut up T-Bone!” Ray replied.
Adam noticed some of the hookers and other vagabonds watching him.
“Gentlemen, here's what's going to happen. If you will run as far away as you can right now I won't shoot you in the back, if not...,” his voice trailed off as both men scampered away.
“Get out of my way T-Bone!” Ray screamed as he raced to get in front of his partner in crime.
Adam kept the pistol in his hand and in open view until he got to the truck. He then put it back in the special pocket and unlocked the door. He threw the duffle bag in the cab, got in, and started the old Ford. As he pulled away he could see the street people watching him with equal parts fear and anger.
Adam laughed. If they knew what was in the duffle bag they would really be angry.
He unzipped the duffle bag and saw the components of his Steyr HS .50 sniper rifle along with five boxes of BMG .50 ammo. He fished around the bottom of the bag and pulled out a stack of $100 bills. It was bundled in stacks of $5,000 each. Per his instructions, his agent left $75,000 in cash in the bag when he flew down from Chicago on a private jet. He stashed the equipment at the bus station and acquired the truck only a day earlier.
Adam drove 30 minutes to nearby Clinton where he stopped by a convenience store and picked up a copy of The Courier News, the local weekly newspaper. As he sat in the store parking lot he flipped over to the classifieds and searched for place to rent.
***
Beau was first to arrive at the CID Office. After hanging up his navy blue jacket, he immediately went to the filing cabinet and put back all but one folder.
The lone remaining folder he placed on the table. During the night he spent a couple of hours looking at the unsolved cases that came in after Lonnie passed away. Most were simple burglaries and/or vandalisms. One case stood out.
It was an assault case worked by Deputy Smith, aka Smitty. No arrest had been made and Beau wondered as he read the complaint how much effort had been put into the case since it was reported a week earlier:
“Ms. Sara Devlin, 7632 Walnut Street, reported that someone broke into her home while she slept. Awakened by the noise, victim got up to investigate. Victim stated someone struck her in the head from behind causing her to fall to the floor. The unknown subject then allegedly kicked her in the ribs causing three factures. Victim also suffered a concussion (see attached medical report from ER Dr. Leone at Stone City Regional Hospital). The victim was unable to give a description of the unknown subject.”
It appeared the only work Smitty got done on the case was taking her statement and filing her report. The report did indicate that pictures of the crime scene had been taken but no fingerprints were found.
There wasn't a great deal of information available but Smitty was not the hardest working officer in the department. The case deserved the full attention of an investigator not a guy keeping an out for the end of the shift. Beau determined to treat it with top priority and that meant starting a real investigation immediately.
As soon
as Marcus and Haley showed up he would brief them on the case and they would get started.
The office door opened and in stepped Chet.
“Good morning Chief,” he said as he stepped inside.
“Good morning Chet. I'd offer you a cup of coffee but we don't have a coffee maker in here yet,” Beau said as he gestured for Chet to take a seat at the table.
Chet grinned. “You've already grasped the priorities. By the way, that's a good look for chief investigator,” he said nodding to Beau's clothing.
Beau wore a blue and gray flannel shirt - complete with shoulder holster, faded denim jeans, and brown hiking boots.
“I didn't want to look too professional,” he said sheepishly.
“No, you're thinking right. Suits and ties intimidate a lot of folks around here. That's the reason I dress the way I do - put folks at ease. And it's more comfortable for me,” he said as Beau looked at Chet's gray knit pullover, khaki pants, and work boots. A black holster with a Ruger .357 magnum was clipped to his right hip.
“It felt funny not having to put on the uniform this morning - not that I'm complaining,” Beau said.
Chet grinned and nodded to the folder on the table.
“Already working on a case?” He asked.
“Might as well get going on it now. It's a B & E with a felony assault at minimum,” Beau said.
“Sara Devlin? I thought Smutty was working that,” the sheriff said.
“With 'was' being the operative word. He's not made much of a move on it so I thought we would free up some of his time,” Beau said.
“Good thinking,” Chet said. “But I didn't drop by to check up on you. I came by to invite you to supper tonight. Carlene's pulling out all the stops to celebrate Haley's promotion. Honestly, it's not so much as the promotion as it is that Haley will be sticking around for a while. Carlene worried when she left she wouldn't come back here. And when she did come back, she worried there wouldn't enough of a job to keep her here. So, if you're not busy, we'd love to have you over. If it helps any, Marcus and Chelsea are coming too.”
The corners of Beau's mouth upturned slightly and his dimples showed.
Assassin's Redemption: Stolen Memories, #1 Page 6