Smoke and Mirrors wm-4

by John Ramsey Miller

  “Cut throat. He’s gone back home to Nevada. A couple hours ago one of my guys put him on a plane. He’s been under surveillance by my people since we found Beals,” Brad said. “He didn’t see who killed Beals. He didn’t do it.”

  “Doc, could this have been done before Beals died? Maybe Beals did this one too?”

  “No,” Dr. Barnett said. “This one was killed a few hours ago.”

  “I’m wondering if all these murders are part of some kind of organized crime war that’s spilled out down here. I’m calling in the MBI to deal with this. I sure as hell don’t have this kind of shit going on around here very often, so I need some help.”

  “I think that’s a smart move,” Brad said.

  “The dead guy have identification?” Winter asked.

  “A wallet. I bagged it,” Boddington said, studying Winter for the first time.

  “Massey,” Winter said.

  “He’s my newest deputy,” Brad told the chief.

  Boddington nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Once you run the ID, maybe you’ll get a hit and some answers,” Winter said.

  “Call me if I can help,” Brad said.

  As they were getting into Brad’s truck, he asked, “Styer does this kind of shit all the time? Goes from one gruesome murder to the next like a wild dog?”

  Winter nodded. “It’s all he knows. He’ll stop as soon as he’s dead.”

  “We have to put an end to this. Good Christ. He’s killed five people in three days.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” Winter said. “The cutouts are the best hope to nail him, but so far they can’t get close to him without dying.”

  “Maybe you should get in touch with them. They have to want him stopped worse than we do. Especially now.”

  “They want him, but to get him they might sacrifice us.”

  “What do we do next?”

  “Put some pressure on Kurt Klein.”

  “What kind of pressure?”

  Winter looked at his watch. “The legally binding, wrath of God kind. And we are going to pull the trigger right after Sherry Adams’s funeral.”

  78

  The Advent Church of The Holy Spirit was an old structure made from ancient brick with a galvanized steeple perched on its sagging roof like a dunce cap. Sunlight poured in through colored plastic replicas of stained-glass windows. Threadbare carpet ran between the worn pine pews, and water-stained ceilings peaked fifteen feet above the center aisle. A huge cross, made from six-by-six beams, was suspended above a simple plywood pulpit by plastic-coated steel cables. Mourners stood two deep against the plaster walls.

  Winter and Alexa stood in the rear.

  Leigh, Estelle, and Hampton sat just behind the Adams family as one person after another spoke, extolling Sherry Adams’s attributes. It was a dignified affair, with only muted crying supplying background static for the service. The minister spoke with raw emotion in his voice about God’s mysterious selection of his angels from the earth’s best and brightest.

  Leigh’s makeup covered her bruise, but the swollen and split lip was apparent underneath her bright red lipstick. As the choir sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” and six pallbearers rolled the bronze casket’s gurney to the back of the church, Winter stood in the yard and caught a glimpse of Alphonse Jefferson standing on the corner wearing a lime green suit, a matching fedora held to his chest as a show of respect.

  Since word travels at the speed of light in small communities, people attending Sherry’s funeral were aware that Jacob Gardner had died in a car accident, and most of them took a few seconds to offer Leigh their condolences. Winter doubted that any of them would miss Leigh’s ex, but they obviously felt genuine grief for Leigh and her children. It was apparent that despite her no-nonsense exterior, the people there knew Mrs. Gardner had a good heart.

  Leigh told the people who asked after Cynthia that her daughter was too distressed to leave the house.

  After a lot of discussion, Alexa and Winter had convinced Leigh that the odds were Cynthia would not be harmed for two reasons: the purpose for having her as a captive was over, and killing her was not a priority for Styer. In a couple of hours, Mulvane’s best interests would be in freeing her.

  79

  Paulus Styer had figured correctly that during the Adams funeral, the Gardner home would be lightly guarded, if at all. He had come in on turn roads from a county road and parked two miles away, and he hadn’t seen one patrol car during his trip out from the casino. Like worker bees, they had followed the queen, leaving the hive unguarded. Carrying a knapsack, Paulus made his way from the thin tree line that ran like a fence east and west of the house, across two hundred yards of cotton stalks.

  At the back of the house, he paused only long enough to pick the dead bolt. The grandfather clock in the hallway filled the house’s silence with its metallic ticks.

  He found the door leading to the basement and crept downstairs, carrying the rucksack in his right hand. After surveying the moldy basement, used to house the heating and air-conditioning systems and littered with stored boxes, old bicycles, and other junk, he made his way to the oil tank that fed the furnace. He found a small box labeled X-MAS and dumped the contents into a larger box. As he knelt behind the heater, it suddenly came noisily to life, the fan sounding like a jet revving for takeoff.

  He carefully wedged the box containing the device into the cobwebby space between the brick wall and the unit. Smiling, he removed a cell phone from the satchel and put it in his pocket. When the time was right, he would press the send button on the phone, which was programmed to dial up another unit that would set off the detonator. The amount of Semtex inside the package would reduce the Gardner home to a smoking crater. Hello. Good-bye.

