The car’s front end was bent around the tree’s trunk, like a man in the water holding on to a pier leg for dear life. The front windshield looked like a blanket made from thousands of beads. Jacob lay in the dead leaves twenty feet in front of the car in his sock feet.
“He’s dead,” Winter said as they walked up on the body.
Brad whistled. “He was still doing a good fifty when he hit the tree. Looks like he never even braked. Didn’t have his seat belt on. Wasn’t for his clothes, I wouldn’t recognize him.”
Winter stared down at the body. Half of Jacob’s head was smashed and pushed against his shoulder. His brains were out, leaving an open and empty white bowl connected to his neck. Winter figured they were both thinking the same thing: Cornered and desperate, Jacob Gardner had taken a coward’s way out of his wreck of a life.
While Brad called for the coroner and a backup unit, Winter went to the driver’s side and looked into the Caddy. The driver’s side window glass was scattered in the interior, but the passenger’s side window was intact, and splattered with blood and bits of brain matter. And the blood droplets each formed lightning bolts, as if Jacob’s blood had already been running down the surfaces when the sudden impact had caused a violent change of direction.
“It wasn’t suicide,” Winter said. “Somebody shot him in the head.”
In the distance a siren announced a cruiser approaching from the plantation.
A cloud passed between the wreck and the sun, and the birds scattered in the woods chirped like gossips.
75
Tearfully, Leigh listened to the news of Jacob’s death, nodding as Brad filled her in. It was impossible to tell if she was particularly upset by the news, since she was already overwhelmed with worry for Cynthia. Afterward, she went into the kitchen to tell Hamp about his father.
When Leigh left the room, Winter, Alexa, and Brad were left alone with their thoughts.
“We shouldn’t have let him go. We could have helped,” Alexa said. “If he’d just listened to us.”
“Nobody could ever help Jacob Gardner,” Brad said. “He spent his life building fires for other people to put out. And he never told the truth unless he thought it was a lie. We have to concentrate on Cynthia.”
Winter figured that even a disaster of a man like Jacob Gardner deserved a better end than the one he got. Jacob’s death was no great loss to society, but it was a sin that Hamp’s last memory of his father would be of him punching his mother in the face and roaring off, with Hamp wishing him dead. He would always feel a sense of guilt over it, and nothing anybody said or did could change that. As a young man, Winter had often wished his own father dead, before he actually died from an esophageal hemorrhage in his rented room while the drunk barfly he was sleeping with was passed out ten feet away. No matter how much he had despised James Massey, he always carried a sense of guilt for hating him.
“Jacob got three calls from Cyn’s phone since she’s been gone,” Brad told Alexa, handing her Jacob’s cell phone so she could see for herself.
“And one is a text message.” She handed the phone to Winter so he could read it.
“It’s from Styer,” Winter said.
“How do you know?” Alexa asked.
“He signed it. The message he sent is ‘PS I said no cops. No FBI grab experts!’”
“PS where there’s no reason for a postscript. PS for Paulus Styer,” she said. “And ‘n.o. cops.’”
Winter said, “The word ‘no’ has periods after the ‘n’ and the ‘o.’ That took effort and it was done on purpose.”
“New Orleans,” Alexa said.
“It’s a relief,” Winter said.
“Why is that a relief?” Brad said. “The man is a psychopath.”
Winter said, “Styer plans, and if he took her it’s part of his overall scheme. He has either already killed her, or he won’t unless and until it suits his purpose. If he hasn’t killed her, Mulvane should have called him off by now, and we’ll get her back. Styer figured I’d see the text message and know it was him.”
“With Jacob gone, Mulvane’s rid of his most immediate threat-a witness. The question is, what is his next move?” Brad asked Winter.
“Mulvane has to get the land deal done fast. If he hasn’t leveled with Klein and has to have the land-or this casino resort is dead in the water-then Sherry’s death and Cynthia’s grab make more sense.”
Leigh walked in, her face, except for the bruise, blanched. “I told Hamp his father was killed in a wreck. I didn’t mention murder.”
“Leigh, do you have extended family?” Winter asked. “Uncles, aunts, cousins?”
“On my father’s side. I have an uncle and an aunt in Nashville. Another aunt in Miami. Six cousins.”
“Are you close?” Winter asked.
“It’s one of those bad blood situations. They’re embittered over the fact that my father ended up with the plantation because he was the only one in the bunch who worked the land. They were already off spending my grandfather’s money long before he died. My grandfather left the land to Daddy and a lump sum to each for the accident of their births. That was over forty years ago, and they still think they got screwed.”
“If they owned it, would they sell the plantation for a large profit if anything happened to you and the children?” Winter asked, knowing the answer.
“In a New York minute,” she said. She gave him a curious look. “But the children would inherit everything.”
Winter nodded. “Temporarily. And if something happened to them?”
“My aunts and uncle wouldn’t be knowingly involved in a plot to kill us. They aren’t the sort of people who would do that.”
“We’re talking millions of dollars, Leigh,” Brad said. “The plantation alone is worth several million. Not to mention the woodland and the land Mulvane wants.”
“Do you think Mulvane has already talked to them?” Leigh asked.
Alexa said, “He couldn’t very well tell them what he was thinking. But I bet he’s aware they’d sell. He could tell them he’d offered you the deal and you accepted. They aren’t farmers. They feel they’re owed. Most people would cash out under those circumstances.”
“It would be just like Jacob to have told Mulvane about them,” Leigh said.
“I’m working on the best way to handle it,” Winter said. “I’m leaning toward going over Mulvane’s head.”
Winter hoped that Mulvane would want to call Styer off, but Winter had a feeling that Styer’s game was only going to be a part of Mulvane’s plan as long as it served his own.
76
Pierce Mulvane tapped at the door to VIP suite 825. Kurt Klein’s security man, Finch, answered the door. Behind him the elderly German, wearing a silk robe and slippers, stood waiting in the sunken living room. “Come in, Pierce.”
Finch closed the door. “Please raise your hands, Mr. Mulvane.”
“Do you think Pierce means to do me harm, Steffan?”
“Sorry, sir,” Finch said. “There are security procedure’s in place for a reason. Would you like me to suspend them?”
“I can’t tell you not to do your job,” Klein said, shrugging.
Finch searched Mulvane by moving his hands up and down his frame, then gently but firmly into Pierce’s genitals as well as the crack between his buttocks. After Finch moved back, satisfied, Mulvane’s boxer shorts remained inside the crevasse.
“No problem,” Pierce said, as cheerily as he could. “We must all follow rules.”
“Without following rules, we are no better than animals,” Kurt agreed, with barely a trace of his native German accent. The son of a prominent industrialist, Kurt had graduated from Harvard with an international law degree. During WWII, the Klein factories had made vehicles and military equipment for the German army. After a few years in jail after the war, Kurt’s father had gone right back to it, manufacturing toasters, stoves, train cars, buses, and treaded earth-moving equipment instead of Tiger tanks. Kurt had tak
en over the Klein businesses some thirty years earlier, and had expanded and diversified until the family name was once again synonymous with goods made from German steel that performed as they were supposed to.
Kurt Klein’s easy smile was as disarming as the eyes of a baby seal. But beneath the polished exterior and gentle demeanor, he was as ruthless as a WWII SS Special Action Unit commander.
“I hope your accommodations are suitable,” Pierce said.
“Quite so, Pierce, my old friend. It is a pleasure for me to be here in your temporary palace,” he said, emphasizing the adjective. “This little Disney World.”
“‘Temporary’ is the right word,” Pierce said.
“Steffan, you may leave us,” Kurt said.
Finch walked to the kitchen and waited with his back to the cabinet, watching, but out of earshot.
“Please, sit,” Kurt said after he had taken a place on the sleek leather sofa.
Pierce sat and crossed his legs to reflect a casualness he didn’t feel.