  He looked at his watch, imagined the funeral party at the graveyard, and stood. He decided to take a quick tour of the interior to familiarize himself with the layout. Just in case things didn’t work out as he planned, he would be very open to alternative endings for Massey and the others.

  He thought about looking around for another vial of insulin for Cynthia, but decided she had about enough to get through the rest of her life.

  80

  Pierce Mulvane made his early afternoon inspection trek through the casino as usual, but for once what was happening in the casino held little interest for him. Tug had been busy over the past days taking care of business, so he had been around less and less as things needed his specialized attention. Pierce stayed in close telephone contact, believing that Tug, more than Albert White, was the person he could most fully trust. Tug was Irish, and Mulvane’s cousin, a gangster with a large hard-core crew, had vouched for Murphy.

  Pierce was confident again that Klein’s displeasure at the setback was temporary. Pierce had put the Roundtable in the black a full year ahead of the most liberal projections, and it was more profitable, based on percentage of return on dollars invested, than any casino RRI operated. He was certain that Kurt would remember the pluses, and after the land was secured, everything would be as it was before.

  Pierce was passing the craps pit when he spotted the familiar face of pig farmer Jason Parr standing near the table. He had the unfocused look of a man who had just lost his last nickel. Pierce felt a warm glow, assuming the casino had acquired a sizable chunk of Parr’s assets. He always marveled at how people never seemed to understand that gambling, aside from the occasional hit here and there, was financially suicidal.

  “Mr. Parr,” Pierce said as he approached, his face a blank canvas. “How is everything?”

  “Gotta say, this week I’ve been on my backside more than a two-dollar whore in a lumber camp on payday,” Parr said with a weak grin.

  “And are you up or down?”

  “Well, I lost my lucky charm, so I stopped to catch my breath. At present I’m up one fifty. I’m thinking about quitting, and calling it a trip. Get back to my wife and the other pigs tomorrow afternoon.”

  Pierce laughed,
despite the fact that chuckling at this yokel’s pathetic joke was the last thing he wanted to be doing. “One hundred and fifty dollars is hardly going to cover your gas back, Jason. We will fill your tank for you, of course.”

  “I figure I’m down a half million over the past ten years. That, my old son, is a lot of bacon up the chimney. Right this minute, I’m standing here thinking my gambling days are over for a while.”

  “Quitting while you are ahead is very smart, Jason. As your friend, I suggest you take your winnings and go home. You should have a check cut.”

  “Well, that would be fine, but I kind of like having the green in hand when I get home. Gets me a little piece of the pie,” he said, elbowing Pierce in the arm. “My fifth wife won’t do no work to speak of, and she ain’t usually big on getting in the bed except at night to sleep. But if I cover the danged sheets an inch deep in hundreds, you can’t keep her out of it.”

  Pierce looked with disgust at Parr’s expansive stomach and his pendulous breasts. It made him want to go straight to the fitness center and spend the rest of the day in the sauna.

  81

  Alexa was in the guest bathroom washing her face when her cell phone rang. She went into the bedroom, took it out of her purse, and saw on the readout that it was Assistant FBI Director Hayden Hatcher.

  “Keen,” she answered.

  “Hatcher here,” Hayden Hatcher said. “I went by your office yesterday afternoon and found out that you were on personal leave until next week.”

  “That’s right, sir. I’m taking care of a few personal matters.”

  “Might I ask where you are?”

  “Tunica, Mississippi.” Alexa was certain he had known where she was before he asked, and she knew he had the means to easily discover that she’d flown to Memphis the day before.

  “Is there anything about your trip that might be of interest to us?” he asked.

  Alexa was not going to lie to a superior officer. “There have been two additional murders in Tunica that may be connected to a piece of land a casino wants for an expanded operation. The sheriff is presently investigating. It is possible that the family who owns the land where the first murder took place, as well as the land the casino needs, may be in continuing danger. I’m here merely to give moral support to the family. That’s all I know at the present.”

  Hatcher asked, “Would that casino be the Roundtable?”

  “Yes, sir, it would.”

  “Do you suspect anyone associated with that casino or RRI of being involved in any of the three murders?”

  “There’s no direct evidence, just circumstances that point in that direction. It appears as though the local casino manager might be involved.”

  “So he is probably acting on his own volition. The owner of RRI, Kurt Klein, is an influential individual. Are you familiar with his name?”

  “I am.”

  “According to our information, Mr. Klein is in Tunica, staying at the Roundtable casino. This is very delicate, Alexa. Kurt Klein is a good friend of our state department. The Klein family, and their friends, are very influential and are often quite helpful to our interests around the world.”

  “There is no evidence that Klein is involved, or knows anything about what has been going on here.”

  “If any Federal statutes have been violated by people working for the casino, it will have to be handled very carefully. Would you be more comfortable if I sent some agents to protect the Gardner family?”

  “No, sir. I don’t believe that is necessary at the present.” Alexa knew that she had not mentioned the Gardners by name. “It seems unlikely this man would dare harm them, since Winter Massey told him he suspected him of involvement.”

  “I know this is not an official FBI matter at the present, but I expect you to keep me posted on this, Agent Keen. I cannot overstress the fact that you are not, under any circumstances, to take any unauthorized action against or involving Mr. Klein. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “It is clear.”