“Fill me in on the River Royale.”
“Well, Herr Klein, I regret that I have some unpleasant news on that front. Well, not unpleasant, because it is going to be handled, but I seek your advice on a matter or two. You have experience with such complexities. I know this is a small venture for you.”
“Every one of my businesses is as important to me as any other.” Klein’s soft eyes hardened and the smile changed into one that filled Pierce’s veins with ice water. “I’m listening. Please make this business discussion as quickly to the point as possible. This is supposed to be an inspection trip for me. No sugar coating, Pierce.”
“Your man Pablo, the one who was to help with the land acquisition, made a snafu,” Pierce said.
“What sort of snafu?”
“It appears he killed the wrong person. The local authorities have gotten involved and now they suspect the murder is connected to the land acquisition. The sheriff and a deputy are investigating. The deputy is new, and evidently has been involved with several violent situations. He has killed several people. His name is Winter Massey.”
“Finch!” Kurt yelled, keeping his eyes fixed on Pierce.
Pierce jumped involuntarily at the sudden bark, spilling the Gardner files onto the carpet, but not daring to pick them back up.
“Finch!”
Finch moved into the room, gun in hand, with amazing speed. He stopped behind Pierce like a malevolent shadow. Pierce could see Finch in the mirror across the room, and that the gun was being aimed at the back of his head.
“Sir?” Finch said.
“You swept these rooms?”
“Yes.”
“This idiot has taken a very simple assignment and turned it into toxic waste.” Klein’s ability to mask his fury was slipping. He grabbed a heavy ashtray from the coffee table and for a second, Pierce was sure he was going to throw it at him. Instead he put it down again, took out a cigarette case and a gold Dunhill lighter from the pocket of his robe, and lit a cigarette.
“Sir,” Pierce said. “I didn’t have any part in the mistake. I’m sure-”
“Shut up!” Kurt snapped. “Why is this Winter Massey person here? Steffan, do you have any idea who he is talking about?”
“I’ve never met him, but I know him by his reputation. He was a United States marshal. From the little I do know about him, he is a formidable individual. He’s killed some very capable people.”
Pierce nodded and looked at his hands, which were tightly gripping his knees. “He’s retired. I don’t have any idea how he ended up in this, but he is here and he is involved.”
Kurt said, “We may have some repairs to make. I will talk to Pablo and see how he explains the snafu. Then, together, we will all figure out the best path to take. Have you spoken with him?”
“No,” Pierce said. “I’ve never met him. As instructed, I gave him someone local who could be trusted, to assist him as requested, but I am pretty sure he killed him. Jack Beals, the man Albert assigned to work with him, was the only one who ever met him.”
“Maybe this Massey killed your Beals?” Kurt relaxed, sat back against the back of the sofa, and took a long drag from the cigarette before expelling a cloud of thin white smoke.
“This will all work out,” Pierce said.
“I hope so,” Kurt said. “Steffan, you will handle it. Use that man…Tug, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Tug Murphy.”
“Where did you get this Murphy?”
“He came to me highly recommended by friends of mine in Boston. He can be absolutely trusted.”
Finch nodded. “I checked him out. He has a solid background with the Irish mob. Follows orders and knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“What does Albert White know?”
“A little. I asked him for someone we could trust totally for a special job, and he recommended Beals immediately. He said he had used him for delicate matters in the past. Beals was an ex-deputy sheriff. Local, but he had a history with White. Beals’s father was a contractor for the Dixie mob.”
“What does White know about our prior discussions?” Kurt asked.
“As far as he knows, I am acting alone, doing what I think needs to be done for the project,” Pierce said.
“Where do you stand at this moment with Mrs. Gardner?”
Pierce said, “I have a two-and-a-half-million-dollar offer before her. I am hoping she accepts it. That would make the other thing unnecessary and expedite groundbreaking. The sheriff and Massey are snooping around, and Massey threatened me, but there is no proof of anything they can use against us. They won’t keep her from selling. In fact, it would be best to openly buy from her since they are nosing around.”
“I agree,” Kurt said, inhaling smoke from his cigarette. “We negotiate. But if we don’t succeed in negotiating by Sunday, we go with the relatives. If we get behind schedule on the project, it will cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars a day. You should remember that you talked me into this investment. You made me assurances on start and completion dates, and I have based everything on your timetable.”
“Which was given to me by the construction companies, based on other things.”
“I don’t care about their dates or contingencies or problems. You gave me dates. You made the decision on how to handle the Gardner situation, and I said okay, do it. I am in this here and now because of you. If we succeed, you will be running the finest resort in this country. On the other hand, people who fail me, do so only once.”
Mulvane wanted to scream. He looked at his image in the mirror and saw that he was smiling like an idiot. How it was that a man so close to ruin could be smiling was something he couldn’t fathom. But try as he might, he couldn’t change his expression.
77
Winter had just hung up his phone when Brad came into the Gardners’ kitchen. “We’ve got a body.”
Winter jumped into the car as Brad was starting the engine. He reversed fast, spun the wheel, jammed the vehicle into drive, and punched down on the accelerator. “I think it may be the missing cutout. Chief of police called me a few minutes ago from the scene. Couple of kids found a dead man in a house being renovated near my place.”
Winter said, “The more pandemonium Styer creates, the better it suits him.”
The house was three blocks from Brad’s home, which would have made bringing the cutout to it a simple matter for Styer. Police cars, a sheriff’s department cruiser and an EMS bus were parked outside, and the neighboring properties held a growing audience of townspeople.
Two teenage boys sat on the front steps with William Barnett’s friend Woody Seiders. One of them, a redhead, looked at Winter and Brad with unfocused blue eyes. His thin trembling fingers clenched around his knees like roots.
“Hello,” Woody said. “Your father’s inside playing coroner.”
“Alan?” Brad said. “Are you all right, son?”
The redhead tried to smile.
“Sheriff Barnett. It’s r
eally horrible,” the dark-haired boy said. “There’s a dead guy in the bathtub.”
“You found him, Buddy?” Brad asked.
“I didn’t look in,” Buddy said. “Alan opened the bathroom door, started screaming, and we both ran like hell. He said the guy was all cut up. I’m glad I didn’t look.”
“Whose house is this?” Brad asked.
“My dad’s,” Alan said softly. “We’re fixing it up to rent.”
Brad patted the boy’s back sympathetically, then led Winter through the front door into a room crowded with uniformed cops, Roy Bishop, and several EMS personnel. Winter smiled when he saw Dr. Barnett come into the living room from down the hallway. “Hey, Bradley, Deputy Massey,” he said.
“Daddy, what are you doing here?”
“I’m filling in because Phil had to take a body to Jackson.”
“Where’s Chief Boddington?”
“He’s back there making calls. You should see this.” He crooked his finger and Winter and Brad followed him to the closed door.
Speaking in a low voice, Dr. Barnett said, “Before you go in there, I want to tell you I haven’t seen anything like this since medical school. Brad, the man in that bathroom suffered. Someone skinned him alive, and used bleach as he went. He finally died from blood loss when the killer cut his femoral artery.”
“Any red toothpicks?” Winter asked, knowing there would be.
Dr. Barnett nodded. “Stuck in his right eye. I left it there. You want to look in there, Winter?”
“No.”
A thin man dressed in a blue uniform came out of a bedroom, snapping his cell phone closed.
“Bradley,” he said, grimacing. “You see the shit in there?”
“Nope,” Brad said. “No reason unless you want me to.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m wondering if the bastard that did this might be the same asshole that killed Jack Beals. Or the dead guy might be the one who killed Beals and somebody’s paid him back. I’m wondering if that fellow who was in that motel room might know who did it. Hell, maybe he did it. Was both knife work, wasn’t it?”
Smoke and Mirrors wm-4 Page 19