  “You are a valuable asset to the Bureau,” Hatcher said. “Let’s keep it that way. Does the sheriff have a case against this manager?”

  “Not at the present. Jacob Gardner, the landowner’s ex-husband, had information crucial to that investigation, but unfortunately he was killed before the sheriff could convince him to cooperate.”

  “I’ll alert the Memphis field office that if you need help, they will offer any necessary assistance. I want you to explain to Mr. Massey that we are watching over his shoulder. I think it would be wise if you make certain this doesn’t become an international incident.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you have a good relationship with the director, and I want you to know that I have spoken with him about this. He told me that he has faith in your loyalty to the Bureau, and in your ability to handle yourself appropriately.”

  Alexa hung up and reached to pick up her coat from the bed. She felt a bulge in the pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash held together with a rubber band. Thumbing the edge, she saw that the folded currency was comprised entirely of one-hundred-dollar bills. It took her a few seconds to realize that Jason Parr must have put it there when he’d hugged her in the casino parking lot. There were several thousand dollars in the bundle, and there was no way she could keep it.

  Alexa left the room to go downstairs and tell Winter about Hatcher’s call.

  82

  When Brad arrived, Winter and Alexa went out to talk to him.

  “My father found an entry wound in the left side of Jacob’s head. He excised the section of scalp,” Brad said.

  “Alexa spoke to her boss,” Winter told Brad.

  “Well, he is and he isn’t my boss,” Alexa said. “He is a deputy FBI director, but not for my branch. He’s counterterrorism.”

  She filled Brad in on her conversation with Hatcher.

  “So,” Brad said, “what does that mean? Klein is important to our nation’s counterterrorism efforts?”

  “Klein has serious sway,” Alexa said. “We go after him, and hell will look like heaven.”

  “This is a little unsettling,” Brad said. “So if he’s in on this, I can’t arrest him?”

  “You can do what you please, but they won’t hold Klein accountable,” Alexa said. “And certain people could make sure you regret arresting him, if you do.”

  “It’s like that sometimes,” Winter said. “Nothing to do about it. But we don’t know that Klein’s aware of what Mulvane’s been up to. Men like Klein are accustomed to saying they want something to happen while men like Mulvane make sure it does.”

  “So you’re telling me that nobody pays for killing Sherry Adams?”

  “No,” Winter said, looking out at the spot where the young woman had fallen on the cold hard stones. “Somebody is definitely going to pay for that.”

  83

  The overcast sky and a steady drizzle made the afternoon air seem much colder than thirty-four degrees. According to the weather reports, the temperature was going to drop overnight into the mid-twenties as an arctic blast came through the Delta. Winter and Brad stood together on the porch, the cup of coffee in Winter’s hand going cold as the men watched the gravel road.

  “This is a good plan, right?” Brad asked.

  “It should take Leigh and Hamp out of their sights and get Cynthia back,” Winter said.

  “Should?” Brad asked, shaking his head slowly. “I should move Hamp and Leigh to a safer location.”

  “There is no safer location at the moment. Moving them before I put this under Klein’s nose is a lot riskier than holding them here. Trust me.”

  Brad looked at his watch. “He should be here by now.”

  “He’ll be here soon,” Winter said.

  Brad’s radio sprang to life. “Unit Four to T.C. One, there’s a black Lexus a half mile out. One occupant.”

  “Plate?”

  “Vanity Tennessee LAW-ONE. We’re behind him. You want us to pull him?”


  “Negative,” Brad said, smiling at Winter. “We’re expecting him. Let him come in.”

  “Sheriff.” The deputy laughed. “It looks like he’s dancing.”

  Winter unzipped his jacket, took off his glove, and slipped it into his pocket. Reflexively he touched the Reeder to make sure it was secure in its holster, and that all four of the loaded eight-round magazines were secure in the twin holders.

  A few seconds later the Lexus flew into view as it roared up the long gravel drive.

  “I just hope he isn’t, you know…” Brad said.

  “It’s early for that,” Winter said.

  The sedan stopped, and when the door flew open, something by ZZ Top spewed out from the interior at an incredible volume. After a few seconds, a man with a flowing blond ponytail, a long beard, and dressed in a topcoat, English riding boots, and a wide-brimmed hat leapt from the car and began to dance in the rain with what could only be described as a blending of the Frug, the Jerk, and the Boogaloo. When the song ended, the man reached in, cut the car motor, brought out a valise, and slammed the door.

  “Gentlemen, your law dog has arrived to save the day,” he said, taking the porch steps two at a time.

  Winter expected the rib-squeezing hug he got from his friend Billy Lyons, but not the kiss the attorney planted on his cheek. Releasing Winter, Billy turned to Brad and opened his arms.

  Brad held out his palms defensively. “Don’t you come a step closer, Billy Lyons. You want to kiss my cheek, fine, but let me drop my pants first.”

  “Well, here I am,” Billy said. “This sort of top-secret, faxed-map, come-to-Papa-right-now crap is why I get three bills an hour.”

  “Don’t friends get a discount?” Brad asked.

  “That’s with the discount, Bradley.